Malec leaned against the wooden railing, watching the soldiers clear the training yard after their sparring session.
His tan eyes never left her.
Allora.
The little wild dove.
She had done what few ever could.
She had bested him.
And now—he wanted more.
His interest in her had been born out of curiosity.
And now?
Now it was something else entirely.
The way she moved, the way her body twisted and struck with precision—it was mesmerizing.
And not just as a warrior.
His fingers twitched at his sides as he remembered the warmth of her body pressed against him.
The way she had stood over him, breathing heavily, victorious.
He should have been angry.
Instead, he was intrigued.
She had awakened something dangerous in him.
And for the first time in a long time—he welcomed the challenge.
"Well, you certainly made an impression."
Luko's voice pulled Allora from her thoughts as she sat on a barrel near the castle's stone walls, wiping sweat from her forehead.
She glanced at him warily.
"What do you mean?"
Luko smirked.
"He likes you."
Allora rolled her eyes.
"He likes controlling me."
"No," Luko corrected. "He likes fighting you. And knowing Malec… that means trouble."
Allora huffed, running a hand through her wild curls.
"Let him play his little games. It doesn't change anything."
Luko tilted his head, studying her.
"You're still fighting the name, aren't you?"
Allora scowled.
"Because it's not my name."
"Well, it is now."
She threw him a sharp glare.
Luko chuckled, raising his hands.
"Alright, alright. But you do realize the more you fight it, the more he'll make sure it sticks, right?"
She knew.
Damn him.
Damn them both.
But she would never say it aloud.
Instead, she crossed her arms and muttered,
"I'd rather eat dirt."
Luko laughed.
By late afternoon, a small merchant convoy arrived at the castle gates.
Along with the usual trade goods, there were Canariae among them.
Sick ones.
Allora's stomach dropped the moment she saw them.
She knew those symptoms.
The ashen skin.
The hollowed eyes.
The slow decay.
It was the Cotard-Virus.
Her pulse raced as she knelt beside one of them—a woman barely clinging to life.
"Luko!" she called, her voice sharp.
Luko was at her side in seconds, Malec following behind with a watchful gaze.
"What is it?" Luko asked.
Allora grabbed the woman's weak wrist, turning to him with a cold, sinking feeling.
"They're infected."
Luko stiffened.
Even Malec's casual posture shifted slightly.
"Infected?" Luko asked.
Allora's mind raced.
"This… this is what wiped out my world. It's the Cotard-Virus. But if it's here—"
She trailed off, realization slamming into her like a blade.
If it was here, then that meant—
The Awyan had survived it.
Her eyes snapped to Luko.
"Do you have a cure?"
Luko exchanged a tense glance with Malec before nodding.
"Of course. The virus is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Our kind overcame it centuries ago."
Allora's chest tightened.
Centuries?
Then why had humanity never found a cure?
She swallowed, her throat dry.
"How?"
Luko hesitated before speaking.
"The antidote exists in certain Awyan bloodlines."
The world slowed.
Allora's heart slammed against her ribs.
She turned, her eyes locking onto Malec.
"You mean… his bloodline?"
Luko nodded.
"Yes. His, specifically."
The breath left her lungs.
She had been searching for a cure for years.
And the answer had been walking beside her this entire time.
She needed his blood.
Desperately.
And she needed to get back to the portal.
The clock was ticking.
She had a choice to make.
Allora forced her expression neutral, looking away from Malec before he noticed the storm of thoughts brewing in her head.
"Well," she muttered, standing up. "That's… interesting."
Luko frowned.
"That's all you have to say?"
She shrugged, masking the urgency in her chest.
"I mean, it makes sense. A perfect, arrogant race like the Awyan, of course, they'd be immune to a plague meant for lesser beings."
Luko sighed at her sarcasm but didn't argue.
Malec, however, remained silent.
His tan eyes never left her.
She could feel his gaze trailing over her, studying her.
Like he could sense something had changed.
