Malvor watched as Anastasia rolled up her sleeve further, revealing more of the intricate scars winding up her right forearm.His fingers ghosted over them, tracing the rough, uneven lines—marks that had been cut into her, not inked.
"Can I see more?"
He didn't know why he wanted to. He just did.As much as he wanted to see, he didn't want to.
She nodded, standing with that same unwavering calm.And then—without hesitation, without pretense—she pulled her shirt over her head and let it drop to the chair.
Malvor's brain completely failed.His entire system crashed.
Gods above. Boobs.
OH.Oh, no.
Focus. Stop looking. Don't be that guy.
His mouth opened, but what came out was an undignified, choked sound—somewhere between a strangled gasp and the start of a word that never made it.
Anastasia didn't even react.
Didn't flinch.Didn't hesitate.Just stood there—utterly unbothered, arms relaxed at her sides.
Malvor, however, was having a complete meltdown.
His eyes bulged, darting instinctively over the expanse of bare skin before him—the long, lean lines of her torso, the dip of her waist, the swell of her—
Oh hells, stop looking at that. Focus. FOCUS.
He forced himself to look past her curves.
And then he saw them.
The runes.
Carved all over her body.
His gaze dragged across her arms—completely covered.Down her ribs, over her stomach, winding in intricate patterns.
Her neck and chest were surprisingly clear, though there were marks just beneath the band of her bra.
Malvor exhaled sharply, his chest tight.
This was not what he had expected.This was so much worse.
"What are they?"
His voice was barely more than a whisper, his fingers hovering just above the runes that curved beneath her bra.
Anastasia met his eyes, her expression unreadable.Then, after a pause, she nodded.
"You can touch them."
His breath hitched slightly—just for a moment—before his hand moved.Fingertips brushing over the intricate lines.
The smallest details.Tiny, delicate swirls of chaos, curling across each rib.
Why did they make him think of himself?
His palm settled against her skin—feeling the contrast, the softness of her flesh, the firmness of bone beneath, the rough ridges of scars carved with painful precision.
She was a work of art.
"They're beautiful in their own way," he murmured.
The words escaped him before he could second-guess them.Anastasia stilled.
His thumb traced over one of the swirls, memorizing the shape.
"When did they carve these?"
She hesitated—just for a moment.
"I was in my twenties. For the ribs."
Malvor clenched his jaw.Years.Decades of this.
His chest felt tight, an unfamiliar sensation curling through him.
He should let go.But he didn't.
"I want to see them all."
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Anastasia met his gaze, searching for something in his expression.Whatever she found must have satisfied her, because—once again, without hesitation—she reached for her waistband and slid her pants down, stepping out of them effortlessly.
No nerves.No reaction.Nothing.
She stood before him now, dressed only in a bra and panties.The runes covering nearly every inch of her exposed skin.
Malvor swallowed.
She was… unshaken.Completely indifferent to the fact that she was standing nearly bare in front of him.
Why?
Why was she so okay with this?
His gaze trailed over her again—not with lust, but with awe.The runes weren't uniform. Some were elegant, swirling designs.Others were sharp and jagged, etched into her thighs, her stomach, her back.
This was not art meant to be admired.
This was branding.
This was ownership.
His jaw tightened.
"Annie," his voice was rough,"what are you? What were you?"
For the first time, he wasn't sure what to ask.How to ask it.
Anastasia didn't blink. Didn't waver.
"I was a shrine worker," she said simply.
Malvor raised a brow.
"A shrine worker? Oh? What kind?"
She knew what he was asking.But instead of answering, she just looked at him.
Calm.Knowing.And silent.
Anastasia watched him carefully, her bright blue eyes steady, unflinching.
"Do you really want the answer?" she asked.
Did he?
Malvor hesitated—not out of fear, but because he knew whatever she was about to say would be something he couldn't joke away.Something that would stick.
Still, he nodded.
"Yes."
She inhaled slowly, not breaking eye contact.
"The temple called us shrine workers," she began, voice even,"but our role was… more intimate than that."
Malvor's fingers twitched.
"We were trained to serve the divine. To bring pleasure, to offer comfort, to fulfill any desire that was asked of us."
The words were spoken plainly.Without shame. Without embellishment.Just fact.
Malvor's entire body went still.
She continued, voice smooth and controlled, as if she were explaining someone else's life.
"For many, we were seen as sacred. Blessed. A living offering to the gods themselves."
A pause.
"For others, we were just bodies to be used."
CRACK.
A sharp sound echoed in the room.
It took Malvor a second to realize it was his own fist—clenching so hard against the table he'd splintered the wood.
Anastasia noticed.
But she didn't react.She just waited.
And for the first time in centuries—Malvor had nothing to say.
The table cracked.
And so did something in him.