5. Meetha

5

MEETHA

H is eyes lock onto mine, a predatory gleam in their depths. No servant, dark elf or otherwise, has ever looked at me like that. A chill races down my spine.

"What are you really?" The words slip out before I can stop them.

A slow smile spreads across his face, revealing teeth too sharp to be natural. "Perceptive little thing, aren't you?"

"I'm not little." I refuse to be intimidated. "You didn't answer my question."

He steps closer, the air around him crackling with energy. "What makes you think I'm not what your father claims?"

"I've seen dark elves before. You're... different." I make a vague gesture, uncertain of the exact reason.

"Different how?" His voice drops low.

I swallow hard. "You carry yourself like you own the place. Like you're used to being obeyed."

"Perhaps I'm simply confident."

I snort. "Right. And I'm the Queen of Protheka."

His eyes narrow, amusement flickering within. "Careful, little one. Curiosity can be dangerous."

"So can lying. What's your name?"

"I am Milkor."

"Strange name for an elf."

His piercing gaze never leaves me. I suppress a shiver, uneasy. The sounds from my parents' bedroom twist my stomach. Why bring a dark elf home?

"Are you hungry? The journey must've been long," I say, eager for a distraction.

The rustle of fabric tells me he's moved, but I don't dare look back. I busy myself with pots and pans, the familiar motions soothing my nerves.

"What passes for food here?" His voice drips disdain.

"Stew. Nothing fancy, but it'll fill your belly."

"How quaint."

I bite back a retort, focusing on chopping the root vegetables we'd scrounged up. The knife's rhythmic thud against the cutting board helps drown out the noises from the other room, but they linger in my mind. Half-formed memories of dark elves from my past.

I recall their predatory grace and overconfidence. Their silver eyes gleamed like weapons against their shadowy forms. Childhood encounters left me unsettled, reminding me of my family's inferior status and our constant wariness of the dark elves' capricious rule.

"Tell me, little one," Milkor's voice is suddenly much closer, pulling me back into the present. "Do you often cook for your father's... guests?"

The knife slips, nicking my finger. I hiss and pinch it. The pain distracts from my swirling thoughts. Memories flood back: a dark elf, ominous in stature, haggling with severity in the marketplace; another tasking father with grueling labor. These recollections twist in my gut like a blade.

I shake off the thoughts, forcing myself to focus on the vegetables before me. "Not that it's any of your business," I reply, trying to sound indignant to mask my discomfort. "But no. You're the first ‘guest' he's ever brought home."

A low chuckle. "How fortunate for me."

I turn, all set to tell him where he can stick his fortune, but I can't get the words out. He's right there, mere inches away, silver eyes boring into mine. The air feels thick, charged with something I can't name.

I turn back to the pot, stirring the thick stew. The smell in the kitchen is so comforting, but there's a definite tension in the air. Milkor's presence looms behind me, an unspoken challenge that adds weight to the comforting atmosphere.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" I ask again, my voice steadier than I feel. "It's not much, but it's hot and filling."

"I have no need for your human sustenance." His tone is dismissive, but beneath it, I sense a hint of curiosity.

I shrug, ladling a generous portion into a worn wooden bowl. "Suit yourself."

As I set the bowl on the table, steam rises in lazy curls, carrying the rich scent of the stew between us. I grab a spoon and place it beside the bowl, then turn to face Milkor.

Milkor narrows his eyes, glancing from me to the food. "What game are you playing?"

"No game—just common courtesy."

I clean up, aware of his gaze on my back, tension stretching between us. Then, the scrape of wood piques my attention. Milkor settles at the table, spoon in hand. He takes a bite, surprise flickering across his face.

"It's not poisoned," I quip.

He shoots me a look that would terrify most, but I'm beyond caring at this point. "I'm well aware, little one. Your pitiful human concoctions couldn't harm me if you tried."

I settle into the chair across from Milkor, my elbows resting on the worn wooden table. The aroma of the stew wafts around us, a subtle reminder of home even as our conversation grows more charged. His silver eyes flick downward, lingering on my form for a heartbeat too long.

