Chapter 8: Felt Like Home (His POV)
They felt like home. The words were out before I could stop them. Just slipped free. No smirk, no joke, nothing to soften how stupidly honest they were. Home. Chaos take me. Silence stretched. Not the comfortable kind I owned, but the dangerous kind that meant I'd said too much. She watched me, in every mirror, I saw it reflected back: me, Malvor, god of mischief, staring into a mortal's gaze with my soul hanging out like an idiot.
I took a long drink of coffee to buy time. It didn't help. My words still sat between us, heavy as stone. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Change the subject. I lounged back on the chaise as if my spine weren't buzzing with panic. The mirrors caught me from every angle, relaxed, elegant, perfectly composed. None of them showed the way my chest clenched around that single word. Enough of that.
"Annie darling," I said, swirling my mug lazily, pretending I wasn't choking on vulnerability, "tell me more about you. We've covered colors and runes and all that delightful horror. What's your favorite food?"
That got her. Her fingers tightened around her mug. Then she set it down with deliberate care on the small table between us. In the nearest mirror, I caught her reflection tilting her head toward me, giving me the full weight of her attention. Somewhere, choirs of angels sang. I fought hard not to look too eager. "I'm not picky. I love food. But I love dessert. I go through phases of what other foods I like best."
Dessert. Sweetness. Of course. My grin curled slow and dangerous. Perfect. Safe topic. Harmless. Nothing to do with home or ribs or the way she'd looked at me like I was something more than a joke. "Dessert, hmm? Then I've no choice but to test your favorites."
"Malvor—"
Too late. I snapped my fingers, and the low table between us exploded into decadence. Platters shimmered into existence. Cakes, pastries, puddings, soufflés, tarts, chocolates. Some mortal, some stolen from other realms, some pure chaos-made: glowing jellies, shifting creams, confections that shouldn't obey gravity but did out of respect. The air thickened with vanilla, cinnamon, melted sugar. In the mirrors, it was ridiculous, an infinite reflection of temptation, stretching out in every direction. She blinked once. Stared at the spread. Then at me. "That was unnecessary."
"Ah, but was it, Annie sugarplum?" I leaned back, one arm draped over the chaise, every inch the smug deity. "Or are you just afraid I might actually impress you?"
Her eyes leveled on me. Then she picked up a fork, selected a small slice of cake with surgical precision, and took a bite. She chewed and swallowed. Clinical.
"…Too sweet, could use more cardamom."
Cardamom. I actually gaped at her. "I beg your pardon?"
She ignored me, reaching for a fruit tart like a critic at a tasting. Bite. Chew. Evaluate. "Custard's good, crust is better. Needs a touch more salt."
Salt. She was critiquing my desserts. In my own bedroom! On a table I'd conjured from nothing. I dragged a hand down my face. This woman was going to kill me. She worked her way methodically through the plate, another cake, a pastry, a chocolate. No swooning, no dramatics. Just calm, clinical assessment.
"Chocolate truffle," she murmured, almost to herself. "Perfect texture. Could use chili."
"Chili?" I repeated, scandalized. "You want me to set your mouth on fire?"
Her gaze slid to me, unimpressed. "If it can't compete with the rest of my life, what's the point?"
Oh. Oh, that was hot. I propped my chin in my hand, utterly rapt. Watching her eat was suddenly more interesting than half the wars I'd started. Of course, I narrated. "Ah, Annie darling," I sighed, painting the air with grand gestures, "I see you're enjoying the fruits of my labor. Quite literally, in fact. Those chocolates?" I pointed to a dark, glossy piece she was dissecting. "Straight from my world. Rolling cocoa hills, rivers of molten caramel. I salted the caramel rivers with my tears,"
She lifted an eyebrow and took another neat bite. "Incredible mouthfeel, caramel's a little clingy."
I choked. "Clingy?"
"Probably the tears." She took a sip of water. "causes PTSD caramel."
I stared. "…I don't even know what that means, but I feel personally attacked." She didn't bother to respond. I refused to be deterred. "As I was saying, I toiled endlessly, harvesting each bean by hand, sweat glistening on my sculpted form—"
She reached for a tiny layered pastry. Bite. "Flaky. Good lamination. Filling's a bit tame."