She had to be careful.
Very careful.
Because now, she wasn't just trying to escape.
She had to steal his blood.
And she had to do it without him realizing it.
She needed a strategy.
She had two objectives now.
Extract Malec's blood.Find her way back to the portal.
She would have to get close to him.
Closer than she ever had before.
And she knew exactly how to do it.
She had already seen how his tan eyes darkened when he looked at her.
The way his jaw tensed when she touched him.
She had felt the heat of him, the way his breath hitched when she leaned too close.
He wanted her.
And now?
She would use that.
She just wasn't sure if it would work.
Because this wasn't just a game anymore.
This was survival.
And Malec?
Malec was dangerous.
Allora spent the next few days perfecting her strategy.
She had already come to terms with her new name.
There was no Melodie anymore.
Just Allora.
And Allora had a mission.
She needed Malec to lower his guard.
She needed to get him drunk.
And most importantly—she needed his blood.
She had already begun understanding his language.
Languages had always been easy for her.
She was already fluent in several—picking up Awyan had been a challenge, but not an impossible one.
Now, she could converse with him—just enough to make it seem like she had finally given in.
Like she was starting to trust him.
And Malec—a creature of power, dominance, and control—would want nothing more than for her to meet him where he wanted.
So she would.
And she would use it against him.
Dinner had been uneventful.
Malec had kept a close eye on her the entire time, watching her like he was waiting for her to lash out.
But she didn't.
She simply ate, spoke little, and remained calm.
Then—as the servants cleared the table—she finally struck.
In Awyan.
"Would you join me in a drink?"
The room froze.
Malec stilled, his tan eyes locking onto hers in pure shock.
Luko, standing nearby, nearly dropped his cup.
One of the guards choked on his wine.
A Canariae speaking Awyan?
To him?
To invite him?
Malec had been expecting many things.
Defiance.
Insults.
Another piece of bread to the face.
But not this.
For the first time, his Canariae had come to him.
Had met him where he wanted.
Slowly, Malec leaned back in his chair, his gaze unreadable, intrigued.
Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he replied in his own language.
"I accept."
The fire burned low in the hearth, casting warm shadows over the walls as Malec sat across from Allora in his private quarters.
Two glasses.
A bottle of aged northern whiskey.
She had chosen something strong—something she had seen him drink before.
She already knew he had a high tolerance.
Which meant she needed to pace herself carefully.
She poured him a glass first, then her own, raising it in a silent toast.
Malec studied her, his tan eyes flickering with interest.
Then, without a word, he drank.
And so the game began.
For the first time, Malec spoke to her as an equal.
Not as property.
Not as a Canariae.
But as a woman.
His little dove who had finally begun to trust him.
"Where did you learn to fight?" he asked in his language.
Allora pretended to hesitate, then answered simply,
"My world was cruel. We fought to survive."
Malec's fingers tapped against his glass.
"And yet, you survived."
She sipped her drink.
"That is what I do."
His tan eyes burned.
"That is what I like about you."
Her stomach tightened.
He was relaxing.
His defenses were lowering.
It was working.
The fire had burned low.
So had Malec's restraint.
For weeks he had endured it—the scent of her, the sound of her laughter behind closed doors, the memory of her body pressed against his in stolen moments of tension. He didn't know why he craved her so violently. Only that when she was near, something ancient in him surged to the surface. Something unnamable.
Now she sat across from him, drink in hand, her eyes gleaming like she knew everything.
"Would you take me back to the Capitol?" she asked, voice smooth as silk drawn across bare skin.
He stilled, the air around him snapping taut.
"Why?"
"Because I miss the city."
It was a lie. He knew it. But he wanted to believe her.
"You wish to escape?"
She tilted her head, her dark curls catching the firelight.
"If I wanted to escape," she murmured, "I wouldn't be here... drinking with you."
The glass in his hand creaked under the tightening of his grip. Something low stirred in his gut—primal and bitter and warm.
