Book 2: What Have You Done To Me

Surian's parlor echoed with laughter—real, loud, and unfiltered.

Fruit wine glistened in crystal glasses, half-eaten platters of cheeses and candied nuts littered the low table between them. Cushions had long since been pulled closer, shoes kicked off, formality discarded like a bad habit. It was the kind of evening no one had expected… but no one wanted to end.

Allora had them all in stitches—gesturing wildly, recounting some Earth disaster involving a bicycle, three chickens, and a funeral procession. Even the most stone-faced of Surian's staff couldn't help but smirk when they passed the doorway, catching snippets of ridiculous human nonsense.

Lady Teyel had tears streaming down her cheeks, fanning herself as she gasped for air. Lady Maren clutched her stomach as she nearly slid off the edge of the couch. Even Surian—always so polished, always composed—was laughing freely, her posture relaxed, a pink flush blooming across her cheeks.

It was the first time the three Awyan women had tasted what it meant to enjoy something purely for themselves. No schemes. No deals. No one watching.

Just four women—three Awyan and one dangerously charismatic Canariae—getting drunk and letting go.

And then… the door opened.

Malec stepped in first.

He froze.

Luko came in behind him—and promptly mirrored the same expression of awe.

The scene was not what they'd expected.

Not even close.

Malec had just finished a tense conversation with General Giuere about his daughter's behavior, bracing for more damage control. Instead, he walked in to find the opposite.

Lady Teyel—the daughter—was giggling, barefoot and drunk, sitting side by side with Lady Maren and Surian as Allora pantomimed something outrageous with a breadstick and a napkin.

The same women who had once spat at Allora like she was filth now looked at her like she was the sun and they were flowers.

Malec's chest tightened. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Allora turned—and saw Luko.

Her eyes lit up.

"Lukooo!" she yelled, far too loud for indoors.

She stumbled up from the cushions like a baby deer on slick ice, wineglass in hand. Luko, startled and grinning, opened his arms instinctively.

But then he saw the warning flash in Malec's eyes.

That glare.

Mine.

As Allora launched herself forward, Luko gently caught her and turned her momentum—gracefully, naturally—right into Malec's waiting arms.

She landed against the commander's chest with a sleepy huff.

"There you are," she mumbled, not yet registering who was holding her. "What the hell are you doing here? You smell like war and secrets."

Malec smiled, full of something private and uncontainable. "You're drunk," he whispered into her hair.

"Maybe. Maybe not." She poked at his chest. "Don't change the subject."

He cradled her like she might float away if he didn't. For a moment, he just held her. No one else in the room existed.

The other women, flushed and slightly tipsy, quickly rose and curtsied.

"Commander," Lady Teyel said sweetly, wobbling just a bit. "Pleasure to see you."

Lady Maren followed, "Luko. Always good to see you."

Malec didn't even look at them.

His world was in his arms.

Luko, still a little thrown, gave the women a nod and then turned to Surian. "I thought I'd find you all scheming. Not… drinking and laughing like Canariaes."

Surian stood, gracefully accepting his hug. "Allora's influence is proving infectious."

He chuckled. "That's one way to describe her."

Surian guided him back to the couch while Malec gently lowered himself into a chair, Allora half-asleep on his chest, her fingers curled into his tunic like she couldn't bear the thought of being put down.

And for the first time in what felt like ages…

There was peace.

But Malec knew better.

Peace, with Allora, was never the end.

It was only the breath between storms.

As the shadows outside lengthened and the lanterns flickered to life within the townhouse, Lady Maren and Lady Teyel rose, brushing down their gowns with tipsy elegance.

"Thank you, truly," Lady Maren said, smiling at Surian. "That was the most fun I've had in years."

Surian stood with them, her poise returning, but her smile remained warm. "Anything that happens in this house doesn't leave its walls."

Lady Maren exhaled in relief. "You have no idea how grateful I am for your hospitality—and your discretion."

Then she turned toward Malec, her expression shifting slightly. Hesitant. Genuine.

"I hope there will be no ill will between us, Commander."

Malec, seated in the armchair, looked down at the weight in his arms. Allora's lashes fluttered against her cheek, lips parted in sleep, her fingers still tangled in the fabric of his tunic like a tether.

