Malvoria hates this.
Hates the way Elysia fits so easily into this world, the way she laughs without hesitation, the way the demon soldiers grin at her like she's one of them.
She tells herself it's not jealousy.
But the fact that she's even thinking about that means she's lying to herself.
Her jaw tightens as she watches the scene unfold before her.
Elysia—her wife—was standing there, effortlessly charming the soldiers, her silver hair catching the light, her violet eyes bright with amusement as they spoke.
She looked comfortable, looked like she belonged, like she wasn't the same guarded, sharp-tongued woman who had first arrived in Malvoria's castle ready to fight her at every turn.
No, this was different.
This Elysia was relaxed, at ease, engaging with them as though she had always been a part of their world.
Malvoria hates it.
Because Elysia has never looked at her like that.
Not once.