She leaned forward slowly, resting her elbows on her knees, her voice dropping lower.
"If I give you my body willingly…" Her lips curled slightly. "Would you take me back?"
Silence roared in his ears.
Malec's breath halted in his throat.
The sight of her—glowing in gold, power coiled in every curve—made his heart pound with something wild and feral. But still, he tried to play it cool, tried to smirk.
"You've learned my language well," he said, but his voice cracked at the edges.
She didn't answer. She moved.
Slowly. Deliberately.
She slid down from her chair, like a panther slipping through long grass, and knelt before him.
Malec stopped breathing.
Her hands skimmed up his thighs, soft but intentional, and his whole body jerked like she'd branded him.
She leaned in and brushed her lips over his, so faintly it was almost a dream.
And then—
She kissed him.
A soft, slow pull at his lower lip that made him groan—a strangled, guttural sound torn from somewhere he didn't know existed.
She smiled into the kiss.
And lowered her gaze.
Then—
Her teeth sank into the leather of his belt.
She tugged.
Malec's entire body locked.
"Allora—" he rasped, but the word died as his head fell back, a groan breaking free from deep in his chest.
She was moving now—up his abdomen, trailing her mouth up his stomach, her breath hot, her lips brushing over skin and muscle.
His back arched into her touch as if pulled by unseen thread.
One of his hands flew to her hair, fisting in it—not to guide, but to hold on. To ground himself. To keep from flying apart.
"Gods…" he hissed through his teeth.
Her hand slid between them.
Found him.
Thick. Hard. Waiting.
The moment her fingers wrapped around him, he exhaled all at once, his body going still as lightning poured through his spine.
His mouth fell open.
His eyes rolled shut.
And he moaned—a deep, helpless sound—raw with surrender.
Every ounce of control he'd ever mastered—battle-hardened, blood-tested—shattered in her hands.
He wanted to beg.
He wanted to worship.
He wanted to sink to his knees and swear allegiance to the goddess between his legs.
But he couldn't think. Couldn't move.
Allora had him.
And she knew it.
The fire popped and hissed, its embers glowing like molten eyes, watching from the hearth. Shadows flickered along Malec's chest as his breathing grew shallow, erratic. The belt was undone now, leather pulled loose and cast aside like the last restraint on a body that trembled under her command.
Allora moved lower.
Lower still.
Her dark, wild curls brushed his thighs as her lips grazed his lower abdomen. Not kissing. Not touching.
Just hovering.
The heat of her breath teased the base of him.
So close.
So gods-damned close.
Malec's hands gripped the edge of the chair, his knuckles white, tendons straining. His jaw locked, teeth grinding.
No. He couldn't.
He was an Awyan. She was Canariae. A laborer. A servant. A pet.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
This wasn't allowed to happen.
And yet—
His body ached for her.
Shaking, pulsing, trembling with need.
"Please…" he whispered, but he didn't even know what he was begging for—her to stop or her to never stop.
Allora looked up from beneath her lashes.
Saw him unraveling.
And smiled.
Slowly, sensually, she moved her face lower still—until her lips hovered a breath above the tip of him. She didn't touch. Didn't kiss.
She simply let the warmth of her mouth threaten him.
And Malec broke.
His hips jerked upward involuntarily, seeking her. Desperate for contact. For relief. For her.
"Allora—" he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice hoarse, cracked.
His hands trembled at his sides, fists of restraint. But his body wanted more. Every nerve screamed for her.
But still, he fought it.
You're stronger than this.
She's playing you.
She's just a Canariae—
And then—
Her lips pressed a single, soft kiss to the very tip of him.
Malec shuddered.
His breath left him in a rush.
His eyes rolled back.
His head thudded against the chair behind him as a deep, guttural groan broke from his chest—a sound of agony, of torment, of a king brought to his knees by a flame he could not smother.
His body quaked.
His thighs tensed beneath her.
And his teeth ground so hard he thought they might crack.
