5

Citrine hummed an off-tune song as he watched Malakhov's men dispose of the body.

"Promession? Damn you mafia know what you're doing," He watches as the body is exposed to liquid nitrogen, in a tub, freezing the body to like glass, and then gets carried off somewhere else maybe to break it into small particles. He turns to Malakhov who is sitting man spread on the couch, watching while smoking a cigar. "Damn, I just added that to my list of how to dispose of a body...I see you're starting to care about the garden."

Malakhov, glanced at him, "I thought I told your glitter ass not to come here."

Citrine smirked, "We made a pact. I'm supposed to heal and bless the land...isn't this gothic mansion part of it, Tsar daddy?"

Malakhov's eyes narrow, "Don't call me that."

"And you don't call me glitter bomb." Citrine throws back.

Malakhov sighed and extinguished his cigar, "Your useless job is to be in a garden because you're like that annoying butterfly that sings to flowers."

Citrine glares at him, "Like yours is any better, you're like that annoying shark that feeds on anything that reeks of blood."

Malakhov smiled a little, a flash of amusement crossing his features, "Can you do anything else with that lemon-fairy magic crap? Or does your only purpose end at making leaves green?"

Citrine huffed and perched on his shoulder, "Darling, if that's the only thing I could do I'd never enter a bears den."

Malakhov arched an eyebrow, realizing that this little thing has more than what meets the eye....he smirked, he found something akin to a companion, and he's going to feed him all the darkness.

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next day~

"Tap tap tap."

The faintest sound on his window and when he didn't look up it opened slightly. A soft breeze stirring.

Malakhov didn't flinch. He didn't ever need to.

Citrine had already landed—right on top of his head.

The fairy sat like he belonged there, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting in the palm of his hand.

"Good morning, Malakhov," Citrine said sweetly, swinging his feet like he was dangling off a balcony, ignoring the tension in the air. "How's the world of criminals treating you today? I hope it's as delightful as your expression."

Malakhov didn't look up. He didn't even blink. His gaze never strayed from the report he got about the missing shipments. But the veins in his temple were starting to twitch from annoyance.

Citrine hummed, a little too cheerfully, tapping a finger against the mafia king's scalp.

"I'm not moving, sweetheart. You should get used to it." The fairy added with a wicked grin, "Besides, you need something light to balance out all that... heaviness you carry."

Malakhov's eyes finally shifted, narrowing just a fraction.

The air thickened.

"I'm not moving." Citrine's voice was a musical whisper, dripping in mock sweetness. "And you're not allowed to touch me."

"Not unless you want me to," Malakhov muttered, not quite a threat, but a promise.

"Sweetheart," Citrine replied airily, "threatening me won't work. You might break your bones trying to grab me, and I'd just get glitter everywhere. It's a disaster for both of us."

Citrine looked at him, but his playful smile never faltered.

"You can't stand me, can you?"

Malakhov didn't respond.

But the faintest, most dangerous glint in his eyes said everything.

"You want to pretend you can scare me?" Citrine whispered, daring, defiant. "I've danced with wildfire and kissed hurricanes."

Malakhov's jaw flexed. He stepped closer, slow. "This is a transaction. You heal my land and help me in this long run of my reign. I don't burn you alive."

"Such romance," Citrine sighed. "Where's your poetry, tsarevich? Your roses? Your gun-shaped chocolates?"

"I don't do flowers."

"I noticed. That's why they're all dying."

Malakhov's hand moved faster than wind—he caught Citrine mid-hover, gripped him by the waist, and yanked him to eye level.

"You forget who I am."

Citrine's smile turned razor-edged. "No. I just don't care."

Voice low, layered in threat. "You're playing with fire."

Citrine leaned in, "Darling, I am fire. Just prettier."

Malakhov releases him and sighs, "Let's go we're going to my estate."