The storm had passed, leaving Aurelia's hills washed clean in pale gold. Sunlight spilled through the villa's wide windows, breaking across cedar beams and linen sheets tangled from the night before. The air carried lavender's last traces and the faint warmth of coffee brewing somewhere deeper in the house.
Myra stirred first. Her lashes fluttered, heavy with sleep, and when her eyes opened the room met her in slanted light. She shifted against the sheets, bare skin brushing cool cotton, the ache from the night still blooming like bruised roses along her body. The sensation was raw, sharp, but instead of recoiling, she smiled faintly. Proof she was alive. Proof she was his.
Her gaze found Arkellin by the window.
He stood in nothing but dark boxers, the cut of his frame lean, shadows catching on the line of his shoulders, the streak of white in his hair burning brighter in the sun. One hand balanced a steaming mug of coffee, the other resting against the sill as he looked out at the dripping pines below. His posture was easy, but even in that stillness there was the aura of watchfulness, as if every shift in wind might yet bring danger.
When he turned, his eyes softened—not much, but enough for her to feel it like a hand on her skin. He crossed back to the bed and set the mug carefully on the nightstand. The bitter, rich aroma filled the air, mixing with the lavender and the faint salt of sweat still on their bodies.
"You're awake," he said, voice quiet, the storm still somewhere in it.
Myra pulled the blanket higher but didn't cover her smile. "And you made coffee. Are you trying to spoil me?"
"Keeping you alive," he corrected, but the corner of his mouth curved when he leaned down. His lips brushed her forehead first, then slid lower until they caught hers in a kiss that was unhurried, deliberate, tasting of warmth and steel.
She sighed into him, fingers rising to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat under skin still cool from the morning air. "I like this version of you," she whispered, eyes half-closed. "The one who doesn't just kill in alleys, but… cares."
Arkellin rested his forehead briefly against hers. "I've always cared. Just never had reason to show it."
The sunlight shifted across them, laying gold over her bare shoulders, catching the white streak in his hair. For a long moment, the world outside—the Council, the smear campaigns, the knives in the dark—was kept at bay by nothing more than coffee's warmth, tangled sheets, and the closeness of breath between them.
Arkellin's study was quieter than the rest of the villa, lined with glass that spilled morning light over steel shelves and a wide desk. Two monitors glowed faintly with rows of shifting data—the markets still jittering after Council's strike, and Arkellin's countermeasures running quietly beneath.
He sat in the leather chair, posture upright, boxers traded for dark lounge pants. His fingers moved with precision across the keyboard, eyes sharp, cool, the aura of the man Aurelia feared—ruthless, untouchable, a shadow that had crawled out of death itself.
But the aura cracked when Myra padded in barefoot, drowning in one of his white shirts. The hem brushed her thighs, sleeves rolled clumsily to her elbows. Her hair was still messy from the night, eyes bright despite the fatigue that clung to her. She didn't knock, didn't ask—just walked straight behind him and slid her arms over his shoulders, pressing herself to his back.
"You're already working," she murmured against his ear, her breath warm, playful. "Doesn't this fortress ever sleep?"
Arkellin's hands stilled for a fraction, then continued typing. But his voice, low and steady, carried a softness he rarely let anyone hear. "It sleeps when you do."
She hugged him tighter from behind, cheek pressing into his shoulder blade. "Then you didn't sleep at all."
He chuckled—a real laugh this time, rare and quiet, vibrating through his chest. It surprised even him. "Maybe."
The sound drew a grin from her. She slid around to his front, perching on the arm of his chair before slipping down into his lap without ceremony. The shirt shifted, baring the length of one shoulder. She leaned into him, chin resting on his shoulder now, eyes on the endless data streams she didn't understand.
"What's all this?" she asked, tracing the lines of code with a finger as if the shapes might suddenly rearrange into sense.
"Fire," Arkellin said, arms settling lightly around her waist. "And ways to smother it."
"Mm." She tilted her head, lips brushing his jaw with teasing deliberation. "So serious. Always saving worlds. Don't you ever get tired of carrying everything?"
His eyes softened again, a shift subtle but undeniable. He didn't answer with words at first. Instead, he reached up, brushed a strand of her hair back behind her ear, fingers lingering against her cheek. For the first time in years, his smile wasn't sharp or bitter—it was warm, real, something fragile that belonged only to this room.
"I don't carry everything," he said finally. "Some things… I protect."
Her breath hitched, the playfulness melting into something heavier, more dangerous. She turned his face to hers and kissed him—slow, lingering, not desperate like last night but full of a different hunger. A hunger for something lasting.
When she pulled back, eyes bright, she whispered: "Don't you dare stop smiling like that. Not with me."
Arkellin chuckled again, softer this time, holding her closer. "Only with you."
And in that moment, the duality of him was locked:
Inside these walls—with Mira and Myra—he could laugh, care, protect, even love.
Outside—to the world, to his enemies, he remained the cold shadow, the strategist who smiled only when blood ran.
The shift wasn't spoken. But the villa carried it, etched into the morning light on his face and the warmth of Myra curled against him.
The villa's study was wrapped in a cocoon of morning quiet—only the hum of Arkellin's system, the faint scratch of Myra's nails tracing lazy shapes on his arm, and the soft, rare echo of his laugh.
She was still perched in his lap, shirt hanging loose, hair falling across her cheek as she leaned into him, stealing his warmth, his focus, his steadiness. His hand rested at her waist, not to restrain her but to anchor her there. His smile—quiet, genuine—was one he gave to no one else.
Then the rhythm of heels clicked against the villa's marble floor.
The sound was sharp, unyielding, each step cutting through the cocoon like glass breaking. Myra stilled for a heartbeat, then smirked, lips brushing Arkellin's jaw. "She's here."
Arkellin didn't flinch. His arm remained where it was, his eyes never leaving the screen for the moment. The cool side of him, the one Aurelia feared, slipped back into place in an instant—but the warmth stayed, steady against Myra's body, because he had already decided: inside these walls, he would not pretend.
The study door opened.
Mira stood framed in the morning light, blazer pressed, hair pinned immaculate, her presence carrying the weight of boardrooms and legacies. But her mask cracked the second her gaze landed on them—her sister curled bare-legged in Arkellin's lap, his hand at her waist, his expression calm and unashamed.
Her steps faltered only once. Then she walked inside, heels striking like gavel blows. The air thickened, lavender overtaken by the sharper scent of her perfume—cool, commanding, designed to hold space.
"Myra." Her voice was a blade sheathed in ice.
Myra only tilted her head, smile widening as she pressed closer against Arkellin, fingers drumming idly on his chest. "Good morning, sis. Did you sleep well?"
Mira's jaw tightened. Her eyes flicked to Arkellin, searching for hesitation, for shame, for anything she could read as weakness. But he only returned her stare with that same calm, unshaken gaze—the one that had bent boardrooms, broken men in alleys, and now softened for the women he'd chosen to protect.
Inside, with them, he would be steady. Protective. Fair.
Outside, with enemies, he would be ruthless.
Both truths were locked in him now, and Mira saw it—saw the weight of it—in the way he didn't release Myra, didn't shift, didn't yield.
The silence stretched, sharp enough to cut.
Then Mira spoke again, quieter, her voice trembling at the edges though her mask fought to hold. "We need to talk."
Arkellin nodded once, cool, his hand still steady on Myra's waist. "Then talk."
The storm that had left Aurelia's skies had not left this villa.
It had only just arrived.
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