You can't do this.
You won't be one of those Awyans—
But gods.
Gods.
He wanted her like he had never wanted anything in his entire life.
Allora's hand came to rest lightly on his thigh. She didn't need to move. Just that small, smug pressure was enough to make him shiver.
"Take me to the Capitol," she whispered, her lips ghosting over him again.
"Say yes… and I'm yours."
Malec opened his mouth.
But no words came.
Just a raw, half-swallowed moan that told her everything.
Malec's chest rose and fell like a storm caught in a bottle.
He was panting now—his body slick with sweat, his thighs trembling beneath her. His face was flushed with restraint, his jaw tight as though if he didn't bite down hard enough, he might scream her name.
Allora knelt between his legs, calm as a goddess.
Her breath ghosted over his skin.
"Say yes," she whispered.
Malec didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But his hands gripped the arms of the chair like he was holding onto the edge of a cliff.
Allora smiled—slow and deadly.
Fine, she thought. You want to play noble? Let's see how long that lasts.
Because she had known pleasure. She had seen generals weep under her mouth. And this elf man, this stoic, stubborn, silver-eyed Awyan noble—he didn't know it yet, but he was about to become hers.
She moved her mouth lower.
Not to finish him.
Not yet.
Just to ruin him.
A slow, delicate flick of her tongue over the sensitive skin near the base of him—just enough to make his whole body jerk.
"Fuck—" he choked out, his hips arching, chasing the fire of her breath without shame.
She glanced up. His head was tipped back, lips parted, brows furrowed in exquisite torment.
She hadn't touched his shaft yet.
Not really.
But he was already trembling.
Already shaking like a man on the edge of an orgasm he didn't understand.
Still—he didn't stop her.
He didn't pull his pants back up.
He didn't fasten his belt.
He just sat there, trembling and wide-eyed, taking it.
That was all the consent she needed.
He wanted this.
Even if his mind hadn't caught up to his body.
And so—
She took him further.
She let her tongue trace the length of him slowly. Not fast. Not to push him over.
But to let him feel every inch of it.
To let him understand what she was about to give him—and what he would never forget.
Malec's whole body bucked.
He let out a sound—a moan, hoarse and guttural—that made her thighs clench in satisfaction.
"Allora—stop—" he choked.
But when she did, pulling back with a wicked glint in her eye, he looked down as if she had struck him.
His chest heaved.
His hands trembled.
"Why—why did you stop?" he asked, voice broken.
Allora didn't answer.
Not with words.
She reached up and undid the front of her dress, the fabric parting like water around her skin.
Her breasts spilled free into the golden firelight, soft and perfect, her eyes never leaving his.
Malec stared.
Transfixed.
Dazed.
And she spoke again.
"Say yes."
His mouth opened to protest—but the words turned to air when she reached for him.
His breath caught—
And then froze entirely—
As she slipped him between the swell of her breasts and pressed them together, slowly stroking, dragging the tender flesh over his aching length with deliberate care.
"Holy—" Malec's voice cracked into a groan so deep it could have shattered glass.
His back arched, hands flying to her shoulders, not to stop her—but to hold on.
He was not used to this.
Not even close.
Awyan lovemaking was often ritualistic, practical, muted. This—this was carnal, wild, untamed. It was joyous, and it was dangerous.
She smiled up at him, heat glowing in her eyes.
"You've never done this before," she whispered.
He couldn't even answer.
His body was shaking, his throat dry, his control torn to shreds.
She moved slowly, sliding him between the soft curves of her body like a queen offering worship. Watching him. Studying every twitch, every gasp.
"Say yes," she repeated.
Malec's hands tightened on her.
His lips parted.
His pride withered under the weight of his desire.
"Yes," he groaned. "Yes. Gods… yes."
And just like that—
She had him.
The King of Restraint.
The Silver Fox.
Reduced to ash in her hands.
Allora paused.
Her mouth lingered just close enough to let the heat of her breath tease his skin one final time, but she didn't touch him.
