Book 2: Damn Malec, Damn Him To Hell

Surin rode in lazily, his horse's hooves clopping against the cobblestone path as Capitol spires gleamed in the distance. He passed Erolyn, seated stiff in his saddle, posture unnaturally rigid, expression a hard mask.

A far cry from the carefree smirk he usually wore like armor.

Interesting.

With a light nudge of his heel, Surin's steed picked up speed until he was riding parallel to his nephew, no greeting, just straight to the point.

"What's with the face?"

Erolyn blinked, shaken from his brooding, his jaw ticking. "Your son is a psychopath and a menace to society."

Surin chuckled, nearly snorting, the sound full of indignance. "You're just figuring this out now?"

He stretched slightly in his saddle, smirking. "This have something to do with my… Canariae daughter-in-law?"

Erolyn immediately snapped, "She's not your daughter-in-law. Marrying Canariae is illegal. That doesn't happen."

Surin shrugged, unconcerned. "It's Malec. If he wants to make her his wife, he will. Laws don't stop him—never have. And once he does, she'll be mine by law, whether you like it or not."

Surin shrugged, unconcerned. "This is Malec we're talking about. If he wants to move mountains or destroy civilizations, there are very few Awyan—or beings at all—who could stop him."

Erolyn's temper snapped, and he whipped around, glaring. "I don't want to hear about how great Malec is. I'm done. I'm going to make sure I stay as far from him as possible."

Surin raised a brow, catching the tension, the heat beneath the surface. His voice was low, amused. "Ahh…"

Erolyn narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"

Surin gave him a knowing look, half smirk, half warning. "I get it. The Canariae's lure got to you. I'm not surprised. She almost got me, too."

Erolyn didn't respond—but his jaw clenched, his fists tightening on the reins. He wouldn't admit it, but he wasn't like the others, who wanted Allora as a trophy. No, he saw who she was—intelligent, trained, skilled, not just some exotic pet.

She was a real, breathing being, with depth, fire, and a mind of her own.

And he'd be damned if he let Malec be the only one to have that.

Quietly, Erolyn muttered, "If I'd found her first, she'd be happy. I'd treat her better. She'd be free."

Surin's eyes flickered with warning, but Erolyn didn't care. He felt restless, angry, and, gods, lonely. He missed her, not just her presence, but the idea of her—what they could have had.

He clenched his teeth, thinking about Malec's hands on her, his mouth, his body with hers—and something dark and possessive twisted inside him, tightening every muscle in his body.

Damn him. Damn Malec to hell.

"I'd risk it all," Erolyn muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Just to have her beside me… in bed, in my arms. I'd give it all up."

Surin, still watching him with a wary gaze, said, "If you want another like her, find a portal. There are others. So far, we've discovered maybe two. The one that was destroyed… wasn't the only one."

Erolyn's horse halted, and his head snapped to Surin, eyes wide with fire. "What?"

"There are more," Surin said casually. "At least, there were. I've got papers, reports, rumors. But I'm not handing them over—not again. I value my life."

Erolyn didn't care. The moment Surin mentioned the existence of another way back, another portal, hope ignited in his chest. Not for another Canariae.

For her.

He'd find one.

He'd get her through it.

And he'd go with her.

He'd destroy it behind them, and Malec would never touch her again.

Surin saw the gears turning, the plan forming, and his voice turned grim. "Don't be a fool. Poke the bear, and you won't get away clean. Grieving Malec is one thing. Stealing from him?" He shook his head. "You'll be dead before you finish the plan. He's not called the Silver Fox because of the color of his hair."

Erolyn stared ahead, calculating, weighing the risk—but his heart had already decided.

"Where's the portal?" he asked, voice low.

"I'm not sure it still exists," Surin admitted. "But the records are in my chamber. In the palace. Accessible to most officials."

Before Surin could say another word, Erolyn kicked his horse, galloping off at full speed, the wind tearing at his coat.

Surin sat there, sighing. "No one says thank you anymore."

____________________________________________________________________________

Surian walked through the townhouse with a quiet purpose, her silk robe trailing over polished floors as she peered into rooms, searching. She had a mission—shopping—and needed Malec's blessing before dragging his precious Canariae through the Capitol.

She hadn't had many friends, let alone female friends. Allora wasn't her first, but she was different—cherished in a way Surian hadn't expected. There was something about Allora's fire, her confidence, that was magnetic.

Surian admired it. Envied it, even.

She finally had someone to laugh with, someone to talk to about her insane family, and no one understood her better than the woman held hostage by her possessive, domineering brother.