Tame. my filling is tame!? I did not allow her rudeness to distract my glorious tale. "I stained the sugar plains with my blood—"
She sampled a custard in a crystal cup. Tilted her head. "Better. Needs citrus. Maybe orange."
I paused, mid-monologue. Citrus. Cardamom. Chili. It dawned on me, slowly and horribly, that she wasn't being dismissive. She was…engaged. She was in this. Present. Paying attention. Instead of throwing herself at my feet in praise, she was offering notes. Gods help me, it was the most arousing thing I'd seen in centuries. "And the people cried out, 'Oh Malvor, mighty one, rest!'" I continued, pushing through the strange tightness in my chest. "But no, I said, 'Not until my Annie sweetpea has dessert!'"
She finished a tart in tidy little bites, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and then, chaos bless her, reached for it. The glowing purple gelatinous thing. It pulsed faintly on the plate, magic thrumming through it, reflecting in a dozen mirrored angles around the room. I grinned.
"Brave," I murmured. She ignored me. Fork lifted. Bite taken. Then she moaned. Not loud. Not obscene. Just a low, helpless sound of pleasure that slipped out before she could stop it. Every mirror caught it. Her head tilting back just slightly, eyes fluttering shut for half a second, lips parting around the bite. The sound bounced off glass and gold and my skull. I stopped speaking. No. I stopped existing. My brain short-circuited. My body glitched. My soul flatlined. That noise. That pure, thoughtless, unguarded enjoyment ripped through me like a divine strike. I'd heard every sound mortal throats could make, and somehow that was worse, better, than all of them.
She chewed. Swallowed. Completely unaware she'd just committed a war crime. "Hmm," she said, calmly evaluating. "That's really good."
I had to physically reboot myself. I sat up straighter, gripping my knee like it was the last anchor to reality. In twelve mirrors I watched myself struggle for dignity. "I... I know," I managed, voice cracking. "Obviously. Intentional."
She took another bite. Blue eyes on the dessert now, thoughtful, analyzing. Utterly oblivious. "Annie!" I sputtered, hands flying. "What in all the flaming hells was that noise!?"
She blinked, fork halfway to her mouth. "What noise?"
I gawked at her. "Oh, oh, oh, Annie, my Little Orphan Annie," I drawled, clinging to melodrama like a life raft, "you're going to play coy now?"
She shrugged. Shrugged! INFURIATING. WOMAN. My hands clenched into fists. My jaw ticked. My entire divine being vibrated with unprocessed frustration. In one mirror I looked outraged; in another, wrecked; in another, dangerously close to honest. She took another slow bite of the infernal purple thing, lips wrapping around the fork in a way that should have been illegal. I actually growled.
Then caught myself, snapped upright, and smoothed my suit with both hands, praying dignity might crawl back onto my shoulders. She watched me from the edge of the bed, lips twitching like she knew exactly what she'd done and was choosing violence by pretending not to. I inhaled through my nose. Recalibrated my entire existence. I am a god. A GOD. A chaos god. I have unraveled empires, caused celestial wars, shaped reality itself with nothing but a whim. And yet... This woman. This entirely mortal woman. Surrounded by mirrors and desserts and my own reflected insanity, had just shrugged me into a meltdown. No. This was not over.
I took a slow, steady breath, letting myself sink into a lazy sprawl across the chaise again. Mirrors caught the pose from every direction, turning my performance into a gallery. "Annie," I said, forcing my voice into a smooth purr, "you really are beautiful."
She finally turned fully toward me, that calm composure cracking just enough to reveal a flash of something sharp. Her mouth curled into a cocky smirk, blue eyes gleaming with unholy confidence. "I know."
It hit me low and hard. A short laugh burst out of me. "Gods above, cocky little thing."
"Takes one to know one," she shot back.
"No," I admitted quietly, eyes narrowing as I studied her reflection and the real thing at once. "It was that last look. Unguarded. You looked…free."
Free. What a terrible word. What a dangerous word, when she was mine now. But the truth rang too loud to ignore. It echoed in the mirrors, in her moan, in her soft critique of my desserts. The truth hit me like a hammer: I wanted to see her smile again. I wanted to hear that laugh again. I wanted, oh. Oh no. This was bad. This was very, very bad. As if she could taste the panic rolling through me, she tilted her head, studying me with that unnervingly steady gaze.
"I still belong to you," she said softly. "Whatever it is you want, just ask."
