"I want you to feel it," I whispered, so soft it was barely air.
He blinked at me. "Feel what, love?"
I didn't answer with words. I didn't need to. I opened the bond. Fully For the first time since Aerion attacked me. Not by accident. Not from panic, or lust, or pain. This time, I opened it on purpose.
He staggered. It wasn't chaos. It wasn't a flood. It was me. Raw. Aching. Unmasked. Love. So much love it knocked the wind out of him. Love tangled with grief, guilt, and fear, but still love. Mine. I held it open just a few seconds, like stretching muscles I hadn't dared to use in years. Long enough for him to see me. To feel me. I let him in. I let him feel how deeply I loved him, quietly, wildly, without condition. How terrified I was of it. How desperately I needed him to understand this wasn't performance, wasn't habit. This was real.
Beneath it, I felt him. He didn't shield me. Not this time. Not from him. Not from me. I felt the way he looked at me and didn't see ruin, but divinity. The way my laughter sounded in his mind like a favorite song. The way I, not Annie, not the mask, was his peace. The weight of it made me gasp. I pulled back trembling, the bond flickering as it dimmed. "I can't hold it long," I whispered. "But I wanted you to know. I needed you to feel it. Just once."
He didn't speak. He just pulled me into his arms and held me like I'd handed him the universe. Because I had. "So, Master of Mischief…" I murmured, a smirk tugging at my lips, "what do you dream?"
He huffed out a laugh, automatic, cocky. But the bond was still faintly open. He couldn't lie. Not to me. "…I dream of things I'm not supposed to want," he admitted.
My fingers stilled. "Like what?"
His voice dropped. "I dream of a house that doesn't vanish when I turn my back. Someone laughing in my kitchen. Someone staying. I dream of coffee in the morning and terrible jokes and knowing that when I go to sleep, you'll still be there."
My chest ached. Not because I doubted it, but because it was him saying it.
"I dream of being enough," he whispered. "Not worshiped. Not feared. Just… loved. For who I am. Even when I'm an idiot. Especially then."
I didn't tease him. I didn't laugh. I leaned in and kissed his jaw, slow and gentle. "You're more than enough. Even when you're a complete idiot."
He smiled into my hair, his arms tightening around me. Deep in the bond, I felt it: He'd been dreaming of me far longer than he even realized. Then his voice curled low into the quiet, fragile space we were learning how to trust. "Alright, My Always. What do you dream… when the screaming stops?"
I didn't answer right away. I breathed slowly, like the truth might burn me on its way out. Then, simply:
"Mireya."
He froze. Not with jealousy. Not with anger. But with recognition. That illusion Leyla had spun, the little girl with my hair and his eyes. The laugh that still lingered in the back of my mind like a lullaby I never got to sing.
"I dream of her," I whispered. "Her chubby little hands. Braiding her hair. Hearing her call me Mommy like it was the most natural thing in the world."
I swallowed hard. "I know she wasn't real. I know Leyla made her up. But gods… it felt real. Like something I lost before I ever had it."
My palm pressed against his chest, grounding myself in his heartbeat. "I always wanted to be a mom," I admitted. "Before the temple. Before the runes. I used to pretend I had a baby tucked under the blankets. I'd sing lullabies to nothing, just to feel like I had someone of my own."
His eyes burned. Not with mischief, something far more dangerous. Conviction.
"You're going to have that," he said fiercely. "Not because you need it to be whole. Not because it fixes anything. But because you want it. And I will burn down every realm, every rule, every god who says you can't."
My lip trembled. "Malvor…"
"You're going to be someone's mother," he whispered. "They'll have your fire. And we'll love them so much the world won't dare lay a finger on them."
I stared at him, breathless. "I used to think I was too broken," I whispered. "That I couldn't—"
"You're not broken." He pressed his forehead to mine. "You're becoming. I'll be here, every step of the way."
I didn't cry. I smiled. Small, trembling, but real. In the bond between us, I let him feel it: Hope. Not fantasy. Not illusion. Just a quiet, steady flicker of something real. I was still curled against him, my lips brushing a smile across his chest, when he exhaled deeply, like he'd just unloaded a lifetime of loneliness. Then, with absolutely no warning, he said, "I'm naming our firstborn Malvor Jr."
I groaned. "Absolutely not."
"Malvor the Second, then? Lord of Cuteness. Master of Mayhem. Maybe a tiny cape—"
"If you put a cape on our baby, I will divorce you before we're even married."
"Oh good, so we are getting married?" He grinned, shameless. I slapped his chest, laughing despite myself. Gods, despite everything. Behind the banter, I felt it. He already had a name tucked away. Silly and serious, bold and beautiful. A name meant to carry chaos. One day, he'd whisper it to me. I'd know. He wasn't dreaming anymore. He was building.