The Taste of Her

Malec leaned against the wooden railing, watching the soldiers clear the training yard after their sparring session.

His tan eyes never left her.

Allora.

The little wild dove.

She had done what few ever could.

She had bested him.

And now—he wanted more.

His interest in her had been born out of curiosity.

And now?

Now it was something else entirely.

The way she moved, the way her body twisted and struck with precision—it was mesmerizing.

And not just as a warrior.

His fingers twitched at his sides as he remembered the warmth of her body pressed against him.

The way she had stood over him, breathing heavily, victorious.

He should have been angry.

Instead, he was intrigued.

She had awakened something dangerous in him.

And for the first time in a long time—he welcomed the challenge.

"Well, you certainly made an impression."

Luko's voice pulled Allora from her thoughts as she sat on a barrel near the castle's stone walls, wiping sweat from her forehead.

She glanced at him warily.

"What do you mean?"

Luko smirked.

"He likes you."

Allora rolled her eyes.

"He likes controlling me."

"No," Luko corrected. "He likes fighting you. And knowing Malec… that means trouble."

Allora huffed, running a hand through her wild curls.

"Let him play his little games. It doesn't change anything."

Luko tilted his head, studying her.

"You're still fighting the name, aren't you?"

Allora scowled.

"Because it's not my name."

"Well, it is now."

She threw him a sharp glare.

Luko chuckled, raising his hands.

"Alright, alright. But you do realize the more you fight it, the more he'll make sure it sticks, right?"

She knew.

Damn him.

Damn them both.

But she would never say it aloud.

Instead, she crossed her arms and muttered,

"I'd rather eat dirt."

Luko laughed.

By late afternoon, a small merchant convoy arrived at the castle gates.

Along with the usual trade goods, there were Canariae among them.

Sick ones.

Allora's stomach dropped the moment she saw them.

She knew those symptoms.

The ashen skin.

The hollowed eyes.

The slow decay.

It was the Cotard-Virus.

Her pulse raced as she knelt beside one of them—a woman barely clinging to life.

"Luko!" she called, her voice sharp.

Luko was at her side in seconds, Malec following behind with a watchful gaze.

"What is it?" Luko asked.

Allora grabbed the woman's weak wrist, turning to him with a cold, sinking feeling.

"They're infected."

Luko stiffened.

Even Malec's casual posture shifted slightly.

"Infected?" Luko asked.

Allora's mind raced.

"This… this is what wiped out my world. It's the Cotard-Virus. But if it's here—"

She trailed off, realization slamming into her like a blade.

If it was here, then that meant—

The Awyan had survived it.

Her eyes snapped to Luko.

"Do you have a cure?"

Luko exchanged a tense glance with Malec before nodding.

"Of course. The virus is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Our kind overcame it centuries ago."

Allora's chest tightened.

Centuries?

Then why had humanity never found a cure?

She swallowed, her throat dry.

"How?"

Luko hesitated before speaking.

"The antidote exists in certain Awyan bloodlines."

The world slowed.

Allora's heart slammed against her ribs.

She turned, her eyes locking onto Malec.

"You mean… his bloodline?"

Luko nodded.

"Yes. His, specifically."

The breath left her lungs.

She had been searching for a cure for years.

And the answer had been walking beside her this entire time.

She needed his blood.

Desperately.

And she needed to get back to the portal.

The clock was ticking.

She had a choice to make.

Allora forced her expression neutral, looking away from Malec before he noticed the storm of thoughts brewing in her head.

"Well," she muttered, standing up. "That's… interesting."

Luko frowned.

"That's all you have to say?"

She shrugged, masking the urgency in her chest.

"I mean, it makes sense. A perfect, arrogant race like the Awyan, of course, they'd be immune to a plague meant for lesser beings."

Luko sighed at her sarcasm but didn't argue.

Malec, however, remained silent.

His tan eyes never left her.

She could feel his gaze trailing over her, studying her.

Like he could sense something had changed.

She had to be careful.

Very careful.

Because now, she wasn't just trying to escape.

She had to steal his blood.

And she had to do it without him realizing it.

She needed a strategy.

She had two objectives now.

Extract Malec's blood.Find her way back to the portal.

She would have to get close to him.

Closer than she ever had before.

And she knew exactly how to do it.

She had already seen how his tan eyes darkened when he looked at her.

The way his jaw tensed when she touched him.

She had felt the heat of him, the way his breath hitched when she leaned too close.

He wanted her.

And now?

She would use that.

She just wasn't sure if it would work.

Because this wasn't just a game anymore.

