"Arbor!" he barked toward the ceiling, flailing a hand. "Change her back! Change her back right now! I can't take this. I am too pretty for this emotional warfare!"
Annie—as Malvor—threw her head back and laughed, his laugh, his voice, loud and unbothered.
Malvor groaned and covered his face. "Oh, sweet chaos," he muttered. "I just got seduced by myself. And I liked it."
"Of course you did," Annie said, smirking. "You are exactly your type."
Malvor's hand was still over his face when he heard his own voice—deep, sinful—purr: "Arbor, you will do no such thing."
The lights flickered with delighted mischief. The traitorous house approved.
Malvor froze. Slowly lowered his hand.
"Annie..." His voice wavered. She—he—whatever this was—was straddling the line between hilarious and dangerously, terrifyingly hot.
And somehow, it was the most absurdly seductive thing he had ever experienced. Was this what it was like to want himself? Gods help him, he understood Maximus now.
Annie leaned in, brushing her nose down the line of his jaw over his stubble. Taller like this, stronger, more imposing. His body—but her chaos.
"Malvor," she murmured, her—his—voice dripping with intention, "you said only good girls get what they want. But what about very, very bad gods?"
Malvor groaned aloud, hands hovering helplessly at her hips. "Annie, I am you. You are me. This is...you look like me!"
"Exactly." She smirked, grinding her hips into his ever so slightly."Don't you want to be ruined by yourself, my Lord of Chaos?"
The sound he made could not be called holy. His head thunked back against the couch, dazed. "You are sick. You are twisted. You are perfect."
She grinned wider, brushing her—his—mouth along the shell of his ear. "You love it."
"I hate how much I love it," he growled, dragging his hands up her back—and cursing softly when he found the seams of his own damn shirt.
"You are lucky you are gorgeous. And terrifying. And so, so you."
She kissed him—full-force, messy, claiming. And he kissed her back like a man flinging himself off a cliff.
He didn't stand a chance.
Even if the next time he looked in a mirror, he was never going to see himself the same again.
Malvor was breathing like he'd just run a marathon through a fever dream.
Because Annie—wearing his face, his voice, his chaos made flesh—had him pinned against the velvet headboard, grinning down at him like the literal manifestation of every filthy fantasy he hadn't dared admit even to himself.
She straddled him slowly, deliberately. The long black coat she refused to take off flared around her thighs like wings of midnight. One boot was still on. It was unholy.
"Tell me, Malvor," she purred in his voice, dragging a gloved finger down the center of his chest, "is this what you look like when you're about to beg?"
He whimpered. Whimpered.
"Oh my gods," she breathed, mouth hovering over his. "You're even hotter when you're wrecked."
His hands fisted in the sheets. He couldn't touch her. Couldn't think. Couldn't move.
And then—
She tugged at the bond.
It was light at first. A brush of thought, a pulse of sensation, pulling his pleasure into her hands.
Malvor gasped, bucking under her slightly, overwhelmed.
"Annie—"
She bit his lower lip, hard enough to leave it red and throbbing, and released it with a soft pop.
"I am you," she whispered, licking over the bite, "which means I know every filthy thought rattling around in that pretty little skull."
She shifted her hips, grinding down slowly—exactly how he liked it. Exactly where he was most sensitive.
Through the bond, she felt it: the sharp spike of desperate pleasure. The way he tried to clamp down on it, to control it—and how he failed.
She smiled like the devil and did it again. And again.
Teasing. Pulling. Pushing him closer to the edge with every slow, devastating grind.
"Wrong?" she echoed sweetly, tilting her—his—head. "You mean the part where you're about to come undone under your own face? Or the part where you're going to thank me for it?"
She leaned in, brushing her nose against his.
"You're not getting out of this with a one-liner, Mally. You're going to feel every second."
His legs fell open wider. Trembling. Surrendering.
She pushed at the bond again, sending a jolt of heat coiling low in his stomach. Not enough to finish. Just enough to make him writhe.
"Shhh," she cooed, brushing her fingers down his neck. "You're okay, pretty boy. I've got you."
He made a sound. That's all it was—a broken, whimpering, unholy sound.
Lights flickered overhead. Arbor, thank the gods, did not intervene.
Malvor's head thunked against the headboard again.
"Good gods," he panted, dazed. "You're going to kill me."
Annie just grinned wider. Bit his ear. Ground her hips down harder.
"You'll die beautiful," she promised.
She fed heat into him through the bond—every brush of her mouth, every grind of her body amplified until he could hardly breathe.
She dragged her teeth along his jaw, slow and claiming. "You feel it, don't you?" she whispered. "How close you are?"
Another hard grind. Another spark of raw, blinding need.
He choked on a moan, fists twisting the sheets helplessly.
"Look at you," she breathed, voice molten. "Falling apart for me."
Falling apart by her hand. By her will.
Malvor looked up at her—at himself—straddling him, wrecking him, owning him—
And he whispered, desperate: "Please."
Annie froze. Smiled slow and devastating.
"Oh, Malvor," she purred, brushing her thumb across his trembling lips. "You are so much prettier when you're ruined."
She leaned down, mouth ghosting over his—kissing him slow, deep, wrecking him from the inside out—and the bond screamed between them, alive and unstoppable.
Malvor sobbed into her mouth, hips stuttering helplessly under her control—and Annie drank it in like it was the sweetest chaos she had ever tasted.
She slid one hand down his body—slow, commanding, merciless—
And stopped.
Right at the edge of more. Right at the brink. Leaving him panting, shaking, begging without shame.
Annie pulled back just far enough to look down at him. To admire the wreckage she had made.
His cheeks flushed. His eyes wild. His body desperate and beautiful and completely hers.
She smiled, wicked and victorious.
"Not yet," she whispered against his ear. "Next time... you scream for me."
And then she slid off his lap—leaving him gasping, shaking, aching—cutting off everything right there, leaving him teetering on the edge of oblivion—with no escape.