Book 2: Allora and The Female Wolves

The doors to the elaborate women's dressing room opened with a hush of silk curtains and warm scented air. Inside, four Awyan women already occupied the space—lounging like jungle cats in velvet chairs, draped in silver-threaded gowns, sipping citrus wine from crystal flutes.

Surian stopped short.

Allora felt the shift in her immediately—the subtle jolt in her wrist, the way her spine straightened and her breath tightened. Surian's flinch was small, but not missed.

Allora clocked it in an instant.

These weren't friends.

They were vipers.

The Madam, graceful and oblivious (or pretending to be), gestured toward the four lounging figures. "Lady Surian, this is Lady Kirelle, Lady Maren, Lady Salla, and Lady Teyel."

She turned to Allora and with an overly sweet, practiced smile, added, "And this is the personal Canariae of Commander Malec."

There was a pause.

Then the Madam continued, her voice just loud enough to carry. "And the Commander is currently waiting in the courtyard, quite within earshot. So I do expect everyone to behave." She smiled. "For the sake of my establishment."

The warning was crystal clear. Silver Fox proximity meant zero tolerance.

The Awyan women murmured acknowledgments, their tones polite—but their eyes… sharp. Cold. Measuring.

As the Madam swept away to fetch a seamstress, an uncomfortable hush fell. Surian stood stiff, her fingers clenched into her gown.

Allora glanced at her.

She saw it now—fear.

These women were wolves, and Surian had been their prey once.

She hated it.

And Allora?

She fucking loved dealing with wolves.

With the most serene expression, Allora stepped slightly forward, pulling her cloak from her shoulders and folding it over her arm like she belonged there. "Hi," she said, bright as midday. "Do any of you have thoughts on color? What shades would be appropriate for a Canariae?"

It was a challenge. Sweetly wrapped in silk.

The Awyan women blinked. Shocked. Not because she spoke—but because she had the audacity to address them.

Surian's hand found hers and squeezed.

Hard.

Allora glanced down. Her friend was trembling ever so slightly.

That sealed it.

These weren't just haughty noblewomen. They were bullies, the Capitol kind—the kind that tore people down with a smile and then blamed them for falling apart.

The one with copper-auburn hair, pale skin like porcelain, and light brown eyes approached slowly. She looked Allora up and down once, then turned her head to address Surian as though Allora weren't even present.

"You should teach the Commander's Canariae some manners," she said, voice smooth as honey but sharp as glass. "If you plan to bring her into elegant establishments. With all due respect."

Surian froze. Her lips parted. But nothing came out.

That was all Allora needed.

She turned her gaze on the woman, her expression now razor-sharp, her voice clear and cold as steel.

"Fuck off."

The gasp from the four Awyan women was like music. It rippled through the room like wind through crystal.

Not just because of the language—but because of the tone.

Even if they didn't know every word, they understood perfectly what had just happened.

Allora smiled sweetly. "Did I say that wrong? Or was that the right dialect?"

The redhead's mouth opened slightly, then closed. She took a step back, startled—not by physical threat, but by the unexpected ferocity of the woman in front of her.

Not a pet.

Not a toy.

A storm in a pretty dress.

Surian blinked, stunned, then let out a choked little laugh as if someone had opened a window and let her breathe for the first time in years.

And in the courtyard, though he couldn't hear the words…

Malec looked up.

And smiled.

——————————————————————

The auburn-haired Karen—still standing where she'd issued her oh-so-polite insult—looked like someone had just slapped her with a silk glove full of horse manure. She blinked. Then blinked again. As if her brain had crashed and was now rebooting mid-glitch.

Allora didn't even glance at her again.

She just grabbed Surian's hand and, like a queen claiming new territory, strode forward to the circle of opulent, embroidered chairs surrounding the refreshment table. Every single one of those velvet seats was identical in wealth and make… and yet, Allora zeroed in on the aubern bitch's chair—you know, the one with the silk cushion slightly more puffed than the others.

She plopped down with a flourish, her legs parting slightly in the most unladylike fashion—not obscene, but deliberate.

Dominant.

Surian, caught in tow like a bewildered bridesmaid at a royal rebellion, stood awkwardly beside her.

The other women stared. Silent. Dumbfounded. One even dropped a sugared date on the floor.

Allora casually reached for a bowl of candied nuts, grabbed a fistful, and shoved them into her mouth like she'd been raised in a barn. She chewed slowly. Loudly. Making full eye contact with the table.

Then, after swallowing with a deliberately theatrical gulp, she arched a brow and asked coolly:

"What?"

Silence.

Even the birds nesting in the tailor shop's tree seemed to pause mid-chirp.