"If she is happy," he said quietly, "then I am happy."

That was all he gave them. But it was enough.

Lady Teyel stepped forward, her voice softer. "I thought the rumors were exaggerated. The obsession. The devotion. But now I see... you really do care for her."

Her gaze lingered on the way Malec held Allora—not possessive, but reverent. Protective.

"I'll make sure others know," she added. "That it's real."

Malec offered a slight nod. The weight of that kind of truth, whispered in the right ears, could shift entire courtrooms.

Surian escorted the ladies out to summon a carriage, leaving the parlor quiet but still warm with lingering laughter.

Luko remained behind, now comfortably sprawled on one of the cushions, picking at the leftovers with a pleased hum.

"Gods," he muttered with a mouthful of candied nuts. "I forgot what real food tastes like."

Malec didn't respond at first. He was too focused on the sleeping woman in his arms, one hand slowly tracing small, invisible patterns along her back.

Luko looked over, grinning. "You know, you look like a father right now."

Malec's head turned sharply, giving him a look that was almost offended.

"That's never going to happen."

Luko raised an eyebrow. "You don't want kids?"

Malec went quiet, gaze drifting back to Allora.

"I never considered it before," he said finally. "Children are… blessings. But not a luxury I ever needed. And with Allora..." He hesitated. "It's not possible."

Luko sobered. "Ah. Yeah. Right."

There was a long pause. Malec held her a little closer, as if she might slip away even in sleep.

"There's never been a case of offspring between Awyan and Canariae," Malec continued, voice low. "Our bloodlines aren't compatible. Nature doesn't want it."

"Good," Luko said with a grin. "The world doesn't need its two biggest firecrackers making more explosives."

That pulled a laugh from Malec—short, surprised, genuine.

But even as he laughed, the thought lingered in his mind. Unwelcome. Ache-heavy.

What would it have been like?

To see her glowing with life, carrying something of both of them. A child with her fire and his mind. Someone to carry on the Jaxxon bloodline—no, the Malec bloodline. A child would raise his family's standing. A commodity in a dwindling race.

But more than that, he would have loved watching her become a mother. Fierce, protective, brilliant. She'd raise a warrior. Or a world-breaker.

And if it were possible... she might even stay.

He looked at her then, really looked, and whispered in a voice only he could hear:

"If there was ever a way… it would be you."

___________________________________________________________________________

Surian returned minutes later, smoothing down her skirt as she entered the parlor, just in time to see Malec still cradling Allora like a sleeping ember. She shook her head with a sigh, brushing past a servant who was lighting the evening sconces.

It was dinner time. The scent of roasted herbs and fire-grilled vegetables drifted from the kitchens, and servants had begun setting the long table in the adjoining hall.

She moved to sit beside Luko, who was still nibbling from the remains of the snack platters, his contentment obvious in the way his eyes half-lidded with every bite.

Surian looked toward the chair where Allora lay—dead to the world in the arms of her nemesis. A complicated ache crept into Surian's chest.

If only they could get along. Truly get along.

She imagined it sometimes—what it might be like to have a proper family unit. A functioning one. Not this battlefield of stolen glances and veiled obsession. But Malec made that vision difficult. Always controlling. Always on the edge of collapse.

She turned to Luko, her voice light but edged with sarcasm. "Dinner's starting. Will you be joining us, or are you just going to eat scraps like a palace rat?"

Luko chuckled through a mouthful of dried fruits. "I'm starving. Lead the way."

Before Surian could rise, Malec spoke without looking at her.

"Make a room for Luko."

Surian turned her head slowly. "Excuse me?"

Malec, still cradling Allora, remained perfectly composed. "He's staying here. He's been traveling. And I need him close—to monitor her."

Surian narrowed her eyes. "This is my house, Malec."

"I'm aware," he said gently. "But Luko is here for Allora's care. And you know as well as I do, she'll accept him more than anyone else."

Surian's mouth tightened, but she couldn't argue that point. Her posture shifted slightly, and with a quiet sigh, she relented.

"Fine. I'll have one of the guest rooms prepared."

But just as she turned to leave, she paused, glanced over her shoulder, and added, "By the way—Lady Teyel invited Allora and me to her estate for an early luncheon tomorrow."

