Book 2: Allora Stay With Me

The royal bathhouse was quiet, steam rising in elegant tendrils that curled around the marble pillars. Reserved for only the imperial bloodline's inner circle, no one dared question Malec's presence here—no one ever did.

He sank deeper into the fragrant, heated water, letting it lap over his bruised ribs, his muscles sore and stiff beneath the surface. The warmth should've been soothing, but his thoughts ran wild, spinning with sharp edges. Allora. Always her. Her rage, her silence, her refusal to break. His next move had to be calculated—tighten the chain or loosen it? Too much of either, and he'd lose her. Again.

Then—voices. Laughing. Talking.

The doors swung open with entitled flair.

Surion—King in title, his cousin in blood—strolled in with his usual arrogance, robes draped over his shoulder, golden circlet glinting in the mist. Beside him, Surin, Malec's father, equally smug, discussing trade deficits as though the kingdom wasn't crumbling under the weight of its real problems.

Malec's jaw clenched.

He didn't move, didn't speak, eyes narrowing as the two made themselves at home, ignoring his presence completely.

Surion perched at the edge of the bath, still deep in conversation with Surin, while the old man let out a content sigh and slipped into the water like he owned it.

Malec's blood simmered. No respect. Not even fear.

He waited. Let the silence hang, until it became a blade.

Then, voice like frost: "Why are you disturbing my peace?"

Surin smiled lazily, floating in the water as though nothing could possibly faze him. "Peace? Oh, my boy, I'm simply here to ensure my daughter-in-law still draws breath. One can't be too careful, given your… temper."

Malec blinked.

Daughter-in-law.

The words echoed in his skull, not with irritation—but something else. Something hot and euphoric.

Allora. Mine. Not prisoner. Not asset. Not burden.

Daughter-in-law.

It settled in his chest like fire, and despite himself, a small smile crept up his face. He tilted his head back, platinum hair trailing into the water, hiding the bruises, the scars, the need.

Surion finally glanced at him, frowning. "What are you smiling at?"

Malec turned his head slowly, smirk curling with dangerous satisfaction.

"Nothing," he said smoothly. "Absolutely nothing."

Surin's eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned back against the smooth marble, the steam swirling around his silvered hair like a crown. He tilted his head toward Malec, lips quirking. "That smile, son. What's it for? Don't tell me you're finally finding joy in something."

Malec didn't even glance at him, choosing instead to close his eyes and sink deeper into the bath. The warmth enveloped him, his features carefully composed into a mask of indifference. Let them wonder. Let them guess.

Malec's eyes remained half-lidded as he spoke, voice like velvet wrapped around a dagger.

"Shouldn't you be off managing your little Canariae trafficking operation instead of polluting my peace?"

Surin sighed theatrically, lifting a hand as if warding off the accusation. "Surian wanted to see Allora. Said she had something to give her. You know how your sister is—determined, emotional, and not so easily deterred."

Malec's eyes snapped open. He sat forward abruptly, water sloshing as he turned toward Surin, eyes narrowed to slits.

"What does Surian want with her?" His voice was a growl, restrained but pulsing with threat.

Surin held up both hands, placating. "Relax, Malec. It's not what you think. We didn't realize... we didn't realize how deeply you care for her. Not until now."

Malec's fists clenched in the water, but he said nothing.

"We won't interfere again," Surin continued smoothly. "We see it now. It's clear. She's going to be your wife—my daughter-in-law." He smirked. "I've accepted that. So has Surian. She just wanted to make sure Allora has a friend, someone to speak with in her... current state."

Malec stilled.

He hadn't expected that. Surian, his sister, trying to comfort Allora? To reach out while she grieved, while she burned inside?

A strange emotion flickered in Malec's chest—something rare, something like… gratitude. He exhaled through his nose, leaning back against the smooth stone edge.

Maybe Surian did understand. Maybe she saw that Allora wasn't just a possession—but the very air Malec breathed.

Still, his need to see her now gnawed at him, clawing beneath his skin. He needed to see her eyes, feel the heat of her presence, just to know she was alive, safe, still in his world.

Surion, finally spoke, his voice flat but serious. "Don't worry. The whole Capitol knows she's off-limits now. No one will touch her. Not even me."

Malec didn't look at him, but he felt the weight lift—like cold chains falling away from his shoulders. He didn't thank them. Didn't show the flicker of relief on his face. But inside, something eased.

He nodded once. "Good."

Without another word, Malec stood, water cascading down his body, the bruises stark against his pale, scarred skin. He dried himself briskly, then summoned a nearby maid with a simple gesture. She approached, eyes downcast, to tend to his platinum hair, combing and braiding it with practiced care while he dressed.

Each piece of clothing chosen carefully. Polished boots. Crisp, tailored tunic. His most refined light armor—not for battle, but for presentation. He wanted to look his best.