Surian had lived that life—grew up with it. Her mother had been Malec's twin, in both looks and personality, a cold, brilliant tyrant. Growing up under two of them—two calculating beasts—had been enough to break anyone.

But now she had Allora.

A smile touched Surian's lips as she climbed the hall.

At the stairs, she caught sight of Malec, sauntering down lazily, a strange smile curling his lips. Or maybe it was only strange because it was on his face.

"Where is Allora?" she asked, eyeing him curiously.

Malec looked up with an air unfamiliar to her—light, unguarded, almost content.

"She's getting dressed," Malec said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I offered to help her… but she refused." He sighed theatrically, voice amused. "Still angry with me. But…" His eyes gleamed. "I'm tearing down her walls. Slowly."

Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Surian. "Why are you looking for her?"

There it was—the change. From casual brother to interrogator, his voice slipping into that low, calculating tone that always pressed for answers.

Surian raised a brow, unimpressed, and folded her arms. "You sound like you're interrogating me. In my own house."

Surian walked past him, her expression unbothered, mounting the steps with grace. "I'm helping her dress. Some of the clothes I gave her need to be tailored. I'm taller and thinner, after all. She's got a much bountiful figure."

Malec smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief. "You could use more girth in your figure. I find women with much more weight to be widely regarded as alluring"

Surian didn't flinch—just turned slightly, smirk matching his in wickedness. "Good for you," she purred. "But unlike some, I don't have to trap my lovers in cages to feel desired."

His smirk shattered.

Her eyes gleamed victorious, and with a graceful pivot, she swept up the stairs like a queen on her throne, leaving Malec frozen, expression darkening.

He stared after her, jaw tight, then grumbled under his breath, stalking back to the parlor like a wounded lion.

Surian didn't look back. She knew she'd struck gold, and in this family, winning against Malec was rare—and satisfying as hell.

Allora stood in the center of the opulent guest chamber, trapped, quite literally, in a tangle of silk, clasps, and brocade. Her head had gone through the wrong opening, her arms pinned awkwardly, and her hair—a glorious, wild mess of curls—spilled from every gap like a creature trying to escape.

She looked like a trapped rat in a velvet bag.

A knock sounded at the door, and Surian swept in gracefully, only to freeze mid-step, her eyes widening.

Then—she burst out laughing.

Not a soft chuckle. No.

Unrestrained, unapologetic laughter as she leaned against the doorframe, holding her stomach.

"Oh—gods—Allora—what are you—what are you doing? You look like a stuffed scarecrow!"

Allora's face was wrinkled in fury, eyebrows furrowed, the very picture of dignity destroyed.

In a murderously low whisper, she growled, "Help me… or I'm going to rip this thing to shreds with my bare hands."

Still giggling, Surian composed herself and walked over, lifting the garment delicately off Allora's head, unraveling her from the fabric like a trapped animal.

With a huff, Allora glared at the golden yellow monstrosity. "Awyan clothing is too damn complicated."

Surian nodded, still smirking. "It is." She paused, then asked, "Would you like your own clothes?"

Still trying to figure out which fasteners went where, Allora muttered, "I'm fine with hand-me-downs. I'm not picky."

Surian stopped. Her humor faded, replaced by something serious. Her eyes leveled on Allora's. "You need to understand something. Malec is staying in the Capitol."

Allora's heart… lifted.

Good. That meant she could stay too. Where he went, she went—he didn't go anywhere without her, not unless he was dragged by the gods themselves.

And she wasn't ready to leave the Capitol. Not yet.

Not with the freedom of space, the vibrancy of the city, and the brief taste of autonomy she could cling to, however small it was.

Surian continued, "That means you'll be attending events, dinners, gatherings—with him." Her voice was sharp, like silk-wrapped steel. "You need to reflect his status. You can't embarrass him in dresses pulled from the servants' quarters."

Allora let out an exasperated groan, loud and long, dragging both hands down her face. "Does everything have to orbit around Malec?"

Surian didn't blink. "Yes. Always." Her voice was cold, matter-of-fact. "Because Canariae are nothing here. You have no rights. You have no standing. You're an object—his object. Your existence revolves around him."

The truth of it hit hard, bitter and unrelenting.

Allora knew. She'd always known.

But hearing it said so plainly made the gown around her feel tighter, more like chains than fabric.

Finally properly dressed, the layered golden-yellow gown clung to her hips, the tight cuffs around her wrists snug, the high collar feeling like a noose. Beneath it all, a deep blue underskirt shimmered like twilight.

It was gorgeous. Elegant.

Surian had excellent taste.

And still, Allora turned to her with a deadpan look. "Can I just get some pants and boots?"