A smirk tugs at my lips, but I school my features. So, the mighty dark elf isn't above base instincts, after all. Interesting.

His gaze snaps back to mine. A flash of something—anger? embarrassment?—crossing his face before it smooths into that infuriating mask of indifference.

Despite his words, he takes another bite. And another. Soon, the bowl is empty, and I'm fighting to keep the smug smile off my face as I stand to check the remaining contents of the pot.

The scrape of wood against stone signals Milkor's departure from the table. I keep my eyes fixed on the pot, pretending to be absorbed in stirring the remnants of the stew. My skin prickles with awareness as he approaches, his presence a tangible force at my back.

"Allow me," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

I turn, ready with a sharp retort, but the words die on my lips. Milkor looms over me, his broad chest mere inches from my face. The empty bowl dangles from his long fingers, a flimsy excuse for his proximity.

My breath catches in my throat. This close, I can see the faint shimmer of magic that clings to his skin like a second aura. It's mesmerizing, drawing me in despite my better judgment.

"I can manage," I say, my voice embarrassingly breathy. I reach for the bowl, desperate for something to do with my hands.

Our fingers brush as he relinquishes the dish. A jolt of electricity races up my arm, and I almost drop the bowl. Milkor's eyes widen a bit, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he schools them back into that infuriating mask of indifference.

"Clumsy little thing, aren't you?" he says, but there's no bite to his words. If anything, he sounds... intrigued?

I scowl, turning to deposit the bowl in the washing basin with more force than necessary. "I told you, I'm not little."

A low chuckle rumbles through the air. "No," he agrees, his gaze raking over my form in a way that sends heat pooling in my belly. "I suppose you're not."

I grip the edge of the basin, my knuckles turning white. Milkor hasn't moved, his body a solid wall of heat at my back. There's this electric feeling in the air between us I can sense, even if I can't explain it.

"Was there something else you needed?" I ask, proud of how steady my voice sounds.

"You sure you don't want more?" I ask, my tone innocent.

A dangerous glint appears in Milkor's narrowed eyes. "Don't push your luck, girl."

His proximity sends my senses into overdrive. The shimmering aura I noticed earlier intensifies, pulsing with an otherworldly energy that sets my teeth on edge. No dark elf I've ever encountered has radiated such raw power. What is he?

My eyes narrow as I study his face, searching for any telltale signs of his true nature. The sharp angles of his features seem to shift, like smoke caught in a breeze. It's mesmerizing and terrifying all at once.

Before I can voice my suspicions, heavy footsteps from the bedroom shatter the moment. My father's gruff voice precedes him, and I realize with a start that I had forgotten about the... activities... going on in there. My cheeks burn at the memory of those sounds, grateful for Milkor's distracting presence.

The air ripples with energy. The sound of heavy footsteps jolts me. My father, Jarvil, stumbles in, face flushed, evidence of earlier distractions clear.

"That took longer than usual," I mutter, disgust seeping into my voice.

Behind me, Milkor's low chuckle sends chills down my spine. I catch his smirk, a first-time humor in this chaos.

Jarvil eyes us, gauging the dark elf. "Watch your tongue, girl," he snarls.

Milkor's presence cools the air, forcing Jarvil to reconsider. Jarvil steps forward, authority contested.

"Everything alright here?" Milkor's voice is smooth yet dangerous.

My father pales at the unexpected challenge. "Of course," he mutters, eyes downcast, bravado fading. "Just family matters." There is a hint of embarrassment in his tone, but the underlying anger that he struggles to keep in check overshadows it.

Yet, Jarvil's eyes flick back to Milkor, wariness still lingering in their depths. "And who exactly are you, elf?" he asks, the challenge in his voice not hiding the slight tremor.

"Merely a confident servant," Milkor replies, amusement glinting.

Jarvil bristles as tension rises. I step between them, protective yet resentful of Milkor's magnetism.

"Both of you, cool it," I say firmly. The thick, heavy silence hangs as I hope neither will cross the line.