For her.

For Allora.

With every clasp fastened, every fold adjusted, Malec's posture straightened. The beast was caged, but the Awyan beneath was alive, hopeful.

He left with a confident step, his demeanor brighter than it had been in days. The memory of her dark eyes fueled him, pushed him forward.

Behind him, Surin and Surion exchanged knowing glances.

"Do you think she'll ever return his feelings?" Surion muttered.

Surin chuckled, shaking his head. "Does it matter? He's already lost to her."

And with that, they returned to their conversation, pretending not to notice the storm walking away down the corridor—fueled by love, madness, and the hope of a single smile.

____________________________________________________________________________

Apprehensive.

A word Malec never associated with himself. Yet there he stood—nervous, damn near twitching—outside the ornate doors of the female imperial bathhouse, reserved for nobility of the highest rank. The marble corridor was silent but for the muffled sounds of water and soft laughter drifting from within.

A group of giggling maids stepped out, oblivious to his presence—until they looked up. One gasped, nearly dropping her towel, and all of them froze, wide-eyed. Then came the flurry of curtsies, stammered greetings, and hurried steps as they scurried past, trying not to stare.

Malec barely noticed them.

Gods. His entire body felt tight, coiled like a bowstring drawn too far. He'd faced battlefields, political vipers, and rebellion—but this? This was torture.

He missed her. Every breath without her felt hollow. But the tension between them—the hate in her eyes—gnawed at him like a wound that wouldn't heal. He needed… something. Anything. Just a glance that wasn't laced with contempt.

Malec turned toward a tall windowpane, catching his reflection in the polished glass. He took himself in, eyes sharp, scanning.

His platinum hair was slicked back, tied into a single low braid that rested over his shoulder, smooth and precise. His formal white uniform gleamed, sharp gold buttons catching the light. Dark grey trousers tucked into polished brown knee-high boots completed the ensemble. Every thread screamed power and control.

Women in the Capitol fawned over men in uniform—especially this uniform. He knew that. He didn't care about them.

He cared about her.

Allora.

His fingers tugged at his collar, adjusting. His chiseled features, noble and angular, stared back at him. Perhaps a smile?

He tried a cunning grin, like the one he wore in court. No. Too cold.

Then a softer, charming smile—ugh. He looked wrong. Like a wolf trying to play the lamb.

He wasn't the smiling type.

He sighed through his nose, clenching his jaw just as the door opened behind him with a soft creak. Voices—two women, murmuring in hushed tones.

Then she stepped out.

Allora.

Time stopped.

His breath hitched, leaving his lungs empty. His entire body tensed, muscles locked, heart hammering. He couldn't even tell if it was fear or love—both, probably. A violent mix of longing and dread.

Her skin caught the morning light like liquid fire, a deep, radiant bronze that seemed to glow with its own inner heat. Every movement she made shimmered, like sunlight dancing on molten metal, as if she were forged from something not of this world—untamed, elemental, divine.

Her thick, beautiful locks had been gathered into a loose, low braid, tucked into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck, though soft curls had escaped, framing her face and trailing down her throat like the brushstrokes of a master's painting. He wanted to run his fingers through them, bury his face in their warmth, lose himself in that softness.

She wore the deep purple of Capitol nobility—a garment draped over her like royalty, with long flowing sleeves and a regal elegance. The dress split open at the front, revealing tight black leggings that clung to her form, accentuating every graceful line of her legs, tucked into polished black boots that glinted as she walked.

And her eyes—those eyes. Still dark as a starless night, but now filled with a quiet, lingering sorrow. Even from a distance, Malec could see the sadness that had taken root in her soul, and it twisted something sharp inside him.

She was ravishing to him. A storm dressed in silk. Beauty wrapped in fury. Every inch of her carved into his memory, branded into his heart.

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.

Allora. His.

And he was utterly, hopelessly undone.

Surian and Allora came to an abrupt halt the moment they saw him—Malec, standing tall in all his imperious glory, bathed in golden morning light like some god of war stepped out of legend.

His formal white uniform clung to him perfectly, the gold buttons gleaming against his chest, his dark trousers tailored to precision, the polished brown boots shining like burnished bronze. His platinum hair was braided neatly over one shoulder, but it was his expression that froze them in place.

It wasn't anger. Not exactly.

He looked at them like a starving man presented with a feast. Like a predator—calm, focused, and ready to devour. His eyes were locked on Allora, and though his body didn't move, everything about him was leaning toward her. Consuming her.

Surian shifted uncomfortably, uncertain whether to speak or run. She glanced at her brother, studying his face. He didn't even see her.

He was in another world.

A world where only Allora existed.

