Chapter 4: The Stand-Off (His POV)
Later, I found her again, or maybe the house did the work for me. Damn thing is too invested in this whole thing like I am its divine entertainment. Hmm… Either way, she emerged into the hall with books tucked under her arm. My books. My library. My house had given her gifts. She blinked at me when I appeared, lazy and deliberate, strolling from a side room like I'd been waiting all along.
"What do we have here?" I purred. "Oh, look at Annie. Armed and dangerous."
She didn't slow. Just lifted the stack of books slightly in acknowledgment. My smirk widened. "Oh? You can read?"
She sighed. "I can."
I gasped, scandalized. "Really? Huh. I assumed you couldn't. You mortals couldn't for so long."
Her fingers tightened on the spines. She didn't rise to the bait. Infuriating. Perfect. I fell into step, walking backward in front of her. "So, what did my delightful house conjure for you? A tome of war? A dusty treatise on cosmic law? A steamy novella about scandalous demigods?"
She said nothing. I leaned in closer, voice dropping conspiratorial. "Maybe something truly indecent. Tell me, Annie, do you enjoy books filled with longing glances? Forbidden kisses? Pages and pages of—"
"Romantic fantasy," she cut in.
I stopped. Blinked. "…Wait. Seriously?"
"Yes."
My face split into the kind of grin usually reserved for catching Aerion making a mistake in public. "You? Reading about romance? My, my. How very unexpected."
She stopped. Turned. Looked me dead in the eye. "You do realize romance books contain conflict, strategy, and intricate social maneuvering, right?" Her brow arched. "Not that I'd expect you to understand depth."
The audacity. I reeled back like she'd smacked me with a hardback edition of Pride and Prejudice. "You insult my honor, Annie!" If only she knew just how much depth I have. I am not a puddle, I am the Mariana Trench of depth. She just turned and walked away. And I, me, Malvor, God of Mischief, stood there, stunned into silence for half a breath. Then I whispered, with reverent delight,"…She likes books."
I fell back into step beside her, grin carved onto my face like it had been sculpted by angels who knew mischief was an art form. "Oh, don't walk away, Annie Doll. This is far too entertaining."
"You're impossible."
"And yet—" I spread my arms wide, walking backward with effortless grace, "—here I am. Very real." I tilted my head, sly. "Tell me, do you have a favorite romantic fantasy? Perhaps one with a roguish, impossibly handsome male lead?"
She sighed through her nose. "You want me to say a character like you, don't you?"
I beamed. "It would make my day."
Silence. Which was, of course, an answer. And oh, I lived for the chase. She quickened her pace, clearly intent on escaping to some corner of my house she hadn't yet discovered. Admirable. Futile. I matched her step for step, lazy as a shadow. If I were a character in one of her books, she'd have hurled me across the room by now. Delicious thought. So, naturally, I bumped into her. Not hard. Just enough. Purposeful. Ignored.
I gasped, staggering back. "Rude! You hurt my heart, Annie Doll."
Nothing. Which, in my book, is encouragement. I heaved a tragic sigh, casting my eyes skyward, voice dripping with mock sorrow. "Once, long ago, a great and powerful god saw a woman of unparalleled beauty and wit. He was instantly captivated."
She sank into an armchair, cracking open a book like I wasn't the performance of the century right in front of her.
Undeterred, I circled. "And so this god, knowing she was far too worthy for ordinary gestures, stole the stars themselves! Reshaped the heavens! Etched her name into constellations!"
Page turned. No words read.
I threw out an arm, nearly knocking over a floating lamp. "But our clever heroine, unyielding as she was, demanded more! A realm built in her honor, oceans whispering her name, winds singing his eternal devotion—"
She snorted. I stopped. Froze. Eyes wide. Then, like thunder splitting the sky, it happened. She continued to pretend to read for a moment then she laughed. Just once. Sharp. Uncontrolled. A burst she hadn't meant to let out. And by every chaos-born law of the universe, it hit me like revelation. I stared. Devoured it. That sound. That sound was better than any victory I'd ever claimed. I didn't care if it was at me or her book. It had happened! And then it was gone. Her lips pressed together. Fighting composure. Damn it all. That laugh was mine now.
She looked up, catching me staring like an idiot. "What?"
I blinked. Then the smirk returned, reborn and sharper. "Oh, nothing, Annie." I flopped onto the couch across from her, arm draped over the backrest, grin glittering. "I was just thinking…"
She sighed. "That's never a good sign."
