16. Meetha

16

MEETHA

T he knife slices through the vegetables with a satisfying crunch. I can't help but smile as I prepare dinner, the familiar routine oddly comforting after the chaos of the past few days.

"Hope you like stew," I call out, knowing Milkor can hear me even as he works outside.

No response comes, but I don't mind. He's busy with... messier tasks.

I hum softly to myself as I toss the chopped carrots and potatoes into the pot. The aroma of simmering meat and herbs fills the small kitchen. It's almost... normal.

"Is this what it's like?" I muse aloud. "Having a home, cooking for someone?"

The irony isn't lost on me. Here I am, playing house while Milkor disposes of my Jarvil's body. And that woman – the damn thief. An ironic end for Jarvil, I suppose.

But the domesticity of it all feels strangely right. I stir the pot, imagining a life where this could be my everyday reality. No more fear, no more hiding bruises. Just... this.

"Something smells good."

I jump, nearly dropping the spoon. Milkor stands in the doorway, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!" I scold, but there's no real heat behind it. "Is it... done?"

He nods, moving closer.

"It's done," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. The finality of it hits me like a physical blow.

Milkor's voice comes from behind me, low and careful. "You're safe now, Meetha. No one will find them."

"Dinner's almost ready. I hope you're hungry."

"Starving," he purrs, and the way he looks at me makes me wonder if he's talking about food at all.

I clear my throat, focusing on stirring. "Well, um, there's bread too. And I found some wine that Jarvil managed to miss."

"How domestic," Milkor teases, echoing my earlier thoughts.

I laugh. "Who would have thought?"

He comes up behind me, his presence both thrilling and comforting. "It suits you," he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear.

I lean back against him, just for a moment. "You think so?"

"Mmm," he agrees, his arms encircling my waist. "Though I prefer you wild."

Heat floods my cheeks, and I playfully swat at him with the wooden spoon. "Behave yourself. Sit," I say, gesturing to the rickety wooden chair. "Let me plate your dinner."

Milkor obeys, his silver eyes following my every move. The weight of his gaze sends shivers down my spine, but I focus on ladling the steaming stew into a bowl.

"Here," I place it before him, along with a chunk of crusty bread. "Eat."

As Milkor digs in, I can't help but stare. Even in this elven form, he's captivating. My mind wanders, imagining what his true demon form might look like. Horns? Wings? Claws?

I shake my head. All in good time, I remind myself. For now, I have to be patient.

"This is... surprisingly good," Milkor says between mouthfuls.

"Don't sound so shocked," I tease, sitting across from him. "I'm not completely useless, you know."

He smirks, tearing off a piece of bread. "I never said you were useless. Quite the opposite, in fact."

If only he knew.

The fire crackles to life, casting dancing shadows across the room. I watch Milkor's broad back as he stokes the flames, his muscles rippling beneath his shirt. The warmth spreads, chasing away the chill that's settled in my bones.

"There," he grunts, standing up and brushing his hands on his thighs. "That should do it."

I finish drying the last plate and set it aside, my movements slow and deliberate. The normalcy of the task feels surreal after what we've done.

Milkor grunts, dropping onto the couch with a heavy thud. His silver eyes reflect the firelight, giving them an otherworldly glow. There's a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

I hesitate for a moment before joining him, sitting right on his lap.

He tenses. "What are you doing?"

"Getting comfortable," I say, wiggling my hips to settle in.

His hands hover uncertainly for a moment before settling on my hips. I lean back against his chest, relishing the warmth of his body.

"This is... inappropriate," Milkor mutters, but he doesn't push me away.

I turn my head, meeting his gaze. "Says the demon who's already fucked me twice."

His grip tightens. "That was different."

"How?"

"It just was."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever you say, big guy." Then, I cautiously add, "You seem... pleased a moment ago."

He turns to me, his expression predatory. "Why wouldn't I be? We eliminated two threats today, Meetha. Efficiently."

His words send a shiver down my spine, a mix of lust and excitement. Anyone else would be horrified, but instead, I enjoy his darkness. "And me?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "Do I mean nothing to you too?"

His arm snakes around me, pulling me closer. His grip is possessive, almost painful. "You," he growls, "You're different."

I settle back against Milkor's chest, my body molding to his. His warmth envelops me, and I can't help but feel safe in his strong arms. The crackling fire and the steady rise and fall of his chest lull me into a peaceful state.

As we sit in comfortable silence, my fingers absently trace the outline of the ring as it rests between my breasts. Milkor's eyes follow the movement, a flicker of something—hunger? desperation?—crossing his face.

"You know," I say slowly, "we never really talked about this." I pull out the ring, watching as it catches the firelight.

Milkor tenses beneath me. "What's there to talk about?"

I turn to face him, still perched on his lap. "You said you need it to break your curse. To go home. But... what does that mean for us?"

His silver eyes meet mine, conflicted emotions swirling in their depths. "Meetha, I—" He stops, seeming to struggle with his words.

"It's okay," I whisper, even as my heart clenches. "I understand."

I pocket the ring and settle against him. Unspoken words linger, but fatigue takes over. As I doze off, I sense a shift—a subtle tension in our newfound comfort.

A chill wakes me. Something's off. Milkor's warmth is gone. I listen, eyes shut. The dying fire's crackle barely masks unfamiliar breathing.

Not my own. Someone else's. Heavy. Jagged.

A shadow falls over me, blocking what little warmth remains from the dying fire. My heart pounds, but I force myself to stay still, feigning sleep. Then I feel it—the lightest brush of fingers against my breast, seeking…

The ring.

My eyes snap open, meeting Milkor's startled gaze. For a split second, we're frozen, the weight of betrayal hanging heavy between us.

Fury ignites in my chest. I leap to my feet, nearly knocking him over in my haste.

"What the hell are you doing?" I snarl, my voice rough with sleep and anger.

Milkor straightens, his silver eyes glinting in the low light. "Meetha, I-"

"You promised!" The words tear from my throat. "You said you'd stay!"

He runs a hand through his white hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. "I will stay, but-"

"But what? You thought you'd just take the ring and run?"

Milkor's jaw clenches. "You don't understand. This form... this cursed elven flesh. I can't stand it anymore."

I laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. "Oh, I understand perfectly. You're a liar, just like every other man."

"That's not true," he growls. "I've been honest with you from the start."

"Honest?" I spit the word like poison. "You were going to steal from me while I slept!"

He takes a step towards me, hands outstretched. I back away, clutching the ring tightly.

"Meetha, please," Milkor's voice softens. "I need that ring. It's my only chance to break this curse, to return home."

For a moment, I waver. The desperation in his eyes tugs at something deep inside me. But then I remember the feel of his fingers trying to take what's mine.

"No," I say, my voice steel. "I've had enough of your games, Milkor."