Days passed beneath the quiet, heavy snow of the West. Leira's chateau had become a fortress.
The old estate, once known for its open verandas and fragrant gardens, now bristled with posted guards and half-constructed barricades. Leira had summoned them herself—ordering the estate to be converted into a stronghold worthy of protecting what she now declared the realm's most valuable treasure: her grandson. Her miracle. Her legacy.
And of course, the child's unwilling mother.
Allora hadn't left her room in three days.
There were always eyes on her door. A soldier at all hours. The lock was heavy, new, and when she asked for space, she was told—with polite deference—that it was "for her own good."
Kalemon wasn't allowed inside. Not anymore.
She was permitted to make the girl's meals. To brew her medicines. But she was required to hand them off to the guards, who delivered them under Malec's strict orders.
He didn't trust the woman. She was sharp-eyed and silent, with too much loyalty to Allora and not enough respect for him. He didn't like how the girl's walls softened when the older human entered the room. He saw it—every time. A quiet signal. A dangerous one.
So Kalemon was kept out.
The only ones with full access to the child were Luko and Surian, who had somehow been promoted to full-time baby caretakers. Between the two of them, Vaeril never lacked for lullabies, clean linens, or doting attention. Surian took the role as if she'd been born for it. Luko, as always, simply did what needed doing.
The house, though warm and full of firelight, pulsed with something else now.
Possession.
And Malec—was always watching.
He was in the bath when it happened.
The water steamed gently around his waist, heat loosening muscles that hadn't rested in weeks. His hair floated over the surface like ribbons of white silk. His eyes were closed, jaw slack, not quite at peace—but close.
Then the door creaked.
Leira stepped inside without knocking.
Malec didn't move.
He didn't need to look to know it was her.
"What now?" he asked flatly, without opening his eyes. "Another merchant offering his daughter for a drop of Allora's blood?"
She didn't answer immediately.
He opened one eye.
She held a scroll in both hands. Red seal. Gold threading.
He sighed. "Burn it."
"This isn't a petition," she said. "It's from the Capitol."
His brow twitched.
Still, he didn't move.
"I don't care what my cousin wants. He can find someone else to irritate."
Leira took a step closer, the hem of her indigo robe brushing the stone floor.
"It's not a personal request," she said. "It's imperial."
That got him.
Malec opened both eyes. The steam around him seemed to shudder as the heat in the air shifted.
He sat forward slightly, his voice colder now.
"Who's it addressed to?"
She didn't speak.
Didn't have to.
She extended the scroll.
He took it without haste, the water sloshing gently against the porcelain basin. His fingers broke the seal.
His eyes dropped to the name written in ink.
Lady Allora.
Malec went very still.
The air grew dense. The heat no longer comforted—it threatened.
He set the scroll on the rim of the tub with a care that belied the fire building in his chest.
The next words were not a question.
"Who told him?"
Leira said nothing. But the faintest shrug of her shoulder betrayed her.
"Someone in the guard," she murmured. "They talk. One of the ones present at the birth returned to the Capitol. Word spread. And now…"
Malec leaned back again, the tips of his fingers tapping against the basin edge.
"He dares to summon her?"
Leira swallowed.
"It's a command, not a request."
A silence stretched between them. One that was no longer just heavy—it was lethal.
Malec didn't speak again.
He didn't have to.
The cold promise in his pale tan eyes said it all.
The silence in the room was no longer hot—it had turned razor sharp.
Leira stood near the bath, her arms crossed, robes trailing across the stone floor like smoke. She didn't blink as Malec stood, rising from the steaming water with the calm, deadly grace of a beast long used to showing restraint only until it no longer suited him.
Water rolled down the hard lines of his body, sliding over the thick muscles of his back and chest, his broad shoulders scarred with faint pale slashes from wars fought long before Allora had ever entered his life.
Leira didn't look away.
Neither did he.
"What are you going to do?" she asked finally.
Malec stepped out of the tub, grabbed the dark towel folded over the brass stool, and dried himself slowly. Deliberate. Unbothered by her presence. She was his mother—there was no modesty between wolves.
