Anastasia continued reading, tuning Malvor out with a skill that should have won her international recognition.
Malvor, naturally, took this as a personal challenge.
At first, he started small—stretching out on the couch dramatically, sighing like a man suffering from the deepest existential crisis. He draped himself over the furniture, shifting restlessly, waiting for her to at least acknowledge his presence.
Nothing.
He scooted closer.
Still nothing.
So, naturally, he escalated.
"Annie, my sweetest muffin cake," he purred, his voice dripping with faux affection. "You're breaking my poor little heart by ignoring me like this."
She turned a page.
Malvor pouted, adjusting the cuff of his immaculately tailored suit, letting the light catch on the luxury watch adorning his wrist. He leaned in, resting an elbow on the arm of her chair.
"Annie darling," he sighed, reaching out to gently tug at a curl of her auburn hair.
She stilled for half a second.
He grinned wolfishly.
Then, without a word, she casually tucked the strand back into place and kept reading.
Malvor gasped in mock offense.
"Oh, come on! What does a god have to do to get a little attention around here? I could literally, quite literally—rewire the very fabric of reality, and you'd still just be sitting there, flipping pages like I don't exist."
Silence.
Fine. If antics wouldn't work, perhaps intrigue would.
He straightened, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle in his suit, then cleared his throat.
"It was a night unlike any other," he began, dropping into a deep storyteller's cadence. "The stars had aligned in a way that foretold only one thing: adventure and peril. And I—great and powerful, breathtakingly handsome, oh and very tall, Malvor—stood before a trial so treacherous, so unfathomably dangerous, that even the most fearless of souls would have crumbled beneath its weight—"
Anastasia turned another page.
He narrowed his eyes.
"—A TRIAL in which I had to outwit a council of twelve celestial judges, each sworn to destroy me should I fail their challenge. And do you know what that challenge was, Annie pookie bear? Do you?"
She did not respond.
Malvor leaned closer, voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"A baking contest."
Still nothing.
"The fate of existence rested upon my ability to craft the most divine soufflé ever tasted. Do you understand the stakes, Annie sugarplum? The delicate balance of flour and egg whites? The agony of waiting for it to rise, knowing one wrong move could send it all crashing down—"
Another page turned.
He stared at her, offended.
Then, slowly, he sank back into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest, lips pursed in thought.
"Alright," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I see how it is. This is war now."
Anastasia, his darling Annie pop, had no idea what she had just started.
Finally, she looked up.
"Malvor, is there something you want me to do?"
Malvor tilted his head, watching her like a puzzle he was determined to solve.
Did he want something from her? Yes.
Did he know what exactly? Not yet.
But what he did know was that he was going to see that wall break.
He would get to her.
He would.
He thought long and hard, weighing his options. He could keep annoying her, but she was stupidly good at ignoring him.
So what would make her crack?
Then, the thought struck him.
What if… he just asked about her?
Would she even answer?
He leaned forward, arms draped over his knees, flashing his most charming grin.
"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!
Malvor narrowed his eyes.
Fine.
If she was going to give him nothing, then he'd start small. Something simple. Something she had no reason not to answer.
"What's your favorite food?"
She paused.
Malvor froze.
She tucked a finger into her book to mark her place and finally—finally—looked up at him.
Undivided attention. Glorious attention. Somewhere, angels were singing. Choirs of them.
He tried—not entirely successfully—not to let his eagerness show.
"I'm not picky," she said, her tone even. "But I love dessert. I go through phases of what food I like best at any time."
Malvor blinked.
Then, slow as a cat stretching in the sun, he grinned.
"Dessert, hmm?" He steepled his fingers. "Well, Annie cupcake, I think that means I have no choice but to test your current phase."
Anastasia sighed, clearly regretting ever speaking.
"Malvor—"
Too late.
He snapped his fingers.
The space between them shimmered, and suddenly, the table was filled with every kind of dessert imaginable.
Cakes, pastries, chocolates, fruit tarts, puddings, soufflés—some recognizable, some entirely alien creations of his own chaotic design. The air filled with the scent of warm vanilla, cinnamon, and melting sugar.
Anastasia blinked at the overwhelming display, then looked back at him, unimpressed.
"That was unnecessary."
Malvor smirked, leaning back with a very self-satisfied expression.
"Ah, but was it, Annie sugarplum? Or are you just afraid I might actually impress you?"
She stared at him.
Then, with excruciating patience, she reached forward, picked up a fork, and took a bite of a perfectly crafted slice of cake.
Chewed. Swallowed.
Then went back to her book.
Malvor stared.
"That's it?!" he demanded.
Another page turned.
"It's good."
Malvor dragged a hand down his face.
This woman was going to kill him.