Malec's head snapped up. "No."

Surian blinked. "Explain your reasoning."

Allora stirred, bleary and disoriented in his arms. "Wha's goin' on…" she mumbled.

"We're going to lunch, that's what," Surian said gently.

Malec's voice was sharper now. "She's not going."

Allora groaned and wriggled. "I wanna go. I need allies. Can't be locked up forever."

Malec exhaled through his nose, holding her a bit more firmly. "You're not ready. You're still behaving like a wild bird set loose in a throne room. There are rules out there. Etiquette. I overlook much, Allora, but even I have limits."

He looked at the others in the room, his voice tighter than before. "My name can only protect her so far. If she causes a scandal—"

Allora pushed hard against his chest, face flushed and drunkenly defiant. "Let me go, Malec!"

He held her still. "Where do you think you're going?"

She slurred out, "To throw up!"

Malec sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching in frustration—and maybe a little amusement. Without another word, he stood up, still carrying her as she weakly kicked one leg.

"I'll take her to her room," he said over his shoulder, already halfway to the stairs.

Luko and Surian watched them go, Allora's muttered protests fading up the staircase, her fingers gripping Malec's collar like it was the only anchor she had left.

Surian glanced at Luko, brow raised. "Do you think he's right? About her not being ready?"

Luko thought for a moment. Then shrugged.

"She's already charmed half the Capitol," he said. "Honestly… I think the nobles should be afraid of her."

Malec glided up the steps, holding her like something breakable and dangerous all at once. Allora's head lolled back slightly, and her hair spilled over his arm like dark silk.

"You're so uptight," she mumbled, eyes barely open. "Like... steel rod in the spine uptight. You always been like this?"

He exhaled through his nose. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because someone has to be."

She laughed, soft and drunk and cruel in its sweetness. "You talk like an old man."

He adjusted his grip on her as they reached the top of the stairs. "I am."

"Not old. Just boring."

He didn't answer that. Instead, he kept walking—because if he looked at her, if he let his thoughts wander to the shape of her lips when she teased him like that, he might forget himself.

She kept mumbling questions, half-coherent—"Why can't I go?" and "Why do you care what they think?"—and Malec answered every single one. Soft, patient, knowing full well she wouldn't remember any of it. She'd wake up tomorrow with a headache and a vague memory of warmth and resistance.

She probably wouldn't even remember the invitation existed.

But then she thrashed—suddenly, sharply. He nearly lost his grip.

"This is why you're not allowed," he snapped, shaking her gently, more out of panic than anger. "Because you don't listen. You don't stop. You don't think about what happens after."

She huffed and turned her face away, like a sulking child, and he sighed, setting her down carefully at the edge of her bed.

"Stay there," he muttered, voice lower now. He turned toward the wash basin, pouring water into a glass with practiced grace.

He was halfway back when he froze.

Her dress had fallen off her shoulders. She was pulling it down, sluggish and unbothered, the fabric pooling at her waist. Her skin was moonlight, the curve of her back catching the soft glow from the lantern. And then—

Her breasts. Bared. Bold. Beautiful.

His mouth went dry.

That damn vixen.

His breath caught for half a second—no more. Then he averted his eyes sharply, clenching his jaw as he forced his gaze to the floor.

"Allora," he said, voice now hoarse with restraint. "Stop."

She blinked at him slowly, swaying where she stood. "Too hot…"

"You're drunk."

"So?" she replied, voice thick with sleep and rebellion.

He turned fully, placing the water on the nightstand, then stood between her and the bed without meeting her eyes.

"You're not thinking clearly," he said. "And I won't take advantage of that."

Even as the fire inside him burned like a forge, he kept still—controlled. Because wanting her wasn't the same as deserving her.

And right now, she didn't even know who she was looking at.

Allora let out a low, throaty chuckle—a sound that slithered up Malec's spine like molten silk, burning through every ounce of restraint he had left.

"I've been drunk before, Malec," she murmured, voice thick with heat and challenge. "I've had sex drunk. I'm not some fragile, chaste girl. I'm a full-grown woman. Stop treating me like I'm juvenile."

Her words cut straight through his armor.