"I quite like that sound."
She stiffened. Just a flicker. Barely. But I saw it. I leaned in, chin resting on my fist, eyes bright as gold. "I think I'll have to make you laugh more often."
She glared over her book. "I hate you."
My grin bloomed wider. "Ahhh. Music to my ears."
This was it. The first real crack. She'd been cold marble for days, Unimpressed, unbothered, untouchable. But now? Now she'd laughed. I never let a victory go uncelebrated. I gasped, clutching my chest. "Oh, Annie Snookums, you have the best laugh."
Her expression dropped flat enough to pave roads. She shut her book with aching slowness."…Snookums?"
I nodded, glowing. "It suits you, doesn't it?"
"No."
"But it does," I pressed, grinning like a devil. "It softens you. Makes you approachable."
My smirk sharpened. "You wouldn't want to seem cold and intimidating, would you?"
She inhaled through her nose. And then, oh, gods. She smiled. Not a real smile. No. This one was sharpened, weaponized. A smile that promised war. The mortal customer service smile. "Of course not, Mallykins."
I froze. "…What?"
She blinked sweetly. "Something wrong?"
"Did you just—"
"Would you like some tea, Mally Boo?" she cooed. "Or perhaps a cozy blanket? You must be so tired after all that hard work… annoying me."
I stared, stunned. My own trick, turned back on me. She opened her book again, casual as anything. "That's what I thought."
I groaned, flopping against the couch cushions like a man defeated. "Annie. That's awful."
"Good."
I glared. She smirked. Somewhere between insult and affection, realization dawned like a guillotine. I was in so. much. trouble.
She read. She read with the kind of focus that should've come with a trophy and worldwide applause. She tuned me out so completely it was offensive. Naturally, I took this as a declaration of war. I started small. A sigh here. A dramatic stretch there. I draped myself across the couch like a man drowning in existential misery, shifting, groaning, waiting for her to notice. Nothing. I scooted closer. Still nothing. So I escalated.
"Annie, my sweetest muffin cake," I purred, voice dripping with mock affection. "You're breaking my poor little heart by ignoring me like this."
She turned a page.
I pouted, tugging on my cuff so the light caught my watch. Perfectly tailored, perfectly positioned, perfectly wasted on her. I leaned on the arm of her chair, close enough to be impossible to ignore. "Annie darling," I sighed, twirling a curl of her hair around my finger.
She stilled for half a second. Ah. Got her. Then she tucked it back in place and kept reading.
I gasped. "Rude! What does a god have to do to get a little attention around here? I could literally rewire the fabric of existence, and you'd still sit there flipping pages like I don't exist."
Silence. Fine. If antics wouldn't work, maybe intrigue would. I straightened, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from my suit. "It was a night unlike any other," I began, voice deepening into bardic majesty. "The stars aligned, foretelling peril and glory. And I, great, powerful, breathtakingly handsome Malvor, stood before a trial that would shake the cosmos—" Another page turned. I narrowed my eyes. "—A baking contest."
Nothing.
"The fate of existence rested on my ability to craft a divine soufflé. Egg whites! Flour! The unbearable agony of waiting for it to rise—"
Another page turned. I glared. "This is war now."
Finally, she looked up. "Malvor, is there something you want me to do?"
Yes. Pay attention to me. Break for me. Give me something real. I tilted my head, studying her. "Maybe. Depends."
I want to see that wall break! Cold. Detached. Not even pretending to care. Gods above, she was infuriating.
"So, Annie, my precious Annie, tell me about yourself?"
She turned another page. Didn't even look up.
"What do you want to know?"
This. Damn. Woman. Wouldn't even pretend to make an effort. Not even a hint of curiosity! UGH. If she was going to give me nothing, then I would start small. Something simple. Something she had no reason not to answer.
She set her cup down carefully. "My favorite colors are purple and cyan. I look good in both. I prefer books to people."
"Obviously. Annie spice cake, what are you reading?"
Without looking, she lifted the cover. Callista Wildfire. Oh, the delicious irony. My grin widened until it nearly cracked my face. "Ahhh, Callista Wildfire," I drawled. "Such… emotionally intelligent heroes, yes? Do they brood endlessly or confess their feelings in soliloquies?"
She smirked, a real one, small but sharp. "Callista writes strong women. The men understand emotions. Unlike someone I know. The spice level? Chef's kiss. Exactly how I like it."
