After a long, lazy morning tangled in warmth and coffee, Malvor nudged me with that insufferably smug grin of his. "Up, my love. Adventure calls."
I groaned, stretching like a cat in the sun. "You're lucky I like you," I muttered, dragging myself out of the covers. While I pulled on clothes, he snapped his fingers. Typical. But when I turned—
"Are you… wearing khaki shorts?"
There he stood, proud as a peacock, in the most offensively crisp khakis I'd ever seen, a fitted white shirt that looked painted on, and white dad shoes that screamed suburban barbecue. I just stared at him. He just grinned. Took my hand, and the world tilted. We landed atop a mountain, air sharp and clean, wildflowers spilling down the hills, sunlight glittering off a stream winding through the valley. It was… breathtaking.
He didn't say a word. Just waved his hand and laid out a red-and-white checkered blanket, frayed edges and all. A wicker picnic basket appeared in his arms, and for once, there was no smug commentary. He set everything down gently. Fresh fruit, bread, wine. Even desserts wrapped in little papers. Something in my chest squeezed. My breath caught.
"You remembered the story," I whispered.
His smile softened. "I did more than remember it. I made it real. For you."
For a moment, I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Just stared at the scene before me, familiar and impossible all at once. Then I sank down beside him, touched in a way words couldn't hold. I never had that day with my parents. But I had this one. With him. He, of course, couldn't resist. With a flourish, he pulled two slightly charred peanut butter sandwiches from the basket, wrapped in wax paper.
"Tah-dah! Burnt. Just like you described. Authenticity, Annie. You're welcome."
I blinked at them. "Mal… these look like they survived a forest fire."
"I know." He beamed, proud. "I used actual fire from a volcano. It was very dramatic. You should've seen the flames."
I laughed, loud, full, real. The sound echoed off the mountains, bouncing back at me until it felt like the whole valley was laughing with us. He held one of the sandwiches like it might attack him. "I will not be eating this. I have dignity."
Still grinning, I snatched it from him and bit the corner. My nose scrunched immediately. "Yep. That's awful."
We both dissolved into another round of laughter, the kind that made your ribs ache, the kind that was more about being alive than being amused. For a moment, burnt sandwiches and all, the world felt exactly right. The emotions swelled, too big to shove down, too raw to ignore. Gratitude. Ache. Wonder. Joy. All of it spilling out, bleeding into the bond until I knew he felt it too.
When I looked at him, the grin on his face had melted into something deeper. His eyes were warm, soft, reverent. He didn't block me out. He didn't hide. He let it in. All of it. He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, voice quiet, almost fragile. "Would you like to hear a story, tesoro?"
I nodded, barely trusting my voice. He stretched out on his side, propped up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on me like I was the only thing that mattered in the world. And right then, I almost believed I was.
"Once," he said softly, "a long time ago, I was in a tiny village in Northern Italy. A storm was coming, rolling over the mountains, swallowing the sky. Everyone ran inside. Shutters closed. Doors bolted. Everyone hid. Everyone… except one old woman."
His tone shifted, gentler. "She was in the square, chasing flowers that had blown from her basket. No one helped her. No one looked twice. But I stopped. I helped her gather every last petal. When we were done, she looked at me and said, 'Chaos or not, you still have a heart. Don't forget that.'"
His lips curved, a soft, almost embarrassed smile. "She gave me a flower. Pressed it into my hand and made me promise I wouldn't lose it."
I leaned closer, my voice a whisper. "Did you?"
His eyes sparkled. "I kept it. Still have it. Hidden in a book in my real castle."
I swallowed hard, emotions thick in my chest. He made jokes about khakis and dad shoes and burnt sandwiches… but he also remembered my lies and made them real. He also carried pressed flowers from centuries-old storms. Gods help me. I was falling. The story he told settled between us like sunlight on stone. Warm. Gentle. Not grand, but his. And somehow, that was enough. We lingered in the golden quiet, stretched across the blanket with the stream murmuring in the valley below. I should have felt restless, but I didn't. For once, I just… was. Until the words slipped out of me.
"I told you my Aerion runes were the worst."
He turned toward me, and before I could second-guess myself, I tugged my dress up to my thigh. The entire length of my right leg gleamed in the afternoon light, scarred and carved with merciless precision. I'd shown scars before, but not like this. Not to him. "These," I said, my voice steadier than I expected, "were my longest."
His usual smirk vanished. His eyes went solemn, his whole body stilling as he looked. Really looked. His fingertips brushed the skin just above my knee, barely grazing, reverent. "They look deep," he murmured.
"They were." My throat felt tight, but I kept going. "Three years. Eighteen to twenty-one. They carved in stages. Lower leg. Upper. Each section four months. Then half a year to recover."
