I turn away, needing distance, needing to not be this close to her when my body is screaming recognition that my mind insists is impossible. None of this makes sense…
And I don't know what to do about it.
9
LENNA
Three days pass, and Malrec won't look at me.
Not the way he did before, at least. Not with that sharp assessment that always felt like he was cataloging my failures. Now when I cross his path in the stables, his gaze slides somewhere past my shoulder, or down to whatever documentation he's reviewing, or toward whichever beast requires his attention. He speaks to me only when necessary, and even then his voice carries a clipped efficiency that feels different from his previous disdain.
He's still grumpy. Still gruff with the staff, still exacting with the beasts' care routines. But the absolute animosity that used to pulse between us has shifted into something else. Something I can't identify. There's still tension—thick enough that I feel it every time we're in the same space—but it doesn't carry the same sharp edges. Doesn't feel like outright hatred anymore.
I don't know what to make of it.
My hand absently traces along the stone wall as I move through the upper walkway, my mind circling the same confusion it's been stuck in for days now. The binding ritual. The way his fingers wrapped around my wrist and my entire bodylit up with certainty that felt like coming home. The warmth that flooded through me the moment he established contact, so overwhelming I thought I might stop breathing entirely.
I felt him before. Iknowhim. My body insists on this with absolute conviction, even as my conscious mind keeps coming up empty when I search for memories that would explain it.
The dreams haven't stopped. If anything, they've become more frequent, more detailed. Last night I dreamed of working beside him in some kind of study, both of us focused on separate tasks but existing together in comfortable silence. Two nights before that, I dreamed of lying in a bed that wasn't mine, his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. I woke up reaching for him before I remembered he wasn't there. Before I remembered that he was never there.
Except it felt like he was. Like he should be.
I press my fingers against my temple, trying to ease the dull ache that's taken up permanent residence behind my eyes. Maybe I'm going mad. Maybe the stable fumes or the constant proximity to infernal beasts is doing something to my brain. Maybe humans aren't meant to be down here this long and this is the inevitable result—hallucinations dressed up as memories, my subconscious inventing an entire relationship with someone who barely tolerates my presence.
That would make more sense than the alternative.
The alternative being that something happened between us that I can't remember. That somewhere in those gaps in my memory—the ones I've always attributed to illness or injury—there's an explanation for why his touch feels like recognition. Why his voice sometimes makes my chest ache. Why watching him move through the stables makes my body respond like it knows exactly how his weight would feel pressed against me.
I shake my head sharply, forcing the thoughts away. This isn't productive. I have work to do, beasts to tend, routinesto maintain. Whatever is happening in my head—dreams or memories or madness—doesn't change the reality that I'm a laborer in House Virex's stables, and Malrec is the Beast Master who controls whether I live or get reassigned to somewhere that will likely kill me faster.
The practical concerns should be enough to override everything else.
They're not.
I descend toward Azhrael's level, letting muscle memory guide me through the familiar path. At least with the beast, things make sense. Or as much sense as anything does anymore. Since Malrec tied my signature to the containment barrier, I've been spending more time with Azhrael. Not just during assigned tasks, but in the early mornings before the full stable routine begins, and sometimes late at night when sleep won't come and the dreams feel too real.
Azhrael has been calm. Remarkably so, considering his reputation. Even when Malrec is present—which used to trigger immediate tension—the beast remains settled. Not docile, exactly. Azhrael will never be docile. But the agitation that defined his behavior when I first arrived has eased into something steadier. Like all he needed was time with me.
The thought should seem arrogant. Instead, it just feels true.
I round the corner toward his enclosure and stop short.
Malrec is inside.
He stands near Azhrael's flank, one hand resting against the beast's side in a posture that looks almost casual. Almost relaxed.
And he's talking.
"...supposed to be my beast," Malrec says, his voice carrying a tone I've never heard from him before. Something lighter. Almost teasing. "My responsibility, my authority, my favorite. That's how this is supposed to work."
Azhrael makes a low sound—not threatening, more like acknowledgment—and shifts his massive head to press against Malrec's chest.
"Instead, you've decided to transfer your loyalty to a human laborer who's been here less than a month." There's no heat in the words. If anything, he sounds amused. "Do you have any idea how that makes me look? The Beast Master whose own primary beast prefers someone else?"
My chest does something complicated. Warmth spreads through it, soft and unexpected, because this isn't the cold, controlled Malrec who moves through the stables with rigid authority. This is someone different. Someone who can joke with his beasts, who can express mock offense with genuine affection underneath.
Someone I recognize in ways I shouldn't.