Surian snorted, scandalized. "Not unless Malec wants you to. And he doesn't. He likes you in feminine riches."

Allora stared at her reflection, the ornate gown shimmering, her curves accentuated, her wild curls tamed into braids. She looked like a pet at a parade—dressed not for herself, but to please a master.

"Ugh," she muttered. "This is like when rich people back home dressed their dogs in sweaters."

She stared at herself again, brow furrowed.

Yeah. She was the sweatered dog.

____________________________________________________________________________

The polished black carriage moved gracefully through the cobbled Capitol streets, sunlight glinting off its ornate golden trim. Inside, Surian sat proudly, her arm looped tightly through Allora's, as though they'd been friends not for weeks, but decades.

She couldn't stop smiling.

A real female friend. A brilliant, fire-hearted woman who challenged her, listened to her rants, and soon… would be her sister-in-law. Maybe not by law—yet—but it was written in every look Malec gave her.

Surian looked at Allora fondly. But her smile faltered just slightly.

Allora looked… annoyed. A soft crease between her brows. A tightness to her lips. Subtle, but unmistakable.

Surian leaned in. "What's wrong?"

Allora didn't speak. She just lifted one elegant hand and pointed through the velvet-lined carriage window.

Trailing behind them on his towering dapple gray, sat the unmistakable figure of the Silver Fox—his pale braid glinting like white gold, his uniform immaculate, his tan eyes fixed ahead with unflinching focus.

Like a shadow that breathed.

Allora sighed. "Why does he have to come? Doesn't he have a whole continent to command or something?"

Surian chuckled, not even trying to hide her amusement. "He's been without you for an entire week. You think he's going to just let you walk through the Capitol unguarded?" She nudged her. "This is your first outing since your very public capture. He's not going to blink, let alone leave your side."

Allora slumped slightly, dramatic. "Oh my God."

Surian tightened her arm around Allora's, pulling her closer. "Just be patient. He's… complicated. And utterly obsessed with you. Let him guard you. It gives him purpose."

Allora didn't answer. She just looked down at her lap, at the simple white dress with its high collar and subtle golden embroidery. Elegant, but unpretentious. The blue cloak wrapped around her shoulders—the same one Malec had given her during the Festival of Fall, when she was still a secret, still hidden.

It had meant something then.

Now?

She tugged at the fabric. "Everyone already knows who I am. What's the point of this?"

Surian looked out the window as they passed rows of lavish shops, cafes, and nobles on their own errands. "Oh, they know," she said softly. "And many would sell their souls just to glimpse you—the Canariae who caught the Commander's heart."

Allora rolled her eyes, pulling the hood down slightly as a group of passersby turned toward the carriage. "Lucky me."

Surian smiled, resting her cheek gently against Allora's shoulder. "They don't know you like I do."

She felt Allora's arm soften, just slightly, against hers. And outside, the Silver Fox watched, unwavering, like the sun circled her instead of the other way around.

The carriage rolled to a smooth stop in front of a lavishly adorned tailor, its windows draped in deep green velvet, the gold-lettered sign above the door glowing in the afternoon sun. This wasn't just a tailor—it was the tailor. The kind of place where a single gown could pay off a village's yearly taxes.

Allora looked at the polished glass storefront, her reflection faint, but the stares she imagined from inside felt very real. Her stomach gave a tight, anxious twist, and she let out a slow, measured breath, willing herself not to bolt back into the shadows of the carriage.

Surian, still looped around her arm like they were sisters from birth, gave her a comforting tug.

"Everything's going to be fine," she whispered gently. "Just stay close, keep the hood up. No one will dare touch you." Her voice dipped lower, teasing. "Not with your oversized stalker lurking around."

Allora smirked faintly but didn't respond. It wasn't fear of harm that gripped her—it was the feeling of being paraded, gawked at, like some rare beast on display. An exotic animal in a jeweled collar.

She was just lifting her hand to open the door herself when it suddenly swung wide from the outside, stopping her mid-motion.

Malec stood there, framed by sunlight, the street behind him bustling, but his gaze fixed solely on her. He looked like a carved statue of a general from some ancient myth—still, regal, infuriatingly perfect—his long silver-white coat catching the breeze just enough to look effortless.

He said nothing at first. Just extended a gloved hand, palm up, eyes expectant, warm... but commanding.

Allora blinked at him, the sudden presence making her stomach twist tighter. She didn't want to take his hand. She didn't want the entire Capitol thinking he was her gallant protector. But god, she couldn't stay in the carriage forever.

With a long, quiet sigh, she took his hand.

