Chapter 59: He Was Building (Her POV)
Later, I stared into the mirror. Not blinking. Not smiling. Just breathing. "My name is Asha," I whispered. This time, I didn't just believe it. I felt it burn.
The bed dipped under my weight. I sighed, settling beside him, shower-damp and swallowed in one of his shirts. My hair dripped onto the pillow. He didn't complain. He just turned his head and looked at me in the dim light like I might vanish. We didn't speak at first. Not out of tension. But because silence had finally become safe again. His voice came low, almost a whisper. "I know you would never hurt me." I flinched, just a little. He caught it. He always caught it now. He didn't reach. Didn't press. Just waited. "You're my safe place. You are safe with me. Even when you're hurting. Especially then."
I didn't say it back. I loved him. Gods, I loved him. But some part of me was always braced for the storm. That was it. He didn't scold me. Didn't beg me not to do it again. He just held my hand like an anchor in the dark. I don't remember falling asleep. One moment I was staring at his hand covering mine, the next, darkness. Heavy. Still. The deepest sleep I'd let myself slip into in weeks. But peace never lasts. Somewhere in the hours before dawn, my body betrayed me. A sharp breath. A twitch. Sheets tangling as my mind clawed free of a dream that wasn't memory, but wasn't fantasy either. Voices. Darkness. A hand I didn't want, dragging me under. Malvor was awake instantly. His palm pressed warm and steady over my heart. My breathing slowed. My body softened.
By the time I stirred, sunlight was slipping through the room in soft golden ribbons. He wasn't in bed. I sat up slowly, disoriented by the luxury of rest. My bones felt like they'd remembered how to breathe again. The shirt I wore still smelled like him. I heard it, the hiss and hum of espresso brewing. Beneath it, someone humming a tune that definitely wasn't real, but sounded aggressively proud of itself. I padded into the kitchen then stopped. On the counter sat a steaming cup of mocha. My mocha. Sweet, chocolatey, cream swirled just right. And floating in the foam? His face. Smirking. Smug. Cartoonish. He turned on cue, flour-dusted, why flour? and wearing an apron that read: Chaos, but make it caffeinated. "Good morning, sunshine," he said, far too pleased with himself. "I made you coffee. And a portrait. Selfless act, really, considering how long I stared at myself to get it right."
I blinked. "You… made latte art. Of your own face."
"I'm an artist, Asha. I suffer for my craft."
I picked up the cup, took a sip. My lips curved despite everything. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet—" he pointed at the cup, "—you're drinking me. That's love."
I snorted. Gods help me, it was love. For the first time in forever, it didn't feel like something I had to perform. It just was. I took another sip, let the warmth settle in my hands, and spoke before I could stop myself. "I dream that people are screaming in my head." He didn't laugh. Didn't interrupt. Just leaned back against the counter, waiting. "The other gods," I said softly. "Some of them are angry. Some are just… loud. Their voices, their power, it leaks into everything. I can't always tell which thoughts are mine anymore. I am at my weakest at night. The barrier around the bonds weakest." I looked up, my chest heavy, my eyes clouded with something older than exhaustion. "Sometimes I wake up and I don't know if I'm still me. Or if I've just become a collection of pieces they left behind."
Malvor's smile vanished. He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, and took the mug from my hands before I could drop it. He didn't touch me. Just stood there. Steady. A shield I hadn't asked for, but maybe needed. "I've been in your mind," he said softly. "Even then, I don't think I've seen all of it. But I know this—" his voice didn't waver. "You're still in there. I see you, not them."
My throat tightened. "You always sound so sure," I whispered.
"That's because I am. I know who you are, Asha."
I blinked at him. "Who am I?"
He ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Gods, I'm probably saying this wrong." A pause. "This would be easier if I could just seduce you into forgetting the world again." He looked at me, really looked, and sighed. "But that's not what you need. That's not what we are." Then, steadier: "You're the girl who took a god's chaos and made it feel like home. You're the woman with fire in her veins who still chooses gentleness, when she could burn the world down. Before you were anyone else, you were mine. You are not a collection of their voices. You're a symphony they'll never understand."
My lip trembled. "You always say the right thing."
"Only with you," he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "The rest of the Pantheon can choke."
Something shifted in me then, small but sharp. A decision. A choice.
My fingers curled around his wrist. Not tight. Not desperate. Just… present. Anchored. Real.
"I want you to feel it," I whispered, so soft it was barely air.
He blinked at me. "Feel what, love?"
I didn't answer with words. I didn't need to. I opened the bond. Fully For the first time since Aerion attacked me. Not by accident. Not from panic, or lust, or pain. This time, I opened it on purpose.
He staggered. It wasn't chaos. It wasn't a flood. It was me. Raw. Aching. Unmasked. Love. So much love it knocked the wind out of him. Love tangled with grief, guilt, and fear, but still love. Mine. I held it open just a few seconds, like stretching muscles I hadn't dared to use in years. Long enough for him to see me. To feel me. I let him in. I let him feel how deeply I loved him, quietly, wildly, without condition. How terrified I was of it. How desperately I needed him to understand this wasn't performance, wasn't habit. This was real.
Beneath it, I felt him. He didn't shield me. Not this time. Not from him. Not from me. I felt the way he looked at me and didn't see ruin, but divinity. The way my laughter sounded in his mind like a favorite song. The way I, not Annie, not the mask, was his peace. The weight of it made me gasp. I pulled back trembling, the bond flickering as it dimmed. "I can't hold it long," I whispered. "But I wanted you to know. I needed you to feel it. Just once."
He didn't speak. He just pulled me into his arms and held me like I'd handed him the universe. Because I had. "So, Master of Mischief…" I murmured, a smirk tugging at my lips, "what do you dream?"