Surian, now seated rigidly beside her, covered her face with a delicate hand and muttered through her fingers, "Oh gods…"

Then she peeked through her fingers at Allora, face a battlefield between horror and admiration. She whispered, "You are feral. You are literally feral."

Allora smirked with her mouth still half-full. "I know," she said, spraying a single nut crumb into the air. "Isn't it fun?"

Surian didn't respond.

But she didn't stop smiling either.

Finally, the copper-headed Karen rebooted.

With stiff shoulders and a tight-lipped smile, she strolled up to where Allora sat gloriously reclined in her chair, still picking nut fragments out of her teeth with a pinky like a bored queen of chaos.

"You need to behave yourself," the woman hissed under her breath, loud enough for everyone to hear but still clinging to politeness like it was perfume. "Malec or no Malec, I will not tolerate this kind of—"

Allora held up a hand, flicking a nut shard off her nail. "Or what?" she asked, lazily. "What exactly are you going to do about it?"

She didn't look at her. Just raised a single, unimpressed brow.

Karen's eye twitched. "Do you know who I am?" she began, her voice rising an octave. "My father is High Strategist Alwen of the Second House of Thil, and my brother—"

"Oh my gawd," Allora groaned. "Yadda yadda yadda." She waved a hand. "Do any of you ever introduce yourselves without reciting your damn family tree?"

The woman flushed.

Allora leaned forward, now smirking. "You want to settle this? Let's do it the traditional way. Like real women. Or, I don't know—females."

The room stilled.

The auburn-haired noblewoman blinked, stunned. "You're joking."

Allora shrugged. "Am I?"

Karen's spine straightened like a snapped rod. "I refuse."

"Of course you do," Allora muttered. "Cowards usually do."

The insult sliced clean, and the Awyan's nostrils flared. But when she couldn't beat Allora directly, she did what all bullies do when cornered—she shifted targets.

With a smug tilt of her head, she turned to Surian.

"Well," she sneered, "I suppose you've always had a soft spot for Canariae. Remember when you were little? Always climbing trees, wrestling the stable boys? Such a tomboy. People used to say you were probably Canariae in another life."

Surian flinched.

It was quiet for a moment too long.

Then—

SPLAT.

A fat, sticky grape-like fruit struck the copper-haired noble square in the cheek, bursting slightly on impact. The room gasped.

The woman reeled, hand flying to her cheek in disbelief. "You—"

Allora was already standing, slow and deliberate, her face now deadly serious.

"You can insult me all you want," she said quietly, voice laced with steel. "Call me names. Mock me. Try your best."

She took a step forward.

"But you do not talk about Surian. Ever. Not in front of me."

The other women sat frozen, staring at the human who just publicly threw food at a highborn noble and was still breathing. No one dared to move.

The auburn woman's hand trembled against her cheek, but she said nothing more. Not with that look in Allora's eyes—the look of someone who had already burned bridges and was willing to burn the whole damn kingdom next.

——————————————————————

Malec sat in the courtyard, one leg crossed over the other, looking every bit the regal commander—but beneath the cool mask, he was restless. Tense. Coiled.

Gods, he wanted to be in that dressing room.

He wanted to see her.

To watch her cause chaos.

To witness her fire firsthand instead of sitting like a caged wolf, listening from a distance.

The sound of birds, water, and hushed noble chatter was doing little to distract him from the woman behind the wall—hiswoman.

"Commander."

Malec tilted his head.

Striding up with a confident grin came Dariose, the too-pretty-for-his-own-good son of a high-ranking merchant family. Dark blonde hair, slicked back perfectly, and clear blue eyes that had probably charmed half the Capitol by now. He sat beside Malec like they were old friends, though they weren't.

"Dariose," Malec greeted coolly, with a single nod.

"What brings the great Silver Fox to a place like this?" Dariose asked brightly, glancing toward the tailor's entrance. "Surely you're not shopping for yourself? Or… perhaps it has something to do with Lady Surian?"

Malec gave him a slow look. "Stop pretending you haven't heard the rumors."

Dariose chuckled sheepishly. "I suppose it would be foolish to think I could keep anything from you."

"Yes," Malec said flatly.

Dariose blushed a little, caught. "I admit, I was curious. About her. The Canariae, I mean. I didn't believe the stories—until I saw you sitting out here like a well-dressed bodyguard."

Malec's eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed calm. "They're all true. Every single one."

There was a pause. Dariose blinked. "Gods… you really are keeping her, then?"

Malec didn't answer. He didn't have to.

Instead, his brow lifted, just slightly. "What are you doing in a female's tailor shop?"

Dariose smirked. "I came to escort my sister, but… well, I thought I'd stay and see if the infamous Canariae made an appearance."

Before Malec could bite back with a warning, a loud shriek echoed from inside the building.

It was followed by the unmistakable sound of furniture clattering. Something crashed. Someone cursed.