Every mirror showed me freezing. Bloody flaming hells. What did I want? Her. Shit. The thought barreled through me, tearing holes in every carefully constructed wall I'd ever built. I didn't want people. I used them. They wanted me. Needed me. Threw themselves into my arms, desperate for a taste of chaos. That was easy. This? This was not safe. She knew. Gods damn her, she knew. Calm, unreadable, thumb idly tracing the rim of her empty dessert cup while I squirmed in my own skin like a boy caught with his hand in the offering bowl.
How? I narrowed my eyes at her, burning under the weight of her knowing. I hated it. Hated how easily she saw me. Even worse? Hated how much I liked it. She just…knew.
That was so much worse. "Annie," I said slowly, voice lower than I intended, "you're a menace."
Her brow arched, that tiny shift that drove me insane. "You're only realizing that now?"
Gods. The audacity. I leaned back on the chaise, swirling what was left of my coffee as if the answer to this nightmare revelation might appear in the foam. I wanted to joke, to conjure something absurd, to drown this feeling in glitter and noise. But instead, I was…stuck.
Stuck on the way she'd looked in the mirrors, relaxed for half a second. Stuck on the sound she'd made tasting something she genuinely liked. Stuck on the realization that I didn't just want her amused, or grateful, or impressed. I wanted her happy. And that? That was dangerous. My fingers twitched still remembering the feel of those swirls on her ribs. The home I'd accidentally named.
"Do you always do this?" I asked, tilting my head, feigning casual while my chest felt like it was caving in.
She blinked. "Do what?"
"Waltz into people's lives, Annie starlight, and tear down centuries of carefully cultivated chaos with a grin?" I gestured broadly, nearly sloshing my coffee onto the nearest mirror. "Because if so, it's dreadfully inconvenient. For me. Personally."
She smirked. "Sounds like a you problem."
A me problem!? I, Malvor, god of chaos, trickster of tricksters, breaker of kingdoms, architect of delightful disasters, had just been told my existential spiral was a me problem. I slammed my cup down on the table, leaning forward until we were a breath apart. Her real, me in a dozen reflections haloing us in gold and glass.
"You listen here, Annie cupcake—"
She didn't flinch. Not even a blink. Just took one last, unhurried bite of the purple dessert, like she hadn't just changed my entire universe. That was when I realized I'd already lost. Not the war. Oh no. That was still mine. But this battle? The one I hadn't meant to fight? She'd won it without lifting a finger. "You're a wicked thing!"
"Good," she said simply, and gods help me, she looked radiant saying it. Radiant. Bloody hells. I was in trouble.
I stormed out. Or at least, I meant to storm out. In practice it was more of a dramatic swirl of my coat, a purposeful stride, and then, bloody hell. The door had the audacity to creak instead of slam. So instead of a proper exit, it sounded… awkward. Weak. Mortal. Pathetic. I cursed under my breath, stalking down the corridor. The house, damn traitorous thing, shifted around me, walls curving, halls bending, like it wanted to laugh at me too. And why wouldn't it? I'd just abandoned the battlefield like a coward. I pressed my back to a wall, dragging a hand down my face. My own realm thrummed with my heartbeat, erratic, furious, unsettled.
Wicked thing. That's what I'd called her. Temptress. And gods, I meant it. Because she was. Not in the obvious way. Not in the mortal, sultry, batting-lashes, begging-for-attention kind of way. No. She was dangerous because she didn't try. Because she could shrug, sip her coffee, and leave me unraveling. Me. The bloody god of chaos. I exhaled, trying to steady myself, but my hands twitched. My thoughts burned. The image of her grin, unguarded, radiant, seared into my skull. That sound, that laugh, brighter than any storm I'd conjured.
Her words. I still belong to you. I clenched my jaw so tight it ached. I didn't want belonging. I wanted want. I craved it. Needed it. And yet here I was, pacing my own damn halls, because if I'd stayed, if I'd looked at her one second longer, I might have admitted something. Something fatal. Malvor does not confess. Malvor does not love. The house flickered, candles guttering out one by one as my mood sank sharp and low. Shadows stretched in the corners, restless.
"Bloody. Wicked. Temptress," I muttered again, dragging both hands through my hair, pacing like a trapped animal.
Because she was winning. I couldn't decide if I wanted to stop her. I did know I wanted her.