Malvor pours them both glasses of wine, the deep red liquid catching the sunlight as it swirls in the glass. They settle outside by the pool, which looks as though it was carved from the very stones of the villa itself, smooth, natural, blending seamlessly with the surrounding landscape. The water glistens in the late morning sun, casting rippling reflections across the terrace.
Annie takes a slow sip, letting the warmth of both the wine and the sun seep into her. It's strange, how much can change in a month. Just over a month.
A month of dealing with him, his petulance, his dramatics, his absurd antics. A month of banter, of irritation, of exasperation so intense it should have driven her mad. A month of letting down her guard, little by little, without even realizing she was doing it.
And yet, in just that short time, he has burrowed his way in. Past the layers of stone she spent a lifetime reinforcing, past the broken pieces she long since accepted would never be whole again.
Why does he feel safe?
She glances at him, lounging beside her, golden-eyed and impossible, utterly relaxed as if this, this moment, this place, this them, has always existed. Like it was inevitable. Like it was meant to be.
She takes another sip of wine, letting the thought settle into her bones.
It should terrify her.
But it does not.
She glances at him again, her eyes softening.
It is not just that he is funny or obnoxious or endlessly dramatic, it is that he tries. Without even realizing it most of the time, he is always trying. Trying to make her laugh when she's clearly had enough of his antics. Trying to distract her from her pain with outrageous nicknames and ridiculous stories. Trying to make her happy.
He even put on that absurd BookTok-worthy outfit, the rings, the boots, the tattoos, the brooding stare—all because he thought she might like it. And gods help her, she did. The memory of him strutting in front of her like some ridiculous dark prince made her want to throttle him and kiss him senseless at the same time.
And the carnival. That damn carnival. He did not have to take her there. He didn't have to give her the most magical night of her life, or ride the carousel with her, or buy her a doll, or watch her with that quiet, fond smile that still made her stomach twist.
He did all of it anyway.
And somehow, all of that—his chaos, his softness, the strange way he cared—had become her favorite thing.
She does not notice she's smiling until he speaks.
"You know," Malvor begins, swirling the wine in his glass with mock gravity, "I invented wine."
Annie slowly turns her head toward him, arching a single brow.
"I did," he insists, entirely too proud. "Grapes used to just sit there being useless, and I, visionary that I am, squeezed one and thought, 'You know what this needs? Time and mood swings.' And voilà. Wine."
She snorts, then bursts out laughing, the sound warm and real, echoing off the stone walls around them.
He grins, basking in it like the sun itself.
Their emotions blend between them—his satisfaction, her amusement. Contentment. Something else beneath it, warmer, deeper. A quiet hum neither of them acknowledges, but both feel.
She doesn't say it.
He doesn't either.
But it's there. Tangled between them like bright sun and dark shadow.
"So, Annie mia, now it's your turn," Malvor says, sipping his wine and flashing her a smug, lazy grin. "Tell me a story. True or false, does not matter, but you have to be in it."
She sighs, setting her glass down with a quiet clink. "Fine."
He watches her closely as she leans back in her chair, the sunlight catching in her hair, her expression unreadable.
"Once, there was a prince," she began, her tone casual but distant. "Who fell in love with a lady of the night."
Malvor immediately gasped. "Oh gods, is this me?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Do you want the story or not?"
He made a zipping motion across his mouth, settling down with an eager gleam in his eyes.
"This prince paid to see a beautiful woman. Not for the reason most men did. Not for sex," she said, her voice soft but bitter. "He paid for her time. For someone to listen, to hold him, to make him feel seen. She guided him gently. Held his secrets and his hand. He saw her every day. And eventually, he told himself it was love."
Malvor tilted his head, already looking less amused.
"Convinced it was something real, the prince went to her employer. And he made an offer, one no one could refuse. Obscene amounts of money. Gifts. Power. Things holy men would sacrifice their gods to possess."
"Ooo," Malvor murmured, captivated.
"The employer sold her. And for a while… it seemed like a fairy tale. She was brought to his palace, kept by his side. He said he wanted to marry her. But when he told his father, the king threatened to disown him. So, the prince, brave, foolish man that he was, chose duty over love. He married a princess chosen for him."
Malvor's grin had long since vanished.
"But he did not let the other woman go," Annie continued. "She was his. Bought. Owned. So he kept her. What started as love turned into control. The kind touch became possessive. The sweet words became commands. Any intimacy they once shared turned cold and entitled."
Malvor did not say a word.
"The princess, young, jealous, humiliated, could not stand the other woman's presence. She did not blame the prince, of course. She blamed the woman. And she made her pay. With insults. With cruelty. With fists. The woman begged the prince to see. But he did not care. As long as he got what he wanted, nothing else mattered."
Annie's voice dropped to a whisper. "One day, after the princess beat her so badly her own face was unrecognizable, she ran. The woman returned to the only place she'd ever known. Back to her temple. Back to her gods."
Malvor's hand twitched, barely resisting the urge to reach for her.
But she raised a hand to stop him. "I'm not done."
He sat back again, jaw tight.
"The prince came for what was his. Property. A word never meant to apply to a person. But that is what she was to him. So he made his demands, and her employer, devoted servant of the gods, delivered. They brought her out. Broken. Bleeding. And the prince ended her life… not with his own hands, of course. No. That would have been too merciful."
Her voice trembled, but she did not stop.
"He made her friends do it. The other women. Forced them to hold her down while he watched. Then tipped her employer for letting him indulge in one final show."
Malvor's mouth opened, horrified. "Annie—"
"And the moral of the story?" she cut in sharply, her eyes locked on his. "Don't fall in love with your Johns. Do not care too deeply for your coworkers. Do not sleep where you shit."
Malvor stared at her, stunned. His gaze soft, searching.
Annie stood, picking up her glass of wine and sipping it slowly. "Now, I think I need another drink."