Then—she stopped.
Malec jolted like he'd been doused with ice.
His body trembled, chest heaving, his hands twitching where they had gripped the edge of the chair. For a breathless moment, silence filled the room—
And Allora could have sworn…
He whimpered.
The sound was low, soft, barely there.
But it was real.
She rose slowly, deliberately, fixing her dress with infuriating calm as she looked down at the wreckage of a man still gripping the arms of the chair like a lifeline.
"Deal," she said simply, holding out her hand.
Her voice was steady. Controlled. But the satisfaction in her eyes shimmered like firelight.
Malec looked up at her.
And for the first time since she'd met him—
He was vulnerable.
His lips were parted, eyes wide and lost, forlorn.
The silver strands of his platinum hair had fallen loose around his face, messy, wild, almost boyish in contrast to the sheer storm of desire in his expression.
He looked like a man who'd just survived a war and wasn't sure if he'd won.
"Deal," he echoed, his voice hoarse.
Then, his eyes darkened again.
But not with rage. Not with control.
With desperation.
"Now we finish what you started."
And with that, he didn't release her hand.
Instead—he pulled.
Allora gasped as her body toppled forward, landing squarely in his lap, her legs on either side of his thighs. His arms wrapped around her as though he feared she'd vanish.
And then—he lifted them both effortlessly, rising to his feet with her straddling him.
She laughed.
Giggled.
The sound was wicked and light, amused and delighted, like a sorceress who had just enchanted a king and was now watching him dance.
"You laugh?" he growled, voice ragged. "You mock me while I burn?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
Malec dropped to his knees on the fur rug before the fire, laying her down with reverence and fury all at once. The heat of the flames cast golden light across her dark skin as he hovered above her, his body shaking.
He was done with etiquette.
Done with rules.
Done pretending she was a weakness instead of a hunger that had grown claws inside his chest.
She was his ruin.
And tonight—he would let her ruin him completely.
His breath was ragged. His body ached—his groin pulsing, swollen with need, every nerve on fire. He hovered over her, devouring her with his eyes, barely able to breathe. He had waited too long. Wanted too much.
He needed her.
"Allora…" he whispered—hoarse, reverent, gutted.
This was no longer about seduction.
No longer about power.
This was need, raw and ancient.
He didn't undress her carefully.
He tore at her clothes, desperate to feel skin against skin. Her dress ripped audibly, fabric giving way under his strong hands until it bunched around her waist like a discarded banner. Her undergarments—those soft, silken barriers—were reduced to shreds on the floor, forgotten.
She gasped, but her eyes—those eyes—sparkled with hunger.
Malec was undone.
He kissed her everywhere he could reach—her breasts, her neck, her collarbone, her jaw. Each kiss was frantic and searing, like he was trying to memorize her with his mouth, burn her shape into his soul.
"You're not just beautiful," he murmured into her skin, "you're… impossible."
He pressed his forehead to her chest, his body shaking with restraint, with reverence.
This isn't sex, he thought. This is a miracle. A joining of two souls that were never meant to touch.
And yet—here she was.
His flame. His forbidden. His fate.
He kissed her lips again, not with dominance but with ache. Then moved lower. His hands slid down her waist as he positioned himself at her entrance, his body trembling with anticipation.
"I want to hear you," he whispered, nearly begging. "The way you made me sound—I want to return it."
But she didn't give him the chance.
Allora smirked.
That wild, untamed look in her eye ignited him further—and then, with a swift, powerful motion, she thrust her hips forward.
Malec gasped.
She took him in—fully, suddenly, and without warning.
He saw stars.
His body arched, muscles locking as he choked on a sound he couldn't contain. A deep, broken groan tore from his throat, full of shock and pleasure and awe.
"Gods—Allora—"
His head dropped, silver-blonde hair falling over his face, sweat slicking his brow.
She grinned beneath him, victorious and hungry.
And Malec?