He threw the towel aside and walked, bare and unhurried, across the room toward where his clothes had been laid out.
The silence was louder now, punctuated only by the faint slosh of the water he'd left behind.
"The Capitol will not touch my grandson," Leira said, her voice firm. "I'll have the guards kill anyone who rides too close."
Malec didn't turn around. He pulled on the black trousers first, smoothing them against his hips with practiced ease.
"You couldn't care less about the boy," he said.
"Of course I do," she replied, unmoved. "He's my blood. My legacy."
"You didn't even want him born."
"That was before I knew what he'd be."
Malec said nothing as he fastened the belt at his waist.
Leira's gaze narrowed slightly. "Although… I'll admit I've grown rather fond of Allora. In her own crude way."
He paused as he reached for his silver tunic.
She added, without shame, "But let's be clear. She's not my concern. My bloodline is. That boy—he matters."
Malec pulled the tunic over his head, the silver fox emblem catching the candlelight like frost on steel. His movements were precise. Unshaken.
"She is everything," he said quietly.
"She can give you more heirs," Leira pressed, her tone pragmatic. "Let her rest, and try again next year."
"You only think of your grandson," Malec said. "My son."
Leira's mouth twitched. "Well, yes. I mean, that would be ideal. But let's not pretend, Malec. You and I both know she's never going to let you near her again. Not willingly."
He pulled on his boots, black and gleaming, then fastened the red sash around his waist.
Then he turned.
And walked past her.
His boots made no sound. His presence filled the entire chamber.
He didn't look at her as he passed.
"You're short-sighted," he said coldly. "And if anyone tries to take her from me again…"
He stopped at the doorway.
"…they won't live to speak of it."
And then he was gone.
Only the echo of his vow remained.
___________________________________________________________________________
Malec stormed down the corridor like a blade drawn in silence.
His boots struck stone without hesitation. The hallways of the chateau bent before him—not in shape, but in weight. In energy. In the way light seemed to tense wherever he passed.
For days, he had kept himself away. A punishment. A test of restraint. Allora hadn't asked for him, hadn't looked for him, and he'd taken that silence as a brand pressed into his chest. She hated him. She loathed the chains. She would never forgive the cage. And yet...
He needed her.
He'd tried to be reasonable.
To give her space. Time. He knew she needed to heal. Knew her hate burned brighter than her will to recover. But every moment away from her had left him closer to unraveling.
He had her back. Physically. But her mind, her spirit, her eyes—those still recoiled from him like he was poison.
And it was killing him.
His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached. His red sash flared with each long stride, and his tunic was perfectly aligned, not a thread out of place—except for the wildness in his eyes.
The air tasted of tension. Dust. Soap. Steel.
It was Luko who found him first.
The healer came sprinting from the north wing, his wiry limbs flailing, his black braid half-loose, mouth already open before he skidded to a halt just shy of Malec's path.
"Malec—"
"I know," Malec growled, not breaking stride. "Surion's summons. A complete waste of vellum. He's testing me. And I warned him what would happen the next time he did."
But Luko didn't move. Didn't fall in behind him.
That alone was enough to make Malec stop.
He turned his head slowly.
Luko stood wringing his hands, shoulders twitching with nerves.
Malec raised a single eyebrow.
"What is it," he said quietly. Not a question. A demand.
Luko shifted his weight, swallowed.
"There's a legion of imperial guards, Malec," he said, voice thin. "In the foyer. They're here to collect Allora. On imperial order. They came with an escort. Sealed, signed. Surion's not waiting."
The corridor dropped into stillness.
No one breathed.
Malec's eyes slowly lifted toward the double doors at the far end of the hall. The color in his irises had gone cold—lightened to a glinting pale fire.
Luko stepped back instinctively.
"You're sure?" Malec asked.
"I saw the seal myself."
Malec's hands twitched at his sides.
Then he exhaled.
Once. Slow. Controlled.
The kind of breath that always came before blood.
"I'll deal with them."
He turned back toward the east wing, his voice now low and calm again, which Luko had learned was far more dangerous than his yelling.
"But first…" Malec continued, steps resuming, tone as steady as death approaching, "I see her."