Ouch. Delightful ouch. I lounged further back, pretending the sting felt good. (It did. Unfortunately.) "Funny thing, Annie, I've read a Callista Wildfire novel or two."
"Congratulations," she replied, turning a page. "You can read."
Rude. I snapped my fingers. The book dissolved out of her hands and into mine, fluttering open of its own accord, pages riffling until they stopped at the back. The author photo. Callista Wildfire herself, smiling, ethereal, perfect.
"Hey—" she started, reaching for it.
"Shhh," I crooned. "Research."
The cover photo shimmered. Melted. Reformed. Me. Same pose. Same smile. Same tilt of the head. Her eyes flicked from the page to my face. Back to the page. Back to my face. Silence. I wiggled my fingers in a little wave from the glossy paper version of myself. The image winked. She stared another heartbeat too long. "You're annoying," she said flatly, yanking the book back.
The photo had already shifted again, back to the original woman. Perfect. Harmless. Utterly not-me.
"Am I?" I asked innocently. "Or are author photos simply… unreliable?"
Suspicion narrowed her eyes. "Are you saying—"
"I'm saying," I cut in smoothly, "that sometimes the person behind the story is not who you expect."
Her fingers tightened on the cover. She studied me for a long, measuring moment, then opened to the middle of the book instead, pointedly ignoring the back.
"You're not funny."
I smiled, sharp and secret. "And yet you are still here, reading."
Dinner was art. As it should be. I don't waste my divine time on mediocrity. Plates fit for gods, wine that dripped like velvet down the throat, flavors mortal chefs would sell their souls to even imagine. I sat across from her, lazy smirk firmly in place, savoring both the meal and the company.
"This," I declared, gesturing at the dish as though I'd made it myself, "is my favorite."
She gave me that eyebrow, half challenge, half boredom. I adored it. So I launched into one of my grand reminiscences. The eighties. Neon, hair like small empires perched on heads, music that shook bones. Excess upon excess. And oh, how I had thrived.
I expected her to roll her eyes. Maybe sigh. What I didn't expect was: "Yeah, I remember the eighties," she said, calm as anything, slicing into her dinner.
I laughed, waving it off. "Annie, you're twenty-two at best. Maybe twenty-three if you're lying about your birthday."
She didn't even blink. "I was born in 1969."
I snorted. "Cute. Be serious." She was serious. The grin slid off my face as I did the math. 1969. 2004. Thirty-five.
"THIRTY-FIVE?!" She shrugged. SHRUGGED. Casual as if she'd just confessed to liking strawberry jam over raspberry.
"Annie? What?" Another shrug. Chaos preserve me. "Annie?! HOW are you that old?"
Her eyes met mine. Steady. Ancient. And suddenly, I saw it, the wisdom I'd mistaken for coldness. The sharp, knowing stillness of someone who had lived far longer than her face suggested.
"I was blessed with magic to stop my aging process," she said simply.
That was it? That was the explanation? A single sentence to unravel my entire perception of her? "That's all you're giving me?" I demanded.
She sipped her water. Cool. Detached. Infuriating. I drummed my fingers on the table. "Annie, beautiful Annie. How did they do it? What magic?"
"I don't know," she said softly. "All I know is that they used pain. And it worked."
I shut my mouth. My tongue was a weapon, but for once it faltered. I looked at her. Really looked at her. That forever-young face, that perfect mortal-not-mortal beauty. Not artifice, no illusion I could see. Just her. Enhanced, perhaps, sharpened into something flawless, but still her. My gaze caught her hands. The runes. I'd seen them before, in passing. Thought them pretty, strange. But now? Now they burned in my vision. Not ink. Not delicate jewelry. Not art. Scars.
Slowly, deliberately, I reached out. Stopped just short. Met her eyes. "May I?"
A sigh. Hesitation. Then, she nodded. I took her hands in mine, and the god of chaos, the one who'd unraveled empires, shattered armies, rewritten reality with a flick. I held her like she might break. Scars. Raised, uneven, carved with the brutality of intent. Some faint, like whispers. Others deep, jagged, carved into the bone of her. My thumb brushed over one, and the texture crawled up into my chest like a curse.
"When did they start this?" I asked, voice lower than I meant, thunder barely caged.
She inhaled. "I was eight."
I froze. Every bone in me locked.
