Malvor stared.
Then blinked.
Then leaned back, running a hand down his face.
"What. The actual. Hell, Annie?!"*
Anastasia picked up her coffee, completely unfazed. "What?"
"What?!" He gestured wildly at her, looking like his entire existence had been personally offended. "You—You had that dream for months? That is not a dream, Annie, that is a cursed prophecy of suffering!"
She shrugged. "It was probably just growing pains."
Malvor stared harder.
"GROWING PAINS?!" he all but shouted.
"Yeah," she continued, completely unbothered. "I had them a lot as a kid. My legs hurt, so my brain made up a story about them being eaten. Seemed logical."
Malvor threw his hands in the air.
"No, Annie, that is NOT logical. Logical is dreaming about flying. Logical is dreaming about showing up to the temple in your undergarments. Logical is not having your legs chewed off by a nightmare gremlin while your dream mother smiles through her own slow consumption!"
She tilted her head. "It was disturbing, sure, but it stopped after a while."
"Oh, well, thank the gods," Malvor deadpanned, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. "At least it was just temporary hell and not forever hell."
Anastasia rolled her eyes and took another sip.
Malvor gawked at her.
"Annie," he said, voice strained, "you concern me."
"You asked."
"I—" He pointed at her. Opened his mouth. Closed it. "You know what? Fine. Okay. Great. I just—" He dragged a hand through his hair. "I need a moment."
Anastasia smirked behind her cup. "You seem upset, Malvor."
He shot her a look.
"You are the most unsettlingly casual person I have ever met," he muttered, taking a long sip of coffee and seriously rethinking his life choices.
Anastasia swirled her coffee slowly, her gaze distant.
"I used to have a lot of nightmares," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "All the time. Horrible, vivid things."
Malvor, still reeling from her casual description of a flesh-eating dream demon, watched her carefully.
"I finally taught myself how to wake up," she continued. "Eventually, I could dreamscape. Control my dreams. Just… decide to walk away from the terror."
His brows lifted slightly.
That… that was impressive.
"When I was given to the temple," she went on, "my dreams became my escape. I wanted to leave, and in a way, I could."
She exhaled softly, tilting her head as if recalling those dreams now.
"I could swim and breathe underwater. I could fly. I was powerful. I could do anything."
Her fingers tapped against her cup.
"In a world where I had no power, my dreams gave me power."
Malvor sat back, tapping a finger against his lips as he considered her words.
For the first time, he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to tease her.
Because he understood that. More than he liked to admit.
His smirk returned, but it was softer.
"Oh, Annie dream-weaver, I knew there was chaos in you somewhere."
Anastasia surprises him by grinning.
Not a smirk. Not the usual small, amused twitch of her lips.
A real grin.
And gods above, it transformed her.
Her already stunning face became something more. Something amazing. It was like seeing a star flare to life—unexpected, radiant, impossible to ignore.
Malvor felt something shift in his chest.
He decided to push his luck.
"Annie, you really are beautiful."
Her grin softened into a smirk, her blue eyes flicking to him with lazy confidence.
"I know."
He let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Cocky little thing."
"Takes one to know one."
He tilted his head, studying her, something new creeping into his expression.
"No, it was that last look," he admitted, voice quieter. "It was something else. You look so beautiful when you're unguarded. So much happier. Freer."
Free.
What a terrible word to use—when she belonged to him now.
But it was true.
And the realization hit him with an unexpected force.
He wanted to see her smile all the time.
He wanted to hear her laugh.
He wanted—
Oh.
Oh, no.
This was very bad.
As if reading his thoughts, she spoke.
"I still belong to you. Whatever it is you want, just ask."
Bloody. Flaming. Hells.
Gods above and below.
What does he want?
The thought came unbound, slipping through the cracks of his carefully constructed self-denial.
He wants her.
Oh, shit.
Malvor didn't want people. He used them.
They wanted him. Needed him. They threw themselves at him, desperate for his favor, for his attention, for a piece of him.
And that made it easy.
Easy to enjoy, easy to discard, easy to avoid any of the messy crap.
But this?
This was not easy.
This was not simple.
And her face, gods damn it, she knew.
She knew.
That infuriating, unreadable, impossible woman was sitting across from him, calm as ever, watching him squirm in his own godly skin.
How?!
Malvor narrowed his eyes.
He hated this.
He hated how easily she saw through him.
And worse?
He hated that she wasn't even using it against him.
She just… knew.
And that was so much worse.
"Annie, Temptress," Malvor said, voice low, rougher than he intended.
He stood abruptly, straightening his damn suit with a sharp tug.
"You are a wicked thing."
That was all he gave her.
Before he turned on his heel and left the room.
His own bloody room.
Because if he stayed—if he looked at her for one second longer—he might actually say something stupid.
Might actually admit something.
And that?
That would be unforgivable.
Malvor did not return until evening.
He avoided her completely, an unheard-of feat for a god who thrived on attention.
And just to make sure he could keep his distance, he told the house—his house—to not let her find him until morning.
It obeyed, of course.
Doors would not open for her.
Hallways would shift when she got too close.
Every time she thought she had found the right path, the house gently guided her elsewhere.
It wasn't cruel.
It wasn't forceful.
But it denied her.
And Malvor, for once, was the one doing the running.
Anastasia woke at her usual obscenely early hour, stretching lazily before padding to the kitchen.
Malvor was still avoiding her—she knew it. The house had kept her contained yesterday, redirecting her every time she got too close. It was subtle, polite even, but obvious.
