Bound by Honor *2ND DRAFT*

VI

April 5

Malakai POV

The house was quiet. Too quiet—the kind of silence that pressed against your ears and demanded attention. I woke before the sun, as always, and moved through the dim rooms with the ease of someone who knew every corner, every shadow.

From the doorway of the sitting room, I watched her. Stella moved with careful precision—pouring coffee, smoothing a crease from her skirt, eyes scanning the morning papers with that sharp, alert focus she always carried.

Every motion was deliberate, controlled, like she was staking a claim on a world that often tried to erase her. I allowed myself a slow, imperceptible smile. She didn't need me hovering, didn't need me correcting or guiding—but I wanted to. Not out of necessity. Out of... desire.

I wanted to cross the room, to brush her curls from her face, to press my hand against hers and see if she would flinch—or lean closer. To fold her into my arms, just for a moment, and feel the weight of her against me. To kiss her—not a polite peck, not a ceremonial gesture—but the kind that left both of us breathless and quietly undone

I didn't. I never would. Not yet. She was all fire and caution, wrapped in a dress I wasn't allowed to touch. And I had to respect that. For now.

She glanced up briefly, catching my gaze. Her lips curved into that polite, almost dismissive smile she reserved for the world—but not for me. Not here. My chest tightened at the sight, at the knowledge that I was both the shadow in her periphery and the one she'd never fully surrender to...yet.

Every instinct in me screamed to close the distance, to fold the space between us until there was no boundary left. But I stayed where I was. Watching. Waiting. Learning her rhythm, noting her pauses, the small tilts of her head, the way her fingers lingered over the cup as if she could make time itself bend around her.

And silently, quietly, I promised myself: when she was ready, when she let me in, I would cross that distance. And I would hold her so tightly that the world outside would cease to exist.

The quiet of the morning lingered as I moved through the house, noting the small details of our shared space. The furniture—carefully chosen, carefully placed—felt less like decoration and more like an extension of her presence. Her books on the shelves, the cup she always left on the counter, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air—it was hers now, and somehow that made the house feel... complete. Almost unnervingly so. I allowed myself the smallest, almost imperceptible smile.

She was here. She was living with me. And it was... right. Wrong, perhaps, that I could feel this odd, private happiness at her presence, but I couldn't deny it. Stella belonged here, and the thought was both comforting and maddening.

The sound of the doorbell pulled me out of my reverie. Families. Both hers and mine, arriving more or less at the same time. I moved instinctively to her side, positioning myself like a shield, a quiet anchor. Her posture tensed for a moment, just enough for me to notice, and I reached out subtly—not touching, just a hand near hers on the countertop—letting her know she wasn't alone.

Dinner required preparation, and I took it seriously. The cook was efficient, but I directed each movement, precise and exacting, making sure everything was perfect—not for them, but for her. I didn't need them impressed; I needed her comfort. I watched her descend the stairs, still in her morning calm, sliding into the stool at the island.

Her eyes followed my every motion as I chopped, stirred, arranged, and plated. She worked quietly on whatever occupied her mind—letters, documents—yet she kept that careful, half-smile for me, a silent acknowledgment that I was hers, even when the rest of the world crowded in.