The Morning After
Annie woke first.
The light filtering through the curtains was dim, washed in a hazy golden-pink glow Arbor favored during calm mornings. But there was no warmth in her chest. Just weight. Heavy. Relentless.
She stared at the ceiling. Her body was still, her breath even, but her eyes were glassed over, distant.
You cannot kill them.
Calavera's words hadn't stopped ringing since the moment they left her realm.
If they die, you die.
The grief hit her like a wave. Not the fury. Not the ache. The grief. The kind of mourning that feels like the death of a dream that's been the only thing keeping her alive for years. A purpose, now ripped away.
Malvor stirred beside her. She felt him before he moved, his presence a familiar warmth, instinctively reaching for her.
"Annie…" His voice was thick with sleep, hoarse but soft.
She didn't respond right away. Her throat tightened with the words she couldn't find, but they came anyway, like a breath caught between panic and truth.
"I wanted to kill them."
He stilled. Waiting. Listening.
"I needed to."
A beat of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
"They deserved to burn," she whispered. "To suffer. I thought… that was why I survived. That if I just lived long enough, I could end it. End them."
Her voice broke. Not in anger, but in something far quieter. Grief. Hollow. Empty.
"But now I know. If I take their lives, I take mine too."
The silence between them thickened. It was sacred. Unspoken.
"I mourn that," she breathed. "I hate mourning that."
Malvor didn't speak at first. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close into the warmth of his chest, his face pressing gently into the crook of her neck. She felt the brief stutter of his breath.
"You deserved vengeance," he said, voice low and tender.
"I don't get it."
"No," he said, his voice cracking. "But you deserve it."
She let herself sink into him. Just for a moment.
"Calavera said I am a key. That the shadows marked me for something. And I… I believe her."
Her hand fisted in the sheet. "But I don't want revenge anymore. I want to be strong enough to protect the people I care about."
She turned her head, her lips grazing the edge of his jaw.
"Mostly you."
His heart thudded against her, strong enough for her to feel it.
And for once, he had no joke. No nickname. No sarcasm.
He just looked at her. No words.
"Come here," he whispered.
She blinked. "I am here—"
"No," he said, his hands already shifting. The sheets rustled softly. "Turn over. Please."
She hesitated, then slowly rolled onto her stomach, her bare back exposed to the soft morning light.
"I want to remember this," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What?"
His fingers brushed lightly across her spine, tracing a line down her back. "Your back. Every scar. Every line. Every rune. If you carry this, I want to carry it too."
And then—
He kissed her.
The nape of her neck. The curve of her shoulder. The edge of the first rune.
Slow. Reverent. Worshipful.
His tongue followed, warm, deliberate, tracing the intricate carvings that told stories she had never shared aloud. Each mark was honored. Memorized.
She did not speak. She did not move.
He continued, vertebra by vertebra, scar by scar, breath by breath. Whispering her name between the silence. Whispering nothing at all when words would cheapen the moment.
By the time he reached the small of her back, his hands were trembling.
"They will never know what they did to you," he murmured, voice hoarse.
"But I will."
He kissed the base of her spine, a reverent touch.
"I will remember."
Annie didn't cry.
She didn't need to.
Because he already was.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Her lying still, exposed and open under his touch. Him, mapping her back as though it was sacred ground. No pressure. No hunger. Just intimacy built from awe and quiet grief.
He kissed the backs of her arms, the curve of her ribs, the fading bruises on her hips. The silence between them wasn't empty—it was full. Full of the things they didn't need to say. Full of all the ways he adored her, held her, saw her.
And she let him.
Let herself be loved in this heavy, still way.
Let him touch the scars and not flinch.
Let him rest his head against her shoulder blades, breathing her in like she was something sacred.
Because, in that moment, she was.
He brought her water. Made her toast. Sat beside her in bed while she ate, even though she only managed a few bites. He told her a ridiculous story about Maximus getting caught in a mirror maze with five versions of himself, each one equally confused and equally hungry.
She smiled.
Then slept.
And for two days, she stayed in that bed.
Healing. Dreamless at first.
Malvor never left her side. He read aloud. Sang off-key. Brushed her hair. Rubbed her feet with enchanted oil. Whispered the names of stars he made up just for her.
It was normal.
Peaceful.
He almost believed it would last.
Night Two
She screamed.
Violent. Guttural. The kind of scream that shattered the silence.
Malvor jolted awake, already reaching for her.
Annie was clawing at the sheets, eyes wide, chest heaving. Sweat clung to her skin like dew. Her breath came too fast, too shallow. She looked around, frantic, disoriented, as if she didn't recognize where she was.
"Annie!" he whispered urgently, gripping her shoulders. "Hey, hey, you're here. You're safe. Look at me."
She blinked, her body trembling. She instinctively pulled away, then froze as his voice sliced through the chaos in her mind.
"It's me," he said softly, guiding her to focus on him. "It's Mal. You're home. It was a dream."
"No, no, it wasn't. They were in my head again. All of them…" Her voice cracked. "I felt them."
Her breath came in frantic gasps. Her nails dug into her palms.
He caught her hands gently, pried them open, lacing his fingers with hers.
"Shh," he whispered, holding her close. "It's over. It's done."
But she kept shaking.
So, he pulled her into his lap, her legs awkwardly folding around him as he rocked her gently, like a child, like a lifeline. His lips pressed to her temple over and over, murmuring nonsensical words, old lullabies, her name. Always her name.
"I'm here," he promised. "I've got you, gem heart. You are not alone."
Her breath slowed, just barely.
She tucked herself under his chin, curling against him like she wanted to disappear into his skin.
And he held her. Until the shaking stopped.
Until sleep came back.
Until dawn broke.
And even then, he did not let go.