It would have been amusing if it weren't so…
Actually, no. It was amusing.
She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, deciding to try something new. Something warm, creamy—not too sweet. Just enough to comfort, without overwhelming.
As she sipped, an idea struck her.
"House," she murmured, wondering if it was even listening.
A soft light blinked in response.
"Would you take me to a cold room?"
A pause.
Then, with its usual strange obedience, a door nearby clicked open.
She raised a brow.
"Thank you," she added, stepping forward.
She had no idea what to expect.
But the house had yet to disappoint.
As Anastasia stepped forward, she continued speaking, addressing the house like an old acquaintance.
"I was thinking something cold to enjoy my warm drink."
The moment she crossed the threshold, she was not disappointed.
The room was winter incarnate.
Snow blanketed the ground in soft, untouched waves. Ice crystals clung to the walls, glistening like diamonds. The air was crisp and cool, biting at her skin in the perfect way—enough to wake her up, to make the warmth of her coffee that much more satisfying.
But despite the chill, the space wasn't harsh.
In the center of it all, nestled in front of a roaring fire, was a chair.
A single, overstuffed, perfectly cozy chair, draped with thick blankets, waiting just for her.
Anastasia smiled.
"Thank you, house."
The lights flickered in what she could only describe as a pleased little response.
She took a seat, sinking into the chair with a sigh, the fire crackling beside her as she lifted her coffee for another sip.
The absolute audacity of Malvor to hide from her when this was what he had built.
If he didn't return soon, she might just decide to steal his realm for herself.
Anastasia settled deeper into the chair, the warmth of the fire perfectly balancing the crisp chill of the air. She took another sip of her coffee, enjoying the quiet before smirking to herself.
"He was avoiding me last night, wasn't he?"
The fire crackled—twice.
She laughed.
"I knew it! He's such a man-child."
Another two flickers.
She laughed again, and—was it just her imagination, or did the fire itself chuckle with her?
"Does he at least appreciate you?" she asked, curious.
One flicker.
She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "A shame. A damn shame."
She sipped her coffee, considering.
"Is he avoiding me this morning or asleep?"
Nothing.
No flicker. No response.
She narrowed her eyes. "I see."
She took another slow sip, shaking her head.
"Seriously. A baby."
Anastasia swirled her coffee lazily, watching the fire dance in front of her. The warmth of it, the way it flickered back at her like it was listening, was oddly comforting.
"You want to hear the worst thing I thought?"
Two quick flickers.
Excitement.
She chuckled. "Of course you do."
She exhaled, leaning back. "I just assumed that whatever god took me would want the thing I've had to give to everyone."
The fire flared, shifting.
Was that… amusement?
"But not him." She shook her head, almost disbelieving. "He hasn't even asked for sex."
Another flicker—less sharp this time, almost as if the house knew she wasn't complaining. Just… noting.
"It's just different," she admitted. "He's not what I expected. And the longer I'm here, the more I… enjoy being here."
Warmth surrounded her—not just from the fire, but from something else. Something like happiness.
She smiled softly, tapping her fingers against her cup. "You make it pleasant."
The fire burned a little brighter.
"He makes it… well, amusing." She huffed, shaking her head. "He is so obnoxious. Like a child. An attention-seeking child."
She sipped her coffee, considering.
"I want to smack him sometimes."
The fire crackled.
She grinned. "Maybe he needs it?"
And—damn it all—the fire chuckled with her.
"Thank you for the room and the chat," Anastasia said, rising to her feet.
The fire flickered warmly, almost as if saying you're welcome.
She smiled, shaking her head at the sheer absurdity of her life now. Talking to a house. A house that responded.
A house that was, frankly, better company than most of the people she had met in her lifetime.
She stepped out of the room, stretching slightly as the cold air melted away behind her.
And then, a wicked thought entered her mind.
Maybe…
Maybe she should go pester Malvor.
After all—he had spent all of yesterday avoiding her.
It was only fair to return the favor.
Smirking to herself, she whispered, "Take me to Malvor."
A door clicked open.
And just like that—the game was on.
Anastasia stepped into the room—ready to make Malvor regret everything.
But then she almost choked to death.
Because—
He was swimming.
Fine. That's fine.
But he was wearing—
The world's tiniest speedo.
Her brain stalled.
Who even owned something like that?! No one wore those. No one with dignity. No one with shame.
And of course Malvor had neither.
The water gleamed under an artificial sun, reflecting off his ridiculously perfect skin. His dark hair was damp, a few careless strands clinging to his forehead, making him look effortlessly tempting—like something sculpted purely to frustrate her.
His body was, of course, flawless.
Lean but defined, with broad shoulders that sloped into a torso so sculpted it had to be an insult to the rest of existence. His stomach was an infuriating display of sharp, toned abs—actual abs. Not the suggestion of them, not the kind that only showed in certain lighting, but the kind that remained perfectly visible even as he moved.
The water lapped against his golden skin, highlighting the precise cut of his hip bones, the way his muscles shifted beneath the surface.
And damn it all, he knew.
He knew exactly what he looked like, because as soon as he caught sight of her, he grinned like a devil.
"Ahhh, Annie love-dove," he drawled, stretching leisurely in the water, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"
And worse?
He stood up.
The speedo was worse standing up.
It clung. It accentuated. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Anastasia forced herself to look anywhere but there.
Malvor smirked.
And just like that, she knew.
She was never going to live this down.