He almost lost everything.
Control. Sanity. Time itself.
She didn't just accept him—she claimed him. With no hesitation. No fear.
And for a moment, he forgot his name.
Forgot what world he came from.
He was hers now.
Not as a commander.
Not as an Awyan.
Not even as a elf.
But as a soul undone in her fire.
Malec's world was crumbling around him.
Allora moved her hips with a rhythm that was wicked, purposeful—lethal. It was as if her body knew every hidden corner of his restraint and pressed into it like a blade. She rode him with a confidence that stole his breath, each movement drawing a tortured moan from the back of his throat.
"Allora—stop… ahhh… nhmm… gods…" he panted, barely holding on, his hands shaking as he tried to brace her hips. "You're going to make me—"
She giggled.
Actually giggled.
The sound was infuriating and intoxicating. It fluttered through him like sparks over dry grass, fanning the inferno of his need.
She rose up slightly, and when she came back down—he shook.
His hands scrambled over her thighs, her waist, trying to steady her.
Trying to slow her.
But she was unstoppable.
A force of nature.
His force of nature.
And suddenly—he stopped fighting.
Let her be wild, he thought, let her be untamed—just let her be mine.
His grip tightened on her hips as he took over, thrusting upward, deep and deliberate. The softness in his movements vanished. Now, every motion was hungry, claiming, decisive.
He felt her arch beneath him, her head falling back, her mouth parting on a sharp, helpless gasp.
He groaned—loud and low—as her body met his, again and again.
They moved in perfect rhythm now, breath and blood tangled, sweat misting their skin, lips seeking each other between gasps and kisses.
There was no more teasing.
No more control.
This was communion.
And then it happened.
His body surged.
The rhythm shattered. The last thread of control he'd been clinging to snapped like a drawn bowstring—and the force of it ripped through him like lightning down his spine.
"Allora—" he gasped, the name a broken prayer as he thrust deep, hips grinding against hers, seeking the furthest part of her, the center of her.
And there, at the heart of her warmth, he spilled into her.
It was not simple.
Not instinct.
It was deliverance.
A powerful, uncontrollable wave of sensation tore through his core as his essence poured into her—claiming her, marking her, making her his.
Each pulse of release was overwhelming, dragging him deeper into the moment. His muscles locked. His entire body trembled. It felt like something more than physical, like the binding of a soul to another, one beat at a time.
He buried his face in her neck, gasping against her skin, his moans breaking with each shudder of pleasure. He could barely breathe, barely speak—only feel.
She's mine.
My Allora.
Mine, mine, mine.
And she received him.
Her own cry echoed his—small, shattered, vulnerable—her body clenching around him in time with each wave of his release. The way she held him, trembling with him, tightening around him—it told him what words never could.
She feels it too.
The final tremor rolled through him like thunder, and he collapsed fully against her, body slick with sweat, his arms locked around her as if letting go would mean forgetting how to breathe.
He stayed inside her.
Still.
Breathing hard.
Whole.
He couldn't move. Didn't want to.
The fire flickered behind him, the only witness to the elf who had just given himself away.
His breath still stuttered against her skin, the tremors refusing to leave his limbs. He couldn't speak—not at first. Not with her still wrapped around him, still pulsing faintly, as if his name were echoing through her body.
He didn't move.
Didn't dare.
Then, finally—his voice found him.
Low. Gravel-lined. Unfiltered.
"Whatever that was… it's never happened before."
His forehead pressed to hers, silver strands of hair falling messily around their faces. He was still inside her, still thick and warm and spent. The moment clung to him like sweat.
"I've been with others. But I've never felt like I just gave something I can't take back."
His fingers slid up her spine, not to possess her—but to anchor himself.
"You did something to me, Allora."
Not romantic.
Not flowery.
Just true.
And terrifying.
He didn't say he was hers. He didn't have to.
Because for the first time in his life—he felt it.
He belonged to someone.
And gods help him, he didn't want it any other way.