He turned, slowly—controlled on the surface, but underneath, he was fracturing. She stood there, swaying slightly, but her gaze was clear. Calculated. Daring.

She was testing him.

He couldn't speak. Not yet. His voice would betray the war happening inside his chest.

And then, with maddening slowness, she reached for the clasp of her dress. The soft rustle of fabric falling to the floor echoed like thunder in his ears.

She stood in nothing but a thin white skirt, her chest bare—her body glowing in the low firelight, the sheer fabric between her thighs offering no mystery, only torment. The soft triangle of darkness visible beneath it made his entire body clench with hunger.

She knew what she was doing.

She was weaponizing herself. And he was helpless against it.

"Allora…" he managed, hoarsely, like her name alone might anchor him.

She tilted her head, smiling like a queen who already knew the outcome of the battle. "Let's make a deal."

It destroyed him—that she could reduce his will to ash with one sentence.

He hated it.

He loved it.

He needed it.

"What kind of deal?" he asked, voice raw now, almost desperate.

"I give myself to you tonight," she said, stepping closer, her eyes fixed on his like a dare. "And in return… you let me go to the luncheon. No interference. No orders."

He stared at her.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His hands trembled.

She was playing him like a stringed instrument, plucking his desire, his control, his obsession—and watching him unravel note by note.

He stepped forward, slowly, like a man at the gallows. His hand slid up the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair as he tilted her chin up—forcing her to look him in the eye.

"You will behave," he growled, barely holding back the storm in his voice. "You won't cause a scene. No matter what they say. No matter how they look at you—you let Surian handle it. Not you."

Allora's smile widened. Slow. Vicious. Victorious.

"Deal."

His blood turned to fire. That word—that damn word—shattered what was left of his restraint.

He crushed his mouth to hers, devouring her like a man starved for years. His hand slid over her breast, claiming, hungry, desperate. His other hand gripped her waist and pulled her flush against him, groaning into her mouth as her heat soaked into him like a drug.

She gasped, triumphant, wrapping her arms around his neck, feeling the full, hard evidence of his need pressing into her belly.

She had him.

Completely.

He didn't care anymore.

She could burn him alive and he would thank her for it.

Because for the first time in a life spent wrapped in control and blood and war… he finally felt something that wasn't hatred or rage or duty.

He felt hers.

And he would let her tear him apart piece by piece if it meant one more second of being inside her fire.

She pressed against him, chest bare, eyes sharp, body humming with the heat of victory. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic and pulled—tugging him closer, daring him to fall.

And he did.

Their lips met in a clash of fire and breath, her mouth claiming him, demanding, fierce. He responded in kind—hands sliding down her waist, gripping her hips like a man drowning in the middle of a storm. Her skin was molten under his touch, soft and powerful all at once.

Her skirt brushed against his thighs as she pushed him back toward the bed, her hands already tugging at the fastenings of his coat. He let her, helpless under the onslaught of her hunger and his own unraveling desire.

And as her lips traced the line of his throat, as she pushed him down and climbed over him like a conqueror, Malec's mind spiraled:

**Oh my God…

What have you done to me?**

She was supposed to be a weapon. A cure. A possession. A solution to the crumbling world he was sworn to preserve. He was supposed to control her. Break her. Keep her caged in silk and silence.

But instead, she had unmade him.

Every time I look at you, something shakes inside me.

You make me forget who I am. What I've built. What I've buried.

I forget the war. The weight. The thousand bodies that brought me here.

She straddled his lap now, dragging her nails down his chest as she ripped open his tunic, exposing the bare skin beneath. Her mouth followed the trail, and he gasped—actually gasped—as she kissed him there, right over his heart.

You look at me like you see through me. Not the Silver Fox. Not the commander. Just… Malec.

And I hate it.

And I crave it.

Her hands roamed lower. His breath caught. She was in control now—and she knew it. Every slow movement, every press of her mouth, was calculated to unmake him.

Your skin is fire against mine. Your breath—sweet, warm, wild—fills my lungs like oxygen I didn't know I needed. Your hands… gods, your hands. They're soft and strong and not trembling at all.

You touch me like I'm yours. Like I've always been yours.

And maybe he had been.

She rocked against him, her skirt riding up, nothing between them now but barely-there layers and the fever of want.