This was survival.

And Malec?

Malec was dangerous.

Allora spent the next few days perfecting her strategy.

She had already come to terms with her new name.

There was no Melodie anymore.

Just Allora.

And Allora had a mission.

She needed Malec to lower his guard.

She needed to get him drunk.

And most importantly—she needed his blood.

She had already begun understanding his language.

Languages had always been easy for her.

She was already fluent in several—picking up Awyan had been a challenge, but not an impossible one.

Now, she could converse with him—just enough to make it seem like she had finally given in.

Like she was starting to trust him.

And Malec—a creature of power, dominance, and control—would want nothing more than for her to meet him where he wanted.

So she would.

And she would use it against him.

Dinner had been uneventful.

Malec had kept a close eye on her the entire time, watching her like he was waiting for her to lash out.

But she didn't.

She simply ate, spoke little, and remained calm.

Then—as the servants cleared the table—she finally struck.

In Awyan.

"Would you join me in a drink?"

The room froze.

Malec stilled, his tan eyes locking onto hers in pure shock.

Luko, standing nearby, nearly dropped his cup.

One of the guards choked on his wine.

A Canariae speaking Awyan?

To him?

To invite him?

Malec had been expecting many things.

Defiance.

Insults.

Another piece of bread to the face.

But not this.

For the first time, his Canariae had come to him.

Had met him where he wanted.

Slowly, Malec leaned back in his chair, his gaze unreadable, intrigued.

Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he replied in his own language.

"I accept."

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting warm shadows over the walls as Malec sat across from Allora in his private quarters.

Two glasses.

A bottle of aged northern whiskey.

She had chosen something strong—something she had seen him drink before.

She already knew he had a high tolerance.

Which meant she needed to pace herself carefully.

She poured him a glass first, then her own, raising it in a silent toast.

Malec studied her, his tan eyes flickering with interest.

Then, without a word, he drank.

And so the game began.

For the first time, Malec spoke to her as an equal.

Not as property.

Not as a Canariae.

But as a woman.

His little dove who had finally begun to trust him.

"Where did you learn to fight?" he asked in his language.

Allora pretended to hesitate, then answered simply,

"My world was cruel. We fought to survive."

Malec's fingers tapped against his glass.

"And yet, you survived."

She sipped her drink.

"That is what I do."

His tan eyes burned.

"That is what I like about you."

Her stomach tightened.

He was relaxing.

His defenses were lowering.

It was working.

As the night stretched on, Malec drank more.

His posture eased, his movements looser, slower.

It was time to test him.

Allora swirled her drink, keeping her tone carefully neutral.

"Would you take me back to the Capitol?"

Malec stilled.

Instantly, his gaze sharpened.

The shift was subtle, but she felt it.

He had relaxed.

But not enough.

"Why?" he asked simply.

She hesitated, then sighed, letting her shoulders drop slightly.

"Because I miss the city."

Malec's brows furrowed.

"You wish to escape?"

She looked him directly in the eye.

"If I wanted to escape, I wouldn't be here drinking with you."

She saw the way his jaw twitched, the way his fingers flexed on his glass.

He wanted to believe her.

She just had to push him further.

So she did.

She leaned forward, slowly, just enough that the candlelight caught her features in soft, golden hues.

Her voice dropped into something silkier, smoother.

"If I give you my body willingly…" she murmured, her dark eyes never leaving his.

Malec's breath hitched.

His fingers tightened on his glass.

Allora's heart pounded.

She had him.

She saw it in the way his throat bobbed, the way his eyes flickered with something primal.

"…Would you take me back for a week?"

For a long moment, Malec said nothing.

The only sound was the crackling fire, the slow drip of whiskey into his glass.

Then—he smiled.

A slow, sharp, dangerous smile.

"You have learned my language well," he murmured.

Allora swallowed.

"I learn quickly."

Malec studied her like a predator who had just found something far more interesting than a simple meal.

His tan eyes darkened.

"And you are clever," he mused.

He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table, his voice dropping into something low and dangerous.

"But not clever enough to fool me."

Allora's stomach dropped.

She kept her face neutral.

"I don't know what you mean."

Malec's smirk deepened.

"You think I don't know when I'm being played?"

The air shifted.

Her pulse spiked.

But she kept her expression carefully unreadable.

"I was merely asking a question."

Malec tilted his head, considering her.

Then, in one smooth motion, he stood.

Before she could react, he reached out—fingers tilting her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

His touch burned.

"You are a beautiful liar," he murmured.

Allora's heart hammered.

His tan eyes flickered down to her lips.