Malec was on his feet in a heartbeat—fast, deadly, eyes already glowing with fury.

"Shit," Dariose muttered.

But Malec was already gone.

He strode into the tailor's foyer like a storm, cape sweeping behind him, boots hitting marble like drumbeats. Staff scurried out of the way as he burst through the dressing room doors—

And then he stopped short, blinking.

His jaw tensed. His eye twitched.

There was no blood. No threat. No one crying for help.

Instead—

Allora stood on a chair, one foot on the armrest, hair slightly askew, eyes locked on a trembling noblewoman with a sticky fruit stain still fresh on her cheek. Surian was standing off to the side, hand over her mouth, clearly trying not to laugh—or cry.

One of the dressing screens lay toppled on the floor. A platter of dates and sugared grapes was overturned.

Malec's eye narrowed.

Of course.

Of course she'd started a riot with pastries.

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair.

How was he still surprised by this woman?

And yet… gods help him…

He'd never loved anyone more.

Malec strode through the wreckage of fruit and overturned cushions like a man on a mission, not breaking pace as he moved toward the center of the chaos: his woman—his wild, radiant, uncontainable Canariae.

Allora was still perched on the chair, teeth bared, hissing like a feral cat at the noblewomen who looked like they'd just witnessed the gates of the underworld open in their shopping salon.

Without a word, Malec slid one arm around her waist, the other anchoring her thigh, and lifted her clean off the furniture like she weighed nothing.

Allora gave one last parting snarl toward the other Awyan women, her eyes locked on Lady Kirelle like she might launch a second fruit missile.

Malec turned her to face him, holding her close, chest to chest.

His expression was stern—but his eyes sparkled.

"Behave," he said, voice low, almost laughing. "You're making me look bad."

She didn't answer him. She simply glared over his shoulder, still burning holes into Lady Kirelle with her eyes.

Malec's mouth twitched. She was like a tiny chihuahua that had just mauled a duchess—deadly and adorable all at once.

Then, he turned slowly to face the reddening noblewoman, still holding Allora like a priceless, violent bouquet.

"Lady Kirelle," he said evenly. "Would you mind telling me what exactly you did to upset my Canariae?"

Kirelle stiffened. "I—Commander—I did nothing—I swear, she—"

Her words faltered as she realized no one was backing her up. She turned her head slightly, eyes darting toward her entourage for help.

But her friends—those who hadn't already tried to melt into the walls—stood frozen, looking anywhere but at her. Not one of them would dare cross Malec. Not for her.

Seeing she was utterly alone, she lowered her head in humiliation and murmured, "I apologize…"

Then she ran, her silk dress swishing pitifully behind her as she bolted through the door and disappeared into the hall.

The others bowed their heads, avoiding Malec's gaze like it could ignite them. One woman even curtsied to Allora—to Allora—before turning and rushing after their fallen queen.

Allora barked once at the last woman trailing behind, a sharp, mocking sound.

The poor girl let out a squeak and picked up her skirts, sprinting faster.

Malec looked down at the bundle of attitude still nestled in his arms.

He shook her gently, playfully, like someone scolding a mischievous pet that just tore up the curtains. "Will you everbehave?"

Allora didn't respond. She was too busy staring down the door they'd vanished through, eyes still glittering with unapologetic victory.

Malec exhaled slowly. Then he smiled. Gods help him, he loved her like this.

Meanwhile, in the hallway, Dariose stood stunned. His sister—his snobbish, insufferable sister—had just been emotionally drop-kicked by a Canariae in front of the Commander of the North.

He blinked as she raced past him, nearly in tears.

And then—he grinned.

She'd be humiliated for weeks.

And he'd never let her live it down.

What's more… he finally understood why Malec looked so utterly addicted.

The Madam reappeared in the dressing room doorway, followed by a seamstress carrying armfuls of fabric and measuring scrolls. Her eyes immediately widened in horror as she took in the chaos—overturned chairs, smeared fruit, the faint smell of candied nectar hanging in the air like the aftermath of a sugar-fueled battle.

"My stars," she gasped. "What in the realm happened to my dressing suite?!"

Before anyone else could speak, Dariose, ever the opportunist, stepped smoothly into the center of attention.

"My sister," he said, voice drenched in false sympathy, "was starting arguments again—as always. Commander Malec's Canariae merely… corrected her."

The Madam's gaze snapped to Malec, clearly weighing damage control against political suicide.

But Malec wasn't even looking at her. He was too busy grinning up at his squirming armful of rebellion, as Allora tried to wriggle free of his grasp like a cat who both hated and loved the attention.

"Malec, put me down!" she hissed.

"I rather like you here," he murmured, arms tightening just enough to tease her. "You're warm when you're furious."