In that instant, Surian knew nothing—not duty, not politics, not even blood—mattered to him anymore. Not compared to her.

And suddenly, Surian knew their plan would work. It had to. Because Allora was his everything.

Beside her, Allora stood still, her eyes darting once to Malec before shyly dropping to the ground, avoiding his gaze. She refused to speak to him, to give him even a fragment of her voice. Her posture was stiff, guarded—but undeniably beautiful, radiant and untouchable.

Malec's heart thundered.

Her refusal to meet his eyes struck him like a blade.

Too much. Too much.

He quickly shifted his burning gaze to Surian, forcing his face into a cooler, more composed mask, though the tension clung to him like a second skin.

"Surian," he greeted, voice aloof and formal. Controlled. Barely.

Surian, ever poised, gave a slight bow of her head. "Brother. I hope… you'll forgive me for earlier."

But his eyes weren't truly on her. Not for more than a breath. His attention drifted back to the figure beside her, the reason his entire soul was on fire.

Surian sighed, seeing the futility, and elbowed Allora lightly.

Allora looked up at her, then at Malec, and sighed softly—resigned, irritated—and finally gave him a nod. Barely a movement, barely anything at all.

But to Malec? It was everything.

His cold exterior shattered in an instant. His entire demeanor melted, shoulders loosening, breath hitching, as if the world had lifted from his back with that single flicker of acknowledgment.

She saw him. She looked at him. She didn't turn away.

And for Malec, that was more than mercy—it was life.

Malec's face brightened—just slightly—as Allora's acknowledgment washed over him like warm rain after a long winter. His shoulders straightened, the ever-present storm in his eyes settling into a calmer, almost boyish gleam.

Then his attention returned to Surian, finally able to process her presence now that he'd gotten what he wanted—a sliver of recognition from the woman who consumed his every waking thought.

Surian saw the shift, the moment his obsession retreated just enough for her to exist again in his world. She pressed forward.

"I want to stay with Allora," Surian said, voice steady, testing the waters. "As a companion. A... friend."

Malec's brows drew together, suspicion flashing in his eyes. His posture stiffened again as he turned his gaze to Allora, who, for the first time, was looking at him. Hopeful. Almost pleading.

It wasn't a spoken request, but Malec felt it. She was using Surian as her mouthpiece, her shield—and that was enough. Enough to make his heart soften, to feel the heat melt away some of the steel around his soul.

His voice was low, guarded. "What does that entail?"

Surian kept her tone light, diplomatic. "Allora would stay at my Capitol house on the East Side. It's quiet, private—"

"No," Malec cut in firmly, his voice sharp as a blade. "Absolutely not."

Both women stiffened at the cold finality in his tone.

"In the Capitol, she cannot be far from me." His eyes narrowed. "There are vultures everywhere. Nobles who wouldn't hesitate to seize her, claim her, sell her. She is mine, and not everyone knows that yet."

Allora's hopeful gaze faded in an instant, replaced by a flash of fury and disappointment. She didn't speak, but the way her jaw clenched, the way she turned sharply on her heel and hurried away down the corridor—her message was clear.

Malec's chest constricted. "Allora—" he started, already moving to follow.

But Surian stepped directly in his path, blocking him.

Malec's eyes flared with warning, the air around him seeming to thrum with tension. "You're brave," he growled, low and dangerous. "But you know it's dangerous to get between me and her."

Surian didn't flinch. "I'm not trying to get between you," she said calmly. "I'm trying to stop you from ruining your chances with her. Again."

Malec glared, jaw tight, every muscle coiled.

"You're too impetuous, Malec. Too forceful. She needs space. Trust. If you tighten your grip, she'll only pull further away." Her voice softened slightly. "You're not in a battlefield. You can't win her that way."

He stared at her for a long moment, breath shallow, then exhaled slowly.

"I need to speak to her. Privately," he said, voice heavy with restraint.

Surian stepped aside. "Then go. But don't forget—you're not fighting her. You're fighting for her."

Malec didn't respond. He was already moving, his strides long and purposeful as he tore down the hall after his beautiful, blazing Canariae.

She knew it.

Of course, he wouldn't give her space.

Allora's pulse thundered in her ears as she stormed through the marble corridors, past the decorative columns and golden drapes, her anger burning so hot it numbed her.

No escape. No freedom. No peace.

Her fists clenched as she pushed through the tall glass doors onto the nearest balcony. The cool breeze hit her face, but it did nothing to quell the fire inside.

She was three stories up—the balcony overlooking a manicured courtyard far below.

Her dark eyes locked on the stone path beneath. Yes, it was high enough. Her heart pounded, but not with fear. Just a weary resolve. If she couldn't escape him physically, maybe—just maybe—she could end it on her terms.

