8. Malrec
MALREC
Damiros's residence overlooks the volcanic ridge with calculated precision.
From his position, my brother can see the estate, the stables, portions of the feeding pastures—everything arranged for optimal surveillance without requiring physical proximity.
The architecture reflects his philosophy perfectly: controlled, refined, designed to project authority through aesthetic rather than force.
I hate being here.
The meeting room where we sit is too clean.
Too polished. The obsidian surfaces gleam under rune-glass lighting that creates soft contrasts instead of the harsh amber glow of the estate.
Everything about this space feels curated, from the precisely arranged furniture to the temperature regulation that eliminates the natural heat fluctuations I'm accustomed to.
"The auction is coming up," Damiros says, reviewing documents spread across his desk. "We should finalize which beasts we're presenting. The demand remains highest for juveniles with combat potential."
I lean back in my chair, forcing my attention to the conversation instead of the persistent distraction that's been eating at me for two days.
"Khorvas is ready. He's reached maturity and his aggression patterns have stabilized enough for transfer.
Vexris could go, but her temperament is still volatile. "
"Khorvas, then." Damiros makes a notation. "What about Sythrak? He's been in the system for over a year."
"Sythrak needs another three months minimum. His containment response is improving but not reliable." I shift position, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders that hasn't dissipated since I woke this morning. "I'd recommend holding him until the next cycle."
Damiros nods, his sharp green-gold eyes tracking across the documentation with practiced efficiency.
"Fair assessment. That gives us one confirmed for this auction.
We'll need at least two more to meet demand expectations.
" He glances up at me. "Are you planning to acquire additional stock before then? "
"Depends on what becomes available." The words come automatically, my mind only half-engaged with auction logistics. "There's been discussion of an infernal wyvern that might be worth pursuing, but the price point would be significant."
"Investment versus return." My brother taps his fingers against the desk surface—a rare physical tell that he's calculating variables. "A wyvern would generate substantial interest, but the containment requirements alone would strain resources."
I should be focused on this. Should be thinking about logistics, profit margins, strategic acquisitions.
Instead, I keep seeing Lenna's hand against Azhrael's jaw, the way she smiled at him with genuine warmth she's never shown me.
The way she bridled him with practiced precision that shouldn't exist.
The way she looked at me two nights ago when I found her at Azhrael's enclosure before dawn—like she was trying to solve a puzzle I didn't know existed.
Damiros is still talking. "...consideration for the breeding program as well. The demand for juvenile hellhounds continues to exceed our current production capacity."
"We'd need to expand the lower stables." I force myself back into the conversation. "The current configuration can't support additional breeding stock without compromising security protocols."
"Agreed. Which brings me to staffing concerns." My brother's tone shifts slightly—still controlled, but carrying an edge that makes my attention sharpen. "Have there been any additional incidents since the Sythrak situation?"
The question sits between us with more weight than it should. I know what he's really asking: Has Lenna caused problems?
"No incidents," I say carefully. "The beasts have actually been more responsive during feeding and maintenance cycles."
"More responsive." Damiros sets down the document he was holding, giving me his full attention. "To the staff in general, or to someone specific?"
I meet his gaze evenly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my discomfort. "The new laborer handles them well. Better than most of the previous staff."
"Lenna Fentris."
Hearing him say her name makes something tighten in my chest. I don't let it show. "Yes."
Damiros leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful in ways that feel dangerous. "Interesting. From what I've observed, the beasts seem to have become more temperamental since her arrival, not less. Azhrael in particular has been notably difficult."
My jaw tightens. "They calm around her. His temperament seems to be in response to being handled not by her."
"Is that so?" My brother's tone remains pleasant, but there's steel underneath. "Your beast refuses your commands when she's present? With the way the other beasts orient toward her instead of responding to established hierarchy?"
"They respond to her competence." The words come out sharper than I intend. "She handles them with skill that exceeds her supposed training level, which makes them more cooperative overall."
"Or it makes them confused about authority structure." Damiros taps his fingers again—three precise strikes against the desk surface. "Confused beasts are dangerous beasts, Malrec. You know this."
I do know this. It's foundational to everything I've built in the stables. Clear hierarchy. Consistent authority. No ambiguity about who holds power and who submits to it.
I also haven't forgotten how Damiros looked when he saw her. I don't doubt this has something to do with that.
But watching Lenna with Azhrael didn't feel like confusion. It felt like recognition.
"The system is stable," I say, keeping my voice level. "There haven't been any breaches, no injuries beyond minor incidents that are standard for this environment."
"Yet." Damiros stands, moving to the observation window that overlooks the estate below. "I'm simply suggesting that perhaps we should consider rotating staff again. Fresh personnel might restore the original behavioral patterns we established."
Something cold slides down my spine. "You want to remove her."
"I want to maintain optimal stability." He doesn't turn around. "If that means adjusting personnel assignments to reinforce proper hierarchy, then yes. It's worth considering."
The suggestion hits me with visceral rejection that I can't quite justify.
Lenna has been here less than a month. She's a laborer.
Replaceable by definition, like I told myself when she first arrived.
There's no logical reason why the thought of removing her from the stables should trigger this immediate, absolute resistance.
But it does.
I think of Azhrael settling under her touch.
Think of the way she moves through the walkways with cautious competence that somehow feels practiced.
Think of her eyes—warm brown that becomes expressive when she thinks no one is watching—and the way they tracked across my face two nights ago like she was trying to remember something just out of reach.
Think of the dreams.
I've had more recently.
The first one was sexual—intense enough that I woke with my heart pounding and her name on my lips. I could have dismissed that as simple attraction, my subconscious processing physical response to a woman who happens to be beautiful despite my professional distance.
But the second dream wasn't sexual at all.
I was in my private quarters, reviewing stable reports at my desk.
Simple. Mundane. Then Lenna walked in carrying two cups of something warm—tea, maybe, though I couldn't identify the scent.
She set one beside me without asking, pressed a brief kiss to the top of my head, and settled into the chair across from me with her own drink.
We worked in comfortable silence, occasionally exchanging comments about nothing important. Domestic. Familiar.
I woke from that one more disturbed than the sexual dream because it felt like memory. Like something that had happened repeatedly enough to become routine.
Last night's dream was worse.
We were in the feeding pasture at sunset, sitting on the volcanic rock while Azhrael grazed nearby.
Lenna was leaning against me, my arm around her shoulders, her head tucked beneath my chin.
We weren't talking. Just existing together in that space with complete ease, watching the red sky darken toward night.
I remember the weight of her against my side.
The scent of her hair. The way my thumb traced absent patterns against her shoulder.
The certainty—deep and unshakable—that this was right.
That she belonged there. That I would protect her with everything I had because she was mine.
I woke with that same certainty still pulsing through my system, and it took several minutes of staring at my empty quarters to convince myself it wasn't real.
Three more dreams. None of them fitting the pattern of simple attraction or fantasy. All of them carrying the texture of memory—specific, detailed, emotionally resonant in ways that make no sense.
"Malrec?"
I refocus on my brother, who has turned from the window to watch me with that unsettling patience he wields like a weapon. "I'll think about it," I say, which is not agreement but not refusal either.
Damiros's expression doesn't change, but I see the calculation behind his eyes. "Good. Let me know what you decide." He returns to his desk, picking up another document. "In the meantime, let's finalize the acquisition budget for the next quarter..."
The rest of the meeting passes in strategic discussion and logistical planning.
I participate automatically, years of practice allowing me to engage with auction preparations while my mind remains partially elsewhere.
By the time we finish, the sun has shifted position enough that the estate below is partially shadowed by the ridge.