Surian stood off to the side, looking around the room like she was trying to disappear into a tapestry.

Dariose made his way over, giving her a once-over that was surprisingly sincere. "Are you alright?" he asked, voice lowered.

Surian blinked at him, touched by the question. "I'm fine. A bit traumatized, but fine."

Meanwhile, Allora eyed Dariose with sharp suspicion. Her gaze flicked over his elegant posture, his knowing smirk, his polished boots. Friend… or foe?

She couldn't tell yet. But anyone who could name-drop and joke in the same breath was dangerous.

The Madam, swallowing her horror, quickly chose diplomacy over dignity. With a stiff smile, she gestured toward the glass double doors on the far side of the courtyard.

"If you'll follow me, Commander. Lady Surian. Miss Allora… we have a private chamber available. Far more secluded."

Her voice was tight. Her eyes flicked nervously to the onlookers gathering near the windows, whispering behind fans and wine goblets.

"Please."

Dariose offered his arm to Surian again, and she took it with only a minor grimace.

Still clutching Allora like a trophy, Malec trailed behind, ignoring every pair of eyes on him. He looked damn near proud, like he was escorting a queen instead of a chaos agent in boots.

Once inside the private chamber—a sunlit room draped in soft rose and gold fabrics, mirrors flanking every wall—Allora finally began wiggling harder, her elbow jabbing lightly into Malec's side.

"Let me down."

With a slow sigh, he obeyed. He set her down gently, as though she might dissolve if he let go too fast.

She didn't look at him. Just brushed herself off and walked briskly to the waiting seamstress.

Malec lowered himself into a nearby settee, one leg draped over the other, eyes never leaving her. Watching the way her dress clung, the sway of her hips, the danger in her silence.

"I want no more interruptions," he said without looking at the Madam. "Keep this room closed. If anyone enters, they answer to me."

The Madam nodded quickly. "Understood, Commander." And with that, she closed the door behind her, locking the world out.

Inside the room, it was suddenly quiet.

Malec. Allora. Surian. Dariose.

And the storm they'd just dragged in with them.

And Malec, still smiling softly to himself, thought:

I should bring her to Capitol more often.

——————————————————————

The rest of the appointment passed with unexpected peace.

After the whirlwind of fruit missiles and social casualties, Dariose had the good sense to apologize—first to Commander Malec, then to Surian, and, perhaps most humbly, to Allora.

He bowed low with a smirk. "I'd like to return tomorrow, if I may, to offer a more formal apology, Lady Surian."

Surian waved it off. "That's not necessary."

But Dariose, still grinning, insisted. "I'll bring flowers. Or alcohol. Maybe both."

A shriek echoed from the hallway—his sister, no doubt still recovering from the Canariae Coup.

With a sigh so dramatic it could've been a stage performance, Dariose turned on his heel. "Alas. The banshee calls." He paused at the door, casting one last look over his shoulder. "Wish I could stay."

Then he was gone.

Malec leaned back in his seat, finally at ease, one leg crossed, finger tapping thoughtfully on his jaw. He'd shifted into commander mode again, instructing the seamstress with a surgeon's precision.

"No pink. No pastels. Deep jewel tones. Velvet if the weather permits, silks for indoor events—something regal, something sharp."

The seamstress jotted notes with frantic reverence.

Surian sat quietly in a nearby chair, her posture upright but her expression… dimmed. She was quiet in the way someone is when the old ghosts have crept in.

Allora caught it immediately.

Still standing near the display fabrics, her measuring tape draped around her shoulders like a battle sash, she tilted her head and asked gently, "What's wrong?"

Surian gave a tight smile. "I ruined your first outing."

Allora frowned. "No, you didn't."

Surian's shoulders lifted with a shrug. "I ran us into them—those awful Awyan women. They always hated me. You could've had a peaceful afternoon."

Allora put her hands on her hips, her voice suddenly bold and full of fire. "Surian. I live for confrontation. If it weren't for that fruit fight, I'd have died of boredom."

Surian's breath caught—a soft, startled laugh escaping her. Her eyes welled just slightly, but she blinked quickly and smiled, relieved. "You really are wild."

"All in a day's work," Allora said, adjusting her braid with theatrical flair.

Malec, overhearing the exchange, leaned back further so he could look at his sister. "You're lucky," he said dryly, "to have a rabid Canariae as a guardian."

Surian burst into laughter, finally relaxed.

Malec smiled, pleased with himself, but before he could turn fully around again—

Whack!

A small object bounced off his cheek, nearly catching him in the eye.

He blinked.

Allora was standing by the button tray, arms crossed, already reaching for a second.

She raised a brow. "Don't conspire behind my back, you beautiful tyrants."

Malec gave her a look. "You threw a button at me."

"You're lucky it wasn't a candlestick."