Her life wasn't hers anymore, not truly. She had fulfilled her duty, given her people a cure, saved them. But what was she now? A captive. A trophy. A bird in a gilded cage.

What good was she if her soul was already crumbling?

Her fingers trembled as she gripped the thick stone ledge. One leg lifted, then the other. She sat on the edge, staring down, the wind tugging at her loose curls. Minutes passed—her thoughts spiraling into darkness, her breath shallow, her mind fracturing.

She didn't want to be alive when she finally went mad.

She began to lean forward—

Hands—strong, furious—grabbed her arms, yanking her back with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. She stumbled, feet hitting the balcony floor, spun around and slammed against a heaving chest, hot and solid.

Before she could move, arms wrapped around her like iron, crushing her to him.

Malec.

His breathing was ragged, furious, his eyes blazing with raw fear and rage, face flushed as though death had brushed against him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he roared, voice cracking under the weight of emotion.

His grip tightened as she tried to turn away, but he wouldn't let her. His hands dug into her waist, his jaw clenched as if holding back something primal.

"Do you hate me that much?" he demanded, voice low now, trembling. "Do you despise me so much you'd rather die than even look at me?"

Allora stared up at him, her lips parting, but no words came. Just silence. Her dark, star-filled eyes met his, and he saw it—the emptiness, the broken pieces barely holding together.

Malec's breath hitched. His eyes were sharp, dilated, his face too close, his heart hammering so hard it shook them both.

He exhaled a shaking breath and suddenly hugged her fiercely, nearly crushing her, his hand sliding up into her hair, fisting tightly in her curls as he buried his face there, desperate.

"I want to give you freedom," he whispered, voice cracked, angry. "I want to. But if you ever try to run again—or end your life—I will chain you to my bedside until you grow old and die there. With me."

Allora stiffened, but his body shook against hers, the tension and fear pouring off him in waves. He was trembling—not from rage, but something deeper. Something fractured.

She didn't fight him.

She didn't scream.

She just stood there, letting his grip devour her, letting his breath shake through her hair, his face pressed desperately to her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

And maybe she was.

Malec moved without a word, his arms wrapping under Allora's legs and back as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms. She didn't fight. She didn't flinch. She simply let herself be carried, her body limp in his hold, eyes still distant.

Too distant.

He turned, preparing to take her inside, but something caught his eye—her gaze, still fixed over his shoulder, toward the balcony ledge.

His jaw clenched, his heart hammering painfully in his chest.

In an instant, his expression turned into a cold, stoic mask. Stone. Steel.

He hadn't wanted this. Not like this. But what choice did she leave him? It was either this—keeping her close, trying to give her something resembling freedom—or lock her away, and then she'd only find another way to fight him. To hurt him.

Halfway down the corridor, he stopped suddenly and put her down, not gently, but not harshly either. His grip immediately found her hand, possessive, wrapping around her smaller fingers as if daring her to pull away.

She didn't. She still said nothing. Just let him lead her, silent, like she'd resigned herself to something—and that something killed him.

As they walked, Malec slowed his pace, his sharp eyes glancing down at her, taking in every detail—the way her steps seemed light, too light. The way her frame felt fragile in his arms. His brow furrowed.

Has she been eating?

She'd been violently ill a week or two ago, her body ravaged by the aftermath of the cure, her immune system fragile. But now... she was still too thin. Too delicate. And that made something deep in his gut burn—anger, fear, guilt, all mixing into a storm he couldn't name.

Without a word, he changed direction, leading her to the Garden House, a glass-domed sanctuary where his family often took their afternoon meals.

Sure enough, Surin, Surion, and Surian sat around an elegant circular table beneath flowering vines, the table overflowing with delicacies—fresh fruits, roasted meats, sweet breads, spiced drinks. Laughter halted the moment they looked up and saw Malec striding in, gripping his Canariae's hand like a lifeline.

Their expressions shifted—wary, curious, guarded.

Malec didn't let go of Allora.

He looked at her again, his jaw tight, his gaze flickering with something dark—anger, frustration… protectiveness.

Then, he turned to the three of them, his voice low and ice-cold.

"I've made a decision," he said, words cutting like a blade. "Allora will stay with Surian. One week. To recover."

Surian's brows lifted, surprised, but wisely said nothing.

Malec's eyes narrowed, flicking to each of them in turn. "There will be guards present. She will not leave the estate. And Surian…" his gaze locked on her like a predator, "you are personally responsible. For every breath she takes, every strand of hair that's out of place."

Surian nodded, tense.

"If I don't get daily reports about her health," Malec finished, voice sharp enough to draw blood, "I will hold you accountable."

A long silence. The three looked at him with varying degrees of unease and reluctant respect.

Malec didn't care.

He looked at Allora again, still holding her hand. Still burning for her.

This was the only way to keep her safe.