And just like that, his other arm slipped around her waist with practiced ease—possessive, practiced, inevitable. He lifted her gracefully from the carriage, his touch gentle but firm, lowering her to the street like she was spun of glass and starlight.

As her feet touched the cobblestone, Malec leaned in slightly, smiling down at her. "Are you ready," he murmured, "to see the Capitol the way it should be seen?"

From inside the carriage, Surian snorted. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'll just climb out like the lowly handmaid I apparently am."

Allora turned instantly, extending her hand to Surian with dramatic flair. "My lady," she declared, as though reciting from a play.

Surian burst into laughter, placing her hand in Allora's and stepping down with exaggerated grace.

Both women giggled as they linked arms again, ignoring Malec's simmering jealousy, his eyes narrowing as he realized he had competition—and it came in the form of his own sister.

Still, ever the strategist, Malec slid an arm around Allora's waist again and offered his other arm to Surian, forcing himself into the center of their moment like a wedge of silk and willpower.

Surian accepted the gesture, but with an eye-roll so elegant it could've been framed in a museum.

And together, the three stepped into the tailor shop—where silks, stares, and unspoken power plays waited inside.

____________________________________________________________________________

As the ornate glass doors of the tailor shop opened, Allora stepped inside and felt her breath catch in her throat.

It was like stepping into a dream.

A fountain trickled softly in the center of the grand foyer, surrounded by lush green ferns and delicate vining flowers that bloomed impossibly bright. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh water. There was a tree—an actual tree—planted in the center of the room, its silvery leaves rustling gently beneath the sunlight streaming through a domed skylight. Tiny birds chirped from their nests in its branches, flitting about with such peace that for a moment, Allora forgot where she was.

Her mouth fell slightly open.

The entire back wall of the building opened up to a private courtyard, where golden light danced off pale stone, and silk-curtained pavilions offered shade and luxury in equal measure.

It was pure fantasy.

Malec watched her reaction with unmasked satisfaction. The wonder on her face made something in his chest unfurl—this was what he wanted. That spark in her eyes. That unfiltered awe. He slowed his pace, letting her drink it in. His gaze softened as he watched her spin slowly, drinking in the color, the life, the beauty. She looked up at the birds with those big, dark, doe-like eyes, and gods help him, he nearly leaned in and kissed her.

But he stopped himself.

Not yet.

Not when she was finally starting to breathe again.

Surian unhooked her arm from Malec's and swept up to Allora's side, ready to lead her toward the dressing areas. But Malec's hand remained firmly on Allora's waist.

Surian looked up at him, exasperated. "You can't go into the ladies' dressing room, Malec."

He didn't even blink. "I'm Malec. I go where I please."

The siblings stared at one another, tension thick as velvet.

Allora stood between them, arms limp, eyes blank, thinking: God, I wish I had a gun.

Just as it looked like a sibling brawl was about to erupt, a tall woman in flowing plum robes approached—the Madam of the House, regal and well-practiced in managing the powerful and petulant.

"Lady Surian," she said warmly, "it's been too long. We haven't seen you in—what?—two seasons? And Commander Malec," she added, nodding respectfully. Her eyes drifted to Allora. "And this must be…?"

Before she could finish, Malec spoke, his voice calm, but low and full of edge.

"She is my Canariae. And yes. The Canariae you've heard about." His tan eyes flicked up, sharp. "If anyone in this establishment mistreats her, I'll burn it to the ground. Personally."

The Madam blinked.

Surian jumped in with an awkward laugh. "He's joking. Mostly. Please don't mind him. He's just…" She waved vaguely. "Like that."

The Madam gave a tight smile and turned back to Surian. "We already have your measurements, my lady. No need for you to come in person."

Surian cleared her throat, almost nervously, then gestured to Allora. "We're not shopping for me. We're shopping for her."

There was a pause.

Not long. But long enough.

Malec's gaze turned predatory, locked on the Madam as he studied her face for any trace of condescension, of judgment. He was ready—begging—for an excuse.

But the Madam, ever the professional, smiled sweetly. "Wonderful. This way, my lady." She addressed Allora with the same tone she would a duchess, not a slave. Smart woman.

She gestured toward the women's side of the shop and began walking. Surian took Allora's hand gently, pulling her toward the dressing rooms.

As they walked away, both women called over their shoulders:

"You wait in the courtyard."

"Stay." Surian added pointedly.

Malec huffed, wounded but compliant, and turned toward the open courtyard. A maid immediately bustled over to offer him wine and fruit, her hands trembling slightly.

He waved her off and sat down, one leg crossed over the other, brooding as he stared at the space where Allora had vanished.

He missed her already.

He always did when she was just out of reach.