And with that, he vanished into the corridor—toward the locked chamber where his Canariae waited.
His blood burned.
His heir had been seen.
And now they had come to take her from him again.
Let them try.
____________________________________________________________________________
Allora's room was quiet, warm—too warm.
The fire had been stoked recently, its orange glow flickering across the thick wool rug and tall shadowed walls. The air carried the soft scent of crushed herbs and old paper. A maid sat near the hearth, thumbing through a faded book, its spine cracked and worn from too many reads. She didn't look up at the sound of the footsteps. She didn't need to.
Outside the chamber, the two guards shifted just enough to glance down the hallway.
Malec had arrived.
He paused just short of the threshold, fingers twitching once at his side before smoothing his tunic, fingers brushing imaginary dust from the silver fox sigil across his chest. He took a moment to check the fall of his hair, making sure it lay sharp over his shoulder. His breathing was still a touch uneven—but calmer now that he was near her.
The guards opened the door in silence.
Malec stepped through.
The moment he entered, the air shifted. His presence drew the light inward, made the flicker of the flames slow. The gold threading on his tunic shimmered like molten wire, his silver fox insignia pressed flat and gleaming against his chest. His boots were polished black, his crimson sash knotted with militant precision.
He said nothing as the maid rose.
She bowed once, too quickly, and walked out with the kind of speed reserved for those who had no intention of being caught in a room with a predator and his prey.
The door shut behind her.
Malec let the silence settle.
It soothed him. Just being near her. The familiar pull of her heartbeat echoing faintly in his chest. His nerves had been stripped raw since her return, but this room—her—dulled the edge just enough for him to breathe without grinding his teeth.
Allora lay beneath thick layers of linen and fur, her skin dewy from sleep. A sheen of sweat at her brow. Her mouth parted slightly, her lashes dark crescents on her cheeks. Her curls fanned across the pillows in a mess of defiance that even rest couldn't tame.
He moved toward the bed in silence.
Sat.
Watched her chest rise and fall.
She was still sedated—though not by Kalemon's hand. Malec had trusted the old healer to prepare the food, but the dosing had been done by one of the guards afterward, by his order. He couldn't take chances. Allora had already threatened to dismantle the guards outside her door, and Malec had no doubt she meant it.
He placed a hand against her chest, just over her heart.
Steady. Strong. Reluctantly alive.
His throat tightened.
Why can't they leave us alone?
He stared at her as the thought circled his mind like a low chant.
Why can't I just have this? You. Vaeril. Peace.
He'd led armies. Broken empires. Brought cities to their knees. But not once—not once—had he ever craved anything the way he craved a quiet life with her. And it was always just out of reach. Always slipping through his fingers.
Maybe it was penance. For the blood on his hands. For the screams of the nameless. Maybe he was cursed, a fallen star twisted in elven flesh, born for war but not for happiness.
He bent over her, just to feel her breath on his lips.
His resolve cracked.
He'd promised himself he would not be soft. That her betrayal had stripped her of the right to his gentleness. That she needed discipline, not affection.
But she undid him.
Even in sleep, she unraveled every principle, every commandment burned into his bones.
His lips brushed hers.
Barely.
Softly.
And for a moment, the war inside him went still.
Malec lifted his head and looked down at her, the corner of his mouth tugging softly, dangerously, into something that might've been a smile if it didn't carry so much possession behind it.
"Little dove," he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. "Time to wake up."
His hand rose and brushed gently across her cheek, fingers cool against the heat of her skin. Her eyelashes fluttered. A soft sound escaped her throat, half protest, half breath.
She rolled away from him.
"I'm still sleepy," she mumbled, curling into the pillow.
Malec chuckled—quiet and deep in his chest, a sound he rarely let the world hear. But she earned it every time. Even like this, drugged and raw, she defied him with no fear. She'd never feared him. Not even at his worst.
And that… that was part of the problem.
"Allora," he said, voice thicker now. "Get up, my pet."
He leaned over, burying his face in the wild mass of her hair, and pulled her gently into his chest. He was careful not to press against her stomach—still healing, still sensitive. But Kalemon's concoctions were doing their job, accelerating her recovery at an alarming rate.