He huffed out a laugh, automatic, cocky. But the bond was still faintly open. He couldn't lie. Not to me. "…I dream of things I'm not supposed to want," he admitted.
My fingers stilled. "Like what?"
His voice dropped. "I dream of a house that doesn't vanish when I turn my back. Someone laughing in my kitchen. Someone staying. I dream of coffee in the morning and terrible jokes and knowing that when I go to sleep, you'll still be there."
My chest ached. Not because I doubted it, but because it was him saying it.
"I dream of being enough," he whispered. "Not worshiped. Not feared. Just… loved. For who I am. Even when I'm an idiot. Especially then."
I didn't tease him. I didn't laugh. I leaned in and kissed his jaw, slow and gentle. "You're more than enough. Even when you're a complete idiot."
He smiled into my hair, his arms tightening around me. Deep in the bond, I felt it: He'd been dreaming of me far longer than he even realized. Then his voice curled low into the quiet, fragile space we were learning how to trust. "Alright, My Always. What do you dream… when the screaming stops?"
I didn't answer right away. I breathed slowly, like the truth might burn me on its way out. Then, simply:
"Mireya."
He froze. Not with jealousy. Not with anger. But with recognition. That illusion Leyla had spun, the little girl with my hair and his eyes. The laugh that still lingered in the back of my mind like a lullaby I never got to sing.
"I dream of her," I whispered. "Her chubby little hands. Braiding her hair. Hearing her call me Mommy like it was the most natural thing in the world."
I swallowed hard. "I know she wasn't real. I know Leyla made her up. But gods… it felt real. Like something I lost before I ever had it."
My palm pressed against his chest, grounding myself in his heartbeat. "I always wanted to be a mom," I admitted. "Before the temple. Before the runes. I used to pretend I had a baby tucked under the blankets. I'd sing lullabies to nothing, just to feel like I had someone of my own."
His eyes burned. Not with mischief, something far more dangerous. Conviction.
"You're going to have that," he said fiercely. "Not because you need it to be whole. Not because it fixes anything. But because you want it. And I will burn down every realm, every rule, every god who says you can't."
My lip trembled. "Malvor…"
"You're going to be someone's mother," he whispered. "They'll have your fire. And we'll love them so much the world won't dare lay a finger on them."
I stared at him, breathless. "I used to think I was too broken," I whispered. "That I couldn't—"
"You're not broken." He pressed his forehead to mine. "You're becoming. I'll be here, every step of the way."
I didn't cry. I smiled. Small, trembling, but real. In the bond between us, I let him feel it: Hope. Not fantasy. Not illusion. Just a quiet, steady flicker of something real. I was still curled against him, my lips brushing a smile across his chest, when he exhaled deeply, like he'd just unloaded a lifetime of loneliness. Then, with absolutely no warning, he said, "I'm naming our firstborn Malvor Jr."
I groaned. "Absolutely not."
"Malvor the Second, then? Lord of Cuteness. Master of Mayhem. Maybe a tiny cape—"
"If you put a cape on our baby, I will divorce you before we're even married."
"Oh good, so we are getting married?" He grinned, shameless. I slapped his chest, laughing despite myself. Gods, despite everything. Behind the banter, I felt it. He already had a name tucked away. Silly and serious, bold and beautiful. A name meant to carry chaos. One day, he'd whisper it to me. I'd know. He wasn't dreaming anymore. He was building.
We were still at the table. The coffee had long since cooled, but neither of us moved. The silence between us had grown comfortable. Outside, the wind rustled through cottonwoods, whispering secrets I wasn't ready to hear. Malvor drummed his fingers against his ceramic mug, then stopped. Started again. Stopped. I raised a brow.
"You're doing that thing," I said.
"What thing?" He blinked, feigning innocence.
"The thing where you're thinking too loud and trying to act casual about it."
He cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at me. "I was just... wondering." I waited. "Have you ever thought about… seeing Ahyona?" he asked, like the words might explode in his mouth. "For, you know. Healing. Emotional excavating. Spiritual spelunking. Possibly… couples counseling?"
"Couples counseling?" I echoed, arching an eyebrow.
"Well, technically that's Vitaria's area," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "But I feel like Ahyona would bring cedar smoke and fry bread, and honestly that might be more effective?"
I stared at him, somewhere between amused and disbelieving. He finally met my gaze, and whatever sarcasm had been lingering in his tone dissolved. "I just…" He exhaled. "I want you to really heal. Not just get by. Not just smile through the pain and say you're fine when you're bleeding on the inside."
My throat tightened.
"I've already had Ahyona's acolytes in my head," I said flatly. "For years. They were the ones who helped me 'deal' with trauma. Every time I broke, they made me feel better. Softer. Safer. Like I was fine."
Malvor nodded slowly.
"I know," he said gently. "But what they did wasn't healing." I tensed, but he didn't stop. "They manipulated your emotions. Put up barriers and called it peace. That was not healing, my love, that was corking a dam and pretending the flood wouldn't come."
He leaned in, voice quiet and steady. "I want to take the dam down. Slowly. Carefully. With you." My throat worked as I swallowed. "I want to feel what's real," he continued. "Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. And I want you to feel it too, not alone. Not shattered. Just... one piece at a time. With someone beside you."
His fingers brushed against mine on the table. "I'll sit outside if I have to. But if there's even a chance Ahyona can help, you deserve that chance."
I didn't pull away. I didn't say yes. But I didn't say no, either. When my thumb brushed against his, just once, I knew. That was a beginning. Outside, just beyond our silence, the prairie breathed. Somewhere far away, a sacred lodge stirred, its timbers groaning softly, its hearth embers glowing faintly. A place built not to hide pain... but to let it finally be seen.