I kept my gaze fixed on the distant water as I spoke, reciting it like a ledger. Facts. Not feelings. If I let myself feel, I wouldn't get through it. "They told me pain was the price of peace," I said. "That every inch had to be earned. That war carves its mark not only into the world but into the body. Into the soul."
My hand drifted down to my shin without thinking, remembering. "They started at the ankle. The chanting, the blade. Every morning, I woke knowing what was coming. Hours of it. Scraping until it hit bone. If I cried, I was weak. If I screamed, I was unworthy." I laughed then. Bitter. Hollow. "When they got to my knee, it was worse. Skin tighter there. They chanted louder. They wanted it to break me."
His fingers tightened just slightly where they rested, then softened again. He didn't interrupt. Didn't try to fix it. Just listened.
"I couldn't walk for months," I whispered. "They said weakness was in my mind. That once I accepted pain, I'd transcend it. But all it did was remind me I wasn't mine. That I was theirs. A canvas. Nothing more."
Silence stretched. Wind tugged at the blanket, birds called faintly from the trees, and Malvor traced the lines of Aerion's mark with the lightest touch, like he could smooth away scars carved years ago. I braced myself for pity. Or rage. Or some speech about vengeance. Instead, he bent his head. And kissed my knee. Soft. Reverent. My breath caught.
"Annie," he said, his voice low and steady, vibrating against my skin, "you are the strongest person I have ever met." Another kiss, higher.
"I see you. Not the body they used. Not the pain they left. Not just the survivor with a thousand scars." His mouth brushed along my thigh, every word breaking me open further.
"I see the sharp mind that reads people like books. The fire in your spine they never managed to break. The heart you guard so fiercely. The softness you still carry, even after everything." Every kiss was a promise. Every word, a weapon turned into balm.
"I see beauty," he whispered. "Raw, untouchable beauty. The kind forged, not given." Another kiss.
"I see strength. Not the kind they demanded. The kind you chose." when he looked up at me. His eyes were a soft tan and full of truth. No grin. No trick. Just him.
"You are everything, Annie," he said, voice breaking. "And I see all of you." And gods help me, I let him.
Late that night, we arrived back at the castle, to our home. It felt alive the moment we stepped through the doors. Arbor flickered the chandeliers in a warm, golden welcome, light spilling across the grand entryway like it had been waiting for us. The air shifted warmer, carrying the faintest hints of vanilla and flowers, like a sigh of relief.
"Arbor missed us," I said, arching a brow.
Beside me, Malvor sniffed the air suspiciously. "It smells… unusually fresh in here."
The fireplace roared to life, cheerful and crackling. I narrowed my eyes. "Arbor…"
Malvor's gaze swept over the sparkling floors, the neatly rearranged furniture, and the absolute absence of clutter. His eyes narrowed with exaggerated suspicion. "Did you throw a party while we were gone?"
The hallway lights blinked innocently. I smirked. "That's a yes."
"I knew it!" Malvor pointed dramatically at a sconce, his voice full of betrayal. "I knew you were untrustworthy the moment you turned against me over that bathroom door! I demand a full report. Guest list. Theme. Damages—"
Arbor flickered rapidly, clearly offended, then dimmed one light in a way that felt smug.
I yawned. "Malvor. Leave the house alone. We'll interrogate it in the morning."
"I'm not mad," he muttered, still sulking. "Just… disappointed." The floor lights under his feet flared in what could only be described as a taunting wink.
I bit back a laugh as I kicked off my shoes. "Come on, drama king. Home sweet chaos." Our hands brushed, then clasped, and the entire house settled with a satisfied hum.
The morning came golden and slow, wrapping the room in warmth. I woke to the smell of cinnamon, vanilla, and coffee. Blinking against the sunlight, I stretched lazily under the covers. Malvor swept in, hair wild, shirt wrinkled, carrying a tray with far too much flair for so early in the day. "Breakfast in bed, for the goddess of my mornings!" he declared, setting the tray down like it was a royal offering.
I sat up and blinked at the spread: French toast dusted with powdered sugar, a swirl of whipped cream, a small bowl of berries, and coffee, perfectly creamy, just the way I liked it. "You made this?" I asked, skeptical.
"From scratch," he said proudly, puffing his chest. "With mortal ingredients. Me. Malvor. Kitchen god."
I laughed, soft and disbelieving, and took the coffee with a grateful smile. "I'm shocked the kitchen survived."
He flopped onto the bed, eyes locked on me as I took my first bite. I moaned. "Oh my gods… this is really good."
His grin turned smug. "Of course it is. Only the finest for my Annie Crème Brûlée."
I rolled my eyes, smiling despite myself. "You are ridiculous."
"And you," he said, raising a berry in a mock toast, "are worth every cinnamon-laced second." The bed was warm, the food perfect, his presence steady beside me. For a few stolen moments, there was no chaos, no gods, no past pressing down. Just us.