He gripped her hips, lifted her slightly, and she sank onto him slowly, steadily, never looking away from his face—never letting him breathe without feeling her.

His head dropped back with a groan, mouth open in disbelief at the way she swallowed him whole.

Because right now, with you pressed against me, mouth fierce, skin glowing, soul blazing—

I don't care about rules.

I don't care about dignity.

I don't care about this house, this war, this title, this world.

I would burn all of it.

Every palace. Every oath. Every god.

If you asked me to.

She moved over him with slow, devastating rhythm, and he matched her pace, trying to draw it out, trying to memorize the feel of her, the weight, the sound of her breath as it hitched and broke and rose again.

You said you'd give yourself to me tonight. But I think it's me who's being offered. Surrendered. Sacrificed.

And I'm not even fighting it.

She leaned down and whispered something he couldn't even register through the haze—but her breath on his ear made him shudder.

I want you to own me.

To sink your teeth into me and leave marks no one can erase.

He kissed her neck. Her collarbone. Her mouth. He couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop.

I want to lose myself in you until I can't remember where I end and you begin.

She moved harder now, dragging moans from his throat he'd never let anyone hear before. His hands were everywhere, her skin branded into his memory. She tilted his head up, forcing him to see her, and he saw everything.

Power. Fire. Fury. Devotion.

His ruin.

Because you, Allora… you're the only thing that's ever made me feel alive.

And gods help me…

I hope you never let me go.

She moved over him like a storm—slow at first, then more insistent, more demanding, her rhythm dragging him deeper and deeper into her gravity. Every gasp, every moan from her lips was a brand seared into his soul.

And he couldn't breathe.

He couldn't think.

Only feel.

Her moans—gods, her moans—each one made him harder, more desperate. Every time she cried out above him, he felt himself fracturing further, the tight leash of command snapping thread by thread. He gripped her hips as though she were the only real thing in a crumbling world, his head falling back, jaw slack, his entire body shuddering beneath hers.

"Allora…" he choked out, her name nothing more than a prayer now, broken and reverent.

She was relentless. Beautiful. Cruel.

Every roll of her hips was deliberate. She watched his face, studied his unraveling, and controlled it. Her hands dragged across his chest, fingers trailing over old scars like she owned them. She leaned down again, her breasts brushing his skin, lips brushing his ear.

"I could break you right now," she whispered, and he believed her.

And he wanted it.

He turned his head, burying his mouth against her throat as she rode him, holding back the desperate sounds rising from his chest. His hands shook where they held her. Not from fear—but from awe. From the terrible beauty of her. From love.

Because that's what it was now.

Not just lust.

Not just obsession.

But love.

Painful. Terrifying. Consuming.

He had never said it aloud. Not even to himself. But he felt it now like fire under his skin. Like a blade at his throat.

She gasped above him, nails digging into his shoulders as her pace stuttered—he felt her clench around him, and the tight control he had clung to shattered completely.

His breath hitched, his body tensed beneath hers, and he clutched her like a man who had lost everything else.

"Allora," he whispered, again and again, like her name alone could save him.

And then, with a final thrust, a final cry muffled into her neck, he broke—completely, utterly. His release ripped through him with violent grace, like something sacred and forbidden. He clung to her as if he might disappear without her.

She held him. Let him fall apart beneath her. Watched the great Commander Malec unravel not on the battlefield—but in her arms.

And she didn't kiss him to comfort him.

She didn't stroke his face or tell him it was okay.

She owned him in silence.

A queen sitting on her throne, victorious.

And as his breathing slowed, his hands still trembling against her back, his chest slick with sweat and worship, he whispered words he could never take back.

"I love you," he said, voice wrecked, raw.

It slipped from his lips before he could stop it.

And in the quiet that followed—he knew.

She had him.

Forever.

The room was quiet now, except for the sound of their breathing—uneven, ragged, and slowly finding rhythm again. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickers of gold across skin and sweat and tangled limbs.

Allora was still on top of him.

Malec's hands had loosened on her hips, but he hadn't let her go. He was looking up at her—eyes glazed with heat, yes, but there was something else there now.

Something more.

And then he said it.

"I love you."

Soft. Wrecked. Bare.

The words hung between them like something too fragile to touch.