A little too fast, in truth.
Just yesterday, the maid had begged him to get her to stop attempting some bizarre Canariae "post-birth realignment ritual" that involved stretches no recovering body should be able to perform. Allora had waved her off, cursing between bent knees and snarling that she'd "done worse in the trenches."
Malec smirked into her curls.
His chaotic, impossible, unstoppable little firebrand.
She would never calm down.
And truthfully? He didn't want her to.
He pressed his mouth softly to her temple. No, he thought. He wouldn't have her any other way.
He'd been planning to bind her formally. Not just in spirit or flesh, but through Awyan law—unbreakable, sacred, eternal. A union so complete that not even Surion could undo it. He'd been preparing to make her irrevocably his.
But then she ran.
Then she birthed his son.
And now every power-hungry elf in the realm wanted her.
Any chance of a quiet court approval was dust in the wind.
She stirred more now, blinking herself into awareness.
Then slowly, with all the reluctant energy of a lioness disturbed, she pushed herself upright, still straddling his lap. Her hair was wild and her skin dewy, but her glare was as sharp as ever.
"What the fuck do you want now?" she rasped.
Malec opened his arms slightly to give her space, though his eyes never left her face.
Being this close to her without a fist flying toward his jaw or her leaping out of reach was—if not a victory—then at least a fragile truce.
A start.
Malec remained still, letting her sit there in his lap like a flame refusing to burn him, not daring to move except for the rise and fall of his chest. He had missed her. Gods, how he had missed her. The sound of her voice, the pressure of her weight—even the edge in her tone when she cursed him. He would've taken any of it over the emptiness he'd endured while she was gone.
And now here she was, her warmth sinking into him, her breath brushing his throat. Alive. Whole. With their son just rooms away.
He ached to touch her. To bury his hands in that wild, untamed mane and feel her scalp against his fingers.
But he didn't.
He kept his hands at his sides, gripping the blanket instead, resisting the pull with every ounce of discipline the battlefield had beaten into him.
Allora shifted slightly, then turned her face toward him, her lashes still heavy with sleep.
"I'm thirsty," she murmured, her voice rasped and dry.
Malec was on his feet in a breath.
He crossed the room to the basin in three quick strides, grabbed the clean carafe Kalemon had left, and poured cool water into the waiting glass.
By the time she had blinked again, he was back in front of her, one knee on the bed, holding the cup up with both hands.
She reached for it.
But he held it steady, guiding it to her lips like she might break if she lifted too fast.
She swallowed eagerly.
"Hey—little dove," he said, one brow lifting as he watched her gulp it down like a dying soldier at a spring. "Slow down. You'll choke."
His free hand reached up and brushed her hair off her face, his knuckles grazing her temple as he steadied the cup in her grasp.
She glared at him over the rim, but drank slower.
Once she'd drained the last of it, she exhaled with a little grunt and leaned back into him, still resting comfortably in the curve of his lap. Her eyes were more alert now, though heavy-lidded with exhaustion and whatever else they'd sedated her with.
She looked up at him.
"Why are you so damn bossy?"
Malec's lips curved into a faint, private smile—soft in a way that only ever existed when she was near.
"Because if I'm not, you'll kill yourself trying to fight the guards again," he said, tone dry but affectionate. "Or climb the window. Or invent some bizarre Canariae ritual involving stretching and insults."
She snorted, but didn't deny it.
He ran his hand through her hair again—finally giving in—letting his fingers sink into the thick coils at her scalp, gently combing through them.
"You don't listen," he added. "So I speak twice as loud."
"And you think that works?"
"No. But I like watching you fight me for the illusion of freedom."
He chuckled softly, the sound low and rough against her ear.
"No," he said. "But it keeps you alive. And that's all that matters."
His fingers continued moving through her hair, gentler now, tracing the curve of her scalp as if mapping sacred terrain. She didn't swat him away. Not this time. She was too tired—or maybe too caught in the pull of the moment.
Malec pressed a kiss to her temple and closed his eyes.
