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Arc 8-117
🕑 Added 2025-11-30 02:54:46 +0000 UTCMy clan wakes early. Painfully early. Earl is up at dawn, his routine as precise as a general plotting battle strategy, Anna practically springs out of bed to fuss over her fluff balls, and the succubi… well, I’m still not convinced they sleep at all. The house is usually stirring by the time I drag myself out of bed, but even then, I don’t expect to find my lovely wife in the kitchen.
Kierra stands at the counter, back to me, her long fingers moving with slow, deliberate care as she arranges thin slices of fruit alongside crusty bread slathered with melting butter onto a worn wooden platter. It's been months since she's prepared food—Geneva's terrifying domestic efficiency and gourmet standards have made such gestures unnecessary—but seeing her there, shoulders relaxed beneath a silk robe, sparks something warm and achingly nostalgic in my chest, a memory of simpler days before our household grew so crowded.
“Hey there,” I murmur.
She hums a greeting, still focused on her task. I smirk, stepping forward until I can slide my arms around her waist, leaning my chin on her shoulder. Her skin radiates heat through the silk, her heartbeat a metronome against my chest, and I breathe in the scent of her hair—floral and exotic, like the forest where we found each other.
“That for me?” I ask, voice low, teasing.
“No.”
“Should I be jealous?”
Her chuckle reverberates through her chest and travels into mine, and I hug her a little tighter in response. Saints, she doesn’t mean to kill me with affection, but she’s doing a stellar job anyway.
“My parents have decided to leave in two weeks,” she says, calm as ever.
I blink, my breath catching in my throat. The news lands like a fist to the sternum, leaving me hollow where something had quietly taken root without my noticing. Those impossible, infuriating elves with their ancient eyes and cryptic smiles—when had they become something I'd mourn losing? I swallow against the unexpected tightness. "Feels like no time at all and forever.”
“Mm.” She places another berry onto the tray. “Mother wants a little more time to share the history of matriarchs with me. Father wishes to speak with you again.”
I grimace. Orum is not a bad man—saints, he’s growing on me—but his ability to pry into my very soul with casual questions is unnerving. “Of course he does. Surprised Morgene doesn’t want another round with me too.”
“She says Atainna diplomacy does not suit you.”
“What? Then why did she insist on teaching me?”
Kierra finally turns, leaning a hip against the counter and regarding me with eyes tinted more green than gold in the pale kitchen light. “Knowing what you are not is one step toward knowing what you are, yes?”
“…I guess,” I mutter.
She kisses my forehead softly—an ambush of tenderness—and then returns to her careful preparation of the platter.
I watch her for a moment before poking her side. “Who’s that for then?”
“Could it not be for me?” she asks dryly.
“There’d be meat.”
A smirk curves her lips. “It is for our pirate. She’s awake.”
My head snaps up. “Awake awake?”
“Awake. And whole,” she says.
Relief loosens a knot I hadn’t realized I carried. “Mind if I tag along?”
“I do not. And she is not in a position to refuse,” Kierra says with a glint of amusement. Then her tone softens into something careful. “Be gentle with her, dedia. What we have done is good, but her being has been stirred by powers she does not understand. She was pulled apart and stitched together in visceral ways. I will not be surprised if she needs time to recover.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Kierra hums. “Cats play with things they like. They play with them until they break.”
“Have I ever been so boorish with a woman?”
“You can be stubborn with the things that catch your eye,” she counters, turning to tidy the counter.
I scoff. Loudly. Rudely. “I’m not going to fall for her.” I pause, because I feel obligated to clarify. “She’s fun, sure—like a particularly violent puppy—but she’s also completely intolerable. Saints, she’s almost as bad as Arthur was when we first met. Except she swings a punch faster than he could whip out a crude comment.”
Kierra glances at me, eyes twinkling. “She is a beauty crafted by our pet and my magic.”
My jaw works like a fish gasping for air as my brain scrambles for a rebuttal that wouldn't immediately convict me in the court of my wife's knowing smirk. Several arguments rise to my lips—she's insufferable, she's violent, she's definitely not my type—but each one feels like testifying against myself with increasingly damning evidence. After several silent seconds of this internal civil war, I surrender with a pathetic: "I'm not going to fall for her."
If my voice wavers just a touch, I heroically decide not to acknowledge it.
She’s gracious enough not to press, merely arching a sculpted brow. I try to conjure a distraction, some snappy remark, but the fact that my chest is still buzzing with excitement makes it hard to defend myself.
“I can admire without touching.”
“Mm.”
“Besides, she’s in love with our favorite merchant.” I raise a defiant finger. “Even if you two conspired against me—”
“It is a conspiracy now?”
“—conspired against me to make her the most irresistible woman on the continent, it won’t matter.”
She chuckles as she picks up the platter and strides out of the kitchen. My feet shuffle as I watch her retreating back, my stomach mimicking my anxious feet. Ah! This is ridiculous. It’s impossible. Stupid perverted elf putting stupid ideas in my head.
Grumbling, I follow her.