Her breath hitched.

His grip on her chin tightened—just slightly.

"But you are still mine," he whispered.

A promise.

A warning.

Her body betrayed her, reacting to the warmth of his touch, the scent of whiskey and fire that clung to him.

But before she could pull away—

Before she could react—

Malec did something she had not expected.

He let go.

And he smiled.

"Drink up, little dove," he murmured, taking another sip of whiskey.

"We have a long night ahead of us."

Allora poured Malec another drink, her fingers steady as the amber liquid swirled into his glass.

She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Oh, she was winning.

"You should think about it," she murmured, her voice smooth as silk.

Then—she moved.

She slid from her chair, her body graceful and slow, sinking to her knees between his legs.

Malec stilled.

His breath hitched.

His fingers twitched against his glass, but he didn't stop her.

Good.

She parted his legs, positioning herself between them, her dark eyes locked onto his.

Malec's chest rose and fell heavily, his tan eyes clouding with something primal.

For the first time—he wasn't in control.

And she knew it.

Oh, she knew it.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against his just barely, teasing him with heat, with promise.

Then—she sucked lightly on his lower lip, her breath warm, her mouth soft and deliberate.

Malec's entire body tensed.

And then—he groaned.

A deep, anguished sound that came from somewhere deep inside him.

The sound of restraint snapping.

Oh, she had him now.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his fingers gripping the edge of the chair like a lifeline.

She pulled back slightly, taking in the sight of him.

His pupils were blown wide, his tan eyes glazed, unfocused.

He was losing himself.

Exactly as she planned.

Malec tried to think.

Tried to remind himself who she was.

What she was.

Tried to remember that this was a game—one she was playing to manipulate him.

But fuck—those lips.

The heat of her breath.

The way she looked up at him, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

His body was betraying him.

His blood rushed south, his erection swelling, demanding relief.

His entire body was on fire.

And she knew it.

She had to know it.

Then—she took it further.

She lowered her gaze to his belt, and before he could stop her—

She bit down on the leather strap.

And pulled.

Fuck.

Malec's self-control shattered.

A deep, sharp growl rumbled from his chest as his hands snapped forward, grabbing her roughly by the shoulders.

Allora gasped, her pulse spiking as he pulled her up—fast, strong, desperate.

She barely had time to breathe before he slammed his lips against hers.

This wasn't soft.

It wasn't teasing.

This was raw, wild, consuming.

His fingers tangled in her thick curls, holding her exactly where he wanted.

His tongue swept against hers, demanding, devouring.

He was done.

Done fighting it.

Done holding back.

Done pretending he didn't want this.

Didn't want her.

His Canariae.

His Allora.

He pulled back, his breath ragged, his forehead pressed against hers.

"If I take you," he rasped in Awyan, his voice rough, dangerous, "will you let me take you right here?"

Allora smiled.

A slow, seductive, victorious smile.

"It's the only thing I would ask for," she whispered.

And that was it.

That was all he needed.

Malec growled and took her.

There—against the firelight, against the tension that had been building between them for weeks.

It was not gentle.

It was not careful.

It was everything they had both been fighting against.

And for the first time—

Malec finally lost the game.

And Allora?

She had won.

Malec lay still, the heavy fur blankets barely covering their twisted, tangled bodies.

The firelight flickered, painting gold and shadow over their bare skin, but his mind wasn't on the flames.

His tan eyes burned, staring at the woman in his arms.

His little dove.

Sleeping.

Unaware of the chaos she had just caused inside him.

Because even now, long after his body should have calmed, settled, slept…

He still felt it.

Felt her.

Felt the way she had wrapped around him, the way her body had clung to his, pulling him deeper, as though she wanted to consume him whole.

As though she was meant for him.

And only him.

His fingers twitched, threading through her thick curls, his mind replaying every heated moment.

Every second he had lost himself inside her.

He had been fighting this for weeks.

He had told himself it was just curiosity.

That it was just the thrill of taming a wild thing.

But the moment she had tugged at his belt with her teeth, looking up at him with those dark, knowing eyes—

He was finished.

The moment he had crushed his lips against hers, tearing at her clothing as though it had personally insulted him—

He was lost.

The moment he had pushed into her, feeling heat, tightness, the overwhelming sensation of being buried inside her—

He was ruined.

Malec never lost control.

He was an Awyan of discipline.

Of control.

But when he had felt her, wrapped around him, pulling him in, her breath hot against his neck—

He had shaken.

Not just a tremor.

A full-bodied quake that had rattled his muscles, his bones, his very core.