This was what he wanted. Not the politics. Not the crown. Just this. Her. Their child. This maddening, perfect stillness.
But the quiet only lasted a breath.
She shifted in his lap, not to escape—just enough to pull back and look up at him. Her eyes had cleared completely now. The haze of the sedative was thinning.
And beneath it…
There was something else.
Stillness. A tight ache in her voice that didn't match her usual fire.
Her mouth opened, and when she spoke, it wasn't a curse or a barb.
It was something much smaller.
Much heavier.
"Will I ever gain freedom?"
The question sat between them like a blade.
Not shouted. Not thrown.
Just whispered.
Malec froze.
His hand, still buried in her curls, stilled. The other gripped her thigh, a sudden flicker of tension running up his arm. He studied her—those fierce, dark eyes that had never once begged for anything. Until now.
But this wasn't begging.
It was truth.
The truth that lingered behind every glare. Every insult. Every moment she spent staring at the window like she was calculating the drop.
Freedom.
She wasn't asking about a walk in the gardens or guards outside her door.
She was asking if she would ever be herself again.
Malec's jaw worked, but no sound came.
Because there was no answer she'd accept.
None he could give without breaking whatever fragile peace they'd clawed back.
Malec's mouth opened—but not to answer.
Because he couldn't.
Because the truth—that she would never be free, not truly, not from him—hung too heavy between them. So instead, he took the coward's route. The tactical one.
He deflected.
"There are imperial guards waiting downstairs," he said, voice low.
Allora blinked.
"They're here for you," he continued. "A summons. From Surion. Imperial sealed."
She stared at him.
Then scoffed. Loudly. Bitterly.
She dropped her head into her hands and started laughing.
It wasn't joyful.
It was the kind of laughter that scraped its way up from the chest like a wound cracking open. It was unhinged. Exhausted. Hopeless.
"Why can't I just be left alone?" she asked the space between her knees.
Malec didn't speak.
He watched her.
And for one strange, twisted moment—he felt something like relief.
She wanted what he wanted.
Peace. Quiet. The end of the chase. Of the walls. Of the hunger.
So they did want the same thing.
But neither of them were getting it.
Not in this life.
Not without a war.
Allora hiccupped between broken laughs, and then—just as fast—she went quiet.
Her hands dropped.
Small tears streaked her cheeks, slipping soundlessly onto the bedding.
Malec moved before he realized he had.
In an instant, he was cupping her face, his thumbs brushing the tears as if by instinct. The sight of them—her crying—sent a sharp panic straight through his ribs.
"Hey… hey, little one," he whispered, voice rasping. "Don't cry. Please. Shhh. I hate it when you're upset."
His forehead pressed against hers, eyes searching hers with something wild and shaken behind them.
She tried to pull away, but the tears kept coming. Unstoppable. Silent. Miserable.
"I'm so tired," she finally whispered, her voice cracking. "I can't even see Kalemon—my only friend in this godforsaken world."
He clenched his jaw, ashamed, but said nothing.
"And I have some sort of demon child visiting me in my sleep," she continued, more ragged now, like every word was being pulled from a place she didn't want to touch. "And you—"
Malec flinched.
Even though she didn't finish the sentence, he felt it.
The accusation. The truth.
He was part of the prison she couldn't escape.
"I'm just so tired," she whispered again, shaking her head as fresh tears fell. "I don't want to live anymore…"
The words shattered something in him.
"No," Malec breathed. "No—don't say that."
He pulled her into his chest, arms wrapping around her tight, as if sheer force could keep her from slipping away.
He held her like a dying thing. Like something sacred that the gods were trying to take back.
"I won't let anyone take you from me," he murmured into her hair, fierce and trembling. "Not Surion. Not the Capitol. Not even death. I'll kill him. I'll kill them all if I have to. I swear it, Allora. I swear it on everything."
He rocked her slightly, trying to calm the tremor in her shoulders.
His hand slid up and down her spine, gentle, circular, grounding.
"You're mine," he whispered, over and over. "Mine. I won't lose you again."
But as he said it, even he knew—
He didn't own her pain.
And that was the one thing he could never take from her.