"The magic only works if the pain is present," she continued. Her voice steady, but her eyes… her eyes weren't. They carried memory. Endurance. A child's horror buried under an adult's stillness. "So no numbing. No reprieve. Just pain." My grip tightened. Not enough to hurt. Just enough that I had to force myself to let go.
"The first rune was my forearm," she said. "I passed out halfway. They stopped. When I woke, they continued." I stared at her. "It felt like days," she whispered. "Chanting. Cutting. Over and over."
I burned. Every piece of me burned with something I hadn't felt in centuries. Not chaos. Not rage. Something darker. Something sharper. I had no name for it. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I, the god of mischief, the unshakable jester, the immortal who always had a quip... Did not know what to say.
She rolled her sleeve higher. More scars. Carved deep, winding like jagged vines across her arm. My fingers ghosted over them, tracing lines I knew weren't meant for beauty, but for pain.
"Can I see more?" I don't know why I asked. I didn't want to see. I needed to.
She nodded. Calm. Too calm. Without hesitation, she pulled her shirt over her head. My brain broke. Gods above. Boobs. Oh. Oh no. Focus. Focus! Do NOT be that god. I made a sound, choked, undignified, the strangled cry of a man sucker-punched by existence itself. She didn't even blink. Just stood there, unbothered, as if being half-undressed in front of me was no different than setting down her fork.
Meanwhile, I was malfunctioning. Eyes bulging. Mind screaming. Trying desperately not to fixate on the swell of... STOP IT. Focus. FOCUS. And then, I saw them. Not the perfect curves. The runes. Everywhere. Her arms, her ribs, curling across her stomach. Elegant in places, jagged in others. Each one cut into her, scars raised and uneven, but precise in their brutality. The band of her bra barely hid more underneath. I exhaled sharply, chest tight. This was not what I had expected. This was worse.
"What are they?" My voice barely held shape.
She met my eyes. Calm. Calculating. Then nodded. "You can touch them."
My breath caught, and for once, it wasn't lust. It was… reverence. My hand rose, fingertips brushing her ribs. Tiny swirls of chaos, delicate and curling across bone. My bone. Why did they remind me of me? My palm flattened over her skin. Soft flesh. Hard scars. Pain carved into art.
"They're beautiful in their own way," I whispered before I could stop myself. She stilled. My thumb traced one swirl, memorizing it. "When did they carve these?"
Her hesitation was brief. "In my twenties. The ribs."
I clenched my jaw. Decades. They did this for decades. Still, I didn't let go. Couldn't. "I want to see them all." The words slipped out before I knew I'd said them.
Her eyes searched mine. Whatever she saw, it was enough. She slid her pants down and stepped out, standing before me in bra and panties. No nerves. No shame. No modesty. Just… indifferent. Why? Why was she so unshaken by her own nakedness? I looked. Not with hunger. With awe. Her body was a map of survival. Some runes beautiful. Others jagged, merciless, carved into thighs, stomach, back. Not art. Branding. Ownership. My jaw tightened.
"Annie," I rasped, "what are you? What were you?"
She didn't blink. "I was a shrine worker."
A shrine worker. The word tasted wrong.
I leaned forward. "What kind?" There were a few options I had debated in my head that could fit her.
She knew what I meant. She looked at me, calm, unflinching. "Do you really want the answer?"
For once, I hesitated. Then, I nodded. "Yes."
Her inhale was slow. Controlled. "The temple called us shrine workers," she said evenly, "but our role was… more intimate." My fingers twitched against her skin. "We were trained to serve the divine. To bring pleasure, to offer comfort, to fulfill any desire asked of us."
The words were plain. Clinical. Not shameful. Not bitter. Just… truth. My body went still. They used her. The priests. Religion. The SHITS! They had represented me! To her scars. I would be dealing with this. This was not done in my name or with my divine permission. Someone would pay in blood just as she did.
"For many, we were sacred. Living offerings. Blessed." A pause. Her eyes didn't move from mine. "For others, we were just bodies."
CRACK.
The sharp sound tore through the air. It took me a second to realize it was me. My fist. Slammed into the table hard enough to splinter wood. The candles around us guttered. The wall behind her shivered, colors bleeding darker for half a heartbeat before the house forced itself calm again. She noticed. She always noticed. But she didn't react. She just watched. For the second time that night, I had nothing clever to say. Nothing dramatic. No joke, no smirk, no mask. The table cracked and something in me cracked with it.