Arkellin nodded once, cool, his hand still steady on Myra's waist. "Then talk."
But morning came before words could be sharpened into blades.
The villa was quiet except for the crackle of butter melting in a pan and the low hum of the coffee machine working through its cycle. Sunlight spilled through the wide kitchen windows, painting long golden lines across the stone counters. The scent of fresh toast mingled with the richer, darker aroma of ground beans, filling the space with something simple, domestic—something almost impossible to believe belonged to him.
Arkellin moved with the precision of a man used to knives, not spatulas. He cracked eggs one-handed, the shells discarded clean into the bin, his shoulders loose beneath a plain grey T-shirt. The apron knotted at his waist looked almost absurd, but he wore it without self-consciousness. His eyes were sharp on the sizzling pan, his movements efficient, but there was a softness under it too—a rhythm steady and unhurried, as though he had chosen this moment to remind himself he wasn't forged only for war.
Barefoot steps pattered in from the hall. Myra appeared first, swimming in one of his white shirts, the sleeves rolled clumsily to her elbows. Her hair was a mess of dark waves, her smile bright and lazy.
"Well, well…" she drawled, leaning against the doorway, arms folded as she watched him flip the toast. "The deadly Arkellin, cooking breakfast. Who knew you could look this… domestic?"
He didn't look up. "If you plan to eat, sit. Or keep quiet."
She padded forward anyway, ignoring the warning. Slipping behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist, cheek pressing against his back. "Mm. Smells good. You or the coffee—I can't tell which I want first."
Arkellin allowed the embrace, lips tugging faintly though his eyes stayed on the pan. "You'll live long enough to have both."
Myra laughed softly, the sound vibrating into him, her fingers toying with the apron tie at his hip. "You sound like you're spoiling me."
"I sound like I don't want you fainting before the day starts," he said evenly, but there was warmth threaded through the words, a new layer he hadn't shown before.
The click of heels on stone interrupted them.
Mira entered the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, dressed in a simple blouse and tailored slacks. She stopped short at the threshold, eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the scene—her sister clinging to Arkellin's back, his hand steady on the spatula, the smell of eggs and coffee thick in the air.
For a fraction of a second, the mask she wore in boardrooms faltered. Surprise flickered there, something almost like disbelief. Arkellin—the man she had only ever seen cold, unyielding, brutal—stood in her villa's kitchen cooking breakfast, a softness in his frame that seemed impossible.
Myra, sensing her stare, looked over her shoulder with a grin. "Morning, sis. You're just in time. He's making us breakfast."
Mira's lips pressed into a line. She said nothing, but her gaze lingered on Arkellin's profile—the ease in his movements, the steadiness in his voice, the quiet care threaded into a role he shouldn't have known how to play.
And in the stillness between them, something shifted. The storm wasn't over. It was only taking a new shape.
The villa's dining space was bright, sunlight pooling across the long oak table polished to a mirror sheen. The scent of roasted coffee and butter still lingered, softened now by the steam rising from plates set neatly before them—toast stacked golden, eggs folded delicate, bowls of fruit cut into clean, precise shapes.
Arkellin set the last mug of coffee down with steady hands, then took his seat between the sisters. He wore the same plain grey T-shirt from the kitchen, sleeves rolled, his hair a little untamed from the morning's damp. To anyone else, he would have looked like a fortress at rest. To Mira and Myra, he was something far more dangerous: a fortress willing to open its gates.
Myra wasted no time. Sliding her chair closer until her bare thigh brushed his, she picked up a forkful of pancake and held it up. "Say ahh," she teased, eyes sparkling.
Arkellin arched a brow, but leaned forward without a word. She fed him, grin widening when he chewed with quiet composure. "Good, right? My taste is impeccable."
Before he could answer, Mira's voice cut in, smooth but edged. "Impeccable? He cooked it." She reached across, spooning a small portion of miso soup into a lacquered bowl she'd arranged herself. Her movements were elegant, practiced. She lifted the spoon, steady, her gaze firm on Arkellin. "Here. Try something balanced."
Myra snorted, leaning against him. "Balanced? Boring."
Mira ignored her, the spoon hovering with quiet insistence. Arkellin turned, meeting her eyes. For a moment, the room felt suspended in glass. Then he leaned in and accepted the spoon, his expression unreadable but the faintest hint of a smile tugging his lips as he swallowed.
"Mm." His verdict was simple. "Both good."
Myra pouted dramatically, resting her chin on his shoulder. "You're supposed to say mine's better."
"Childish," Mira muttered, though her hand lingered on her cup longer than necessary, as if steadying herself.
The tension shimmered between them—two forces pulling, one playful and teasing, the other elegant and possessive. The air was thick with lavender, coffee, and something sharper: jealousy wrapped in domestic warmth.
Arkellin broke it without warning. He reached for a fork, speared a piece of fruit, and held it out—first toward Myra. She blinked, startled, before opening her mouth to take it, her smirk returning immediately. Then, with the same calm rhythm, he picked another slice and offered it to Mira.