Allora didn't speak.

She didn't move.

She just looked down at him, her breath catching, her heart twisting in her chest—though she wasn't sure if it was in pain or fear. The world around them stilled, but inside her mind, everything was loud.

He loved her.

Gods. He loved her.

And here she was—still on top of him, her body still pulsing with satisfaction, her heart still unsure what to make of the power she held in that moment. Because it wasn't just physical anymore. It wasn't just a deal or leverage.

He had given her something real.

And she didn't know what to do with it.

She lowered her gaze. Said nothing.

Malec, completely sated but aching now in another way, reached up and gently cupped her cheek with one hand.

"Allora…" he whispered, thumb brushing her skin. "How do you feel about me?"

She swallowed hard. Her walls rebuilt in seconds, but there was a shadow of hesitation in her eyes. Not cruelty. Not coldness.

Confusion.

Pain.

She slipped off him, settling beside him on the bed, the thin skirt still clinging to her hips. Her body was close. Her voice was distant.

"My feelings?" she said softly. "I'm just a lowly Canariae, remember? My feelings don't matter."

Malec flinched—actually flinched.

The ache in his chest bloomed into something sharp, unbearable. He sat up slowly, reaching for her face again, turning her toward him with more care than he'd ever shown another living thing.

"They matter to me," he said, voice low and real. "You matter."

She looked at him—really looked. Saw the man beneath the command, beneath the power. Saw the boy that might have been, the loneliness that had never left him.

She asked him then—not to be cruel, but because she had to know:

"If I said I loved you… would it change anything?"

He didn't hesitate.

"Yes," he said. "Everything."

She inhaled sharply.

But still… she said nothing.

Because the truth was, a part of her did feel something. But to give it voice, to name it, to let him have that piece of her—it would make her vulnerable.

And she had fought too hard, survived too long, to give herself away easily.

So she sat there, with the commander who had just given her his soul, and stayed silent.

And the silence was louder than any scream.

The silence thickened around them, but it wasn't peace. It was the echo of a truth neither of them wanted to name.

Malec's hand was still on her cheek, but Allora didn't lean into it.

She couldn't.

Because beneath the fire, beneath the desperate way they clung to each other's bodies, the ache of what he'd taken still throbbed at the center of her chest.

Her home.

Her freedom.

Her choice.

And now he wanted her heart too.

Her lips parted, but still, she didn't speak. The words would be too cruel. Too real. And maybe she didn't trust herself not to break when she said them.

Malec watched her, confusion flickering behind his pale tan eyes. His hand dropped slowly from her face as if the cold had finally seeped into his bones.

"Allora," he said softly. "Please… say something."

She stared ahead, not looking at him. Not yet.

Finally, she spoke—low, steady.

"You took everything from me."

He closed his eyes. Just once. A blink that carried the weight of oceans.

"I know."

"No, you don't," she hissed, the fire returning, curling into her voice like smoke. "You think because I gave you my body, that I've forgiven you. That this—" she gestured to the bed, to the tension still cooling between them "—means something."

His chest tightened. "It does."

She looked at him then—finally—and he wished she hadn't. Her eyes were full of rage. And loss.

"You call this love," she whispered, "but what kind of love chains someone to you? What kind of love steals their way home?"

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"You didn't save me, Malec. You caged me. You broke the portal. You took my future. You took my name. And now you want my love too?"

He flinched. This time visibly. Wounded.

But she wasn't done.

"I don't care how gently you touch me, or how soft your voice gets when you say my name. I still want to leave you."

The room was silent again—but it wasn't hollow.

It was haunted.

Malec looked at her as though she had ripped something sacred from his chest.

And maybe she had.

But the truth was, it was never hers to begin with. It was something he forced into her hands and begged her to carry.

"I know my love is twisted," he said finally, voice shaking with something rare and terrifying: humility. "I know it's not healthy. I know I've done things I can't undo. But I still—"

"I know," she cut in. Quieter now. Sadder. "That's the worst part. You know, and you did it anyway."

He looked away.

And for the first time since he'd met her… he didn't have anything left to say.

She stood slowly, picking her dress up from the floor and holding it to her chest, turning her back on him.

And he let her go.

Because he had already taken too much.