She froze for a heartbeat, eyes flicking to him, but when his gaze held steady, warm but unyielding, she leaned forward and accepted it.
Silence cracked—not with words, but with laughter. Myra's bubbling, Mira's sharper and reluctant, and Arkellin's low, rare chuckle that settled between them like an anchor.
It wasn't harmony. Not yet. But for a fleeting moment, it was something close.
And beneath the laughter, Mira's jealousy simmered hotter.
The plates were half-empty, the coffee cooling, but the air around the table still thrummed with something alive, taut, playful, dangerous.
Myra leaned in again, spoon in hand, her lips quirking with mischief. "Come on, Andy, one more. Ahh." She tilted the spoon closer to his mouth, her other hand sneaking around his arm like ivy, clinging as though she might never let go.
Arkellin raised a brow, but his lips parted all the same. She fed him, triumphant, eyes sparkling. "See? You can't resist me."
Mira's eyes narrowed, her jaw tightening as she set her chopsticks down. Then, in a move uncharacteristically bold, she scooped a bit of rice, leaned forward, and brought it to Arkellin's lips. Her tone was cool but soft at the edges, almost coaxing: "Balance your meal. Don't let her spoil you."
Myra shot her a sideways glance, scoffing. "Spoil him? Please. He likes it."
Mira ignored her, keeping her gaze on Arkellin until he leaned forward once more, taking the rice in silence. Her lips curved—not quite a smile, not quite a claim, but something heavy in its possessiveness.
For a moment, they both stared at him, waiting for a verdict.
Instead, Arkellin reached for the bowl of fruit again, speared two slices, and without hesitation held one toward each of them.
Myra blinked, then laughed outright as she leaned across to take hers. Mira, caught between pride and shock, hesitated for only a heartbeat before leaning in as well. Their lips brushed the tips of the fork almost in unison.
The absurdity of it cracked something.
Myra giggled first, hand covering her mouth. Mira's laugh followed, sharper, reluctant, but real. And then Arkellin—Arkellin, the fortress, the man who rarely gave more than a cold curve of lips—let out a laugh. Deep, low, warm, rolling through the space until it filled the villa's high ceilings.
Both sisters froze, stunned for a breath. Then their own laughter spilled over again, tangled and overlapping, the tension breaking into something fragile but undeniable.
It wasn't peace. It wasn't surrender.
It was a triangle spinning faster, hotter, under the weight of manja—one playful, one possessive, both aimed at the same axis: him.
And Arkellin, for once, didn't resist. He allowed it. He even enjoyed it.
The laughter faded with the clink of cutlery against empty plates. Steam had long since left the mugs, leaving behind the bittersweet aroma of coffee and butter. Myra stretched, her shirt slipping lower on one shoulder, and announced with a grin, "Shower's mine first." Without waiting for permission, she bounced up from the table and disappeared down the hall, her humming trailing behind her like perfume.
Silence reclaimed the villa.
Arkellin rose slowly, gathering plates with the same quiet precision he'd shown in the fight and in the kitchen earlier. The oak table cleared under his hands, every gesture efficient, deliberate, as though even in something as ordinary as cleaning up, he refused chaos. At the sink, water ran warm, soap suds rising, his sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His reflection flickered in the windowpane, half-light, half-shadow, the dual man he'd become.
Mira watched from her chair. Her nails tapped against porcelain, a rhythm sharp, uneven, betraying what her face tried to hide. He was washing dishes. He was laughing with her sister. He was letting Myra cling to him as though he belonged only to her.
She couldn't stand it.
Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she crossed the space, deliberate but hesitant. When she reached him, she slipped her arms around his waist from behind, her cheek pressing between his shoulder blades.
"Don't let her think you belong to her," she whispered, her voice low but laced with steel, with jealousy that burned like a wound.
For a moment, Arkellin was still, the water still running over his hands. Then he set the last plate aside, turned off the tap, and dried his hands with the towel slung over the counter.
His hands came up, slow, deliberate—one resting at the back of her head, fingers threading into her damp hair, the other sliding down to gently stroke her cheek. He turned enough to look down at her, the softness rare but undeniable in his eyes.
"I belong to no one," he murmured, brushing his thumb along her temple. Then, leaning down, he pressed his lips to her forehead, the kiss lingering just long enough to unravel the wall she'd built. "You two belong to me."
Mira froze, her breath hitching against his chest. The words hit her like a strike—not cruel, not dismissive, but a claim. A vow. Something that curled heat low in her stomach and made her heartbeat stumble into a faster rhythm.
She closed her eyes, letting herself lean into his hold, her composure cracking for just a second. When she opened them again, her mask was back in place—but her heart hadn't recovered.
And Arkellin… for the first time, she realized, was no longer just the fortress. He was the axis. The center. The one man both sisters were circling, willingly or not.