Malvor strolled over to his spot at the grand table, his usual languid arrogance on full display.
With a snap of his fingers, a chair appeared beside him—a throne, really. Luxurious, upholstered in deep red, something far grander than what anyone else was sitting on.
He held it out for Anastasia, wiggling his brows at her as if expecting gratitude.
She rolled her eyes but sat anyway, smoothing her dress as she got comfortable.
Only then did Malvor turn back to the room, stretching his arms behind his head as if he were bored already.
"This is Anastasia," he drawled, waving a lazy hand in her direction."My sacrifice from the other day."
The casual indifference in his tone was infuriating.
Anastasia didn't react, but she felt the eyes on her—studying, assessing, already deciding what to make of her.
Malvor didn't care.
Didn't bother with formal introductions.
Instead, he slumped back into his chair, giving the other gods a mockingly gracious wave.
"Feel free to chat with her or introduce yourselves.""I won't do it for you."
Aerion bristled, his entire posture going rigid as he glared at Malvor.
Which, of course, Malvor loved.
Gods, he loved it.
The sheer offense on Aerion's face was delicious, and Malvor basked in it like a cat in the sun.
But it was Maximus who made the next move.
The God of Excess, the embodiment of indulgence, greed, and pleasure-seeking, turned his hungry gaze toward Anastasia.
Leering.
Malvor didn't even have to look at him to know what was coming.
Maximus was predictable—so predictable. He always noticed beauty, always went after what he thought was the finest, the rarest, the most desirable in the room.
And Anastasia?
Of course she had caught his attention.
He made lewd, shameless comments, his voice dripping with that same lazy entitlement he always carried.
And his wife—Vitaria, the picture of composure—didn't even react.
Not to his words, not to his tone, not to the way he openly admired Anastasia.
Malvor fully expected it.
Maximus was the easiest one to manipulate.
So Malvor just sat back, watching, waiting.
He let Maximus continue, let him talk, let him think he was winning.
And then—
Anastasia gave him a beautiful smile.
Radiant. Perfect. The kind of smile that could make men fall to their knees.
Malvor would have enjoyed it—would have appreciated it—if he hadn't known the truth.
Because that smile?
That smile was completely fake.
A mask. A performance.
One she wore so effortlessly that most people wouldn't even notice.
But he noticed.
And when he looked at her, at the way she sat there, composed, unbothered, perfect—
His eyes traced the smoothness of her skin, the glamour hiding what was truly there.
Her runes—her scars—concealed.
She looked flawless.
A perfect, untouchable gift on display.
And Malvor hated how much Maximus thought he could reach for it.
Anastasia turned to Maximus, her expression poised, her voice smooth as silk.
"If you want to spend time with me, every minute of my time belongs to My Lord and Keeper Malvor, God of Chaos."
Formality.
Sharp. Elegant. Perfectly crafted.
And gods, Malvor loved it.
She was flawless in this moment—composed, untouchable, his.
But as she spoke, she spared him a single glance—quick, almost imperceptible to the others, but he caught it.
And he knew.
She had said his name with formality, but the truth lay in the look.
A glimpse of something real, something only he would understand.
For a split second, Malvor almost forgot to keep up his usual laziness.
But then—
He turned to Maximus, fully slipping back into his usual infuriatingly smug persona.
"We can discuss a transaction together," he drawled, waving a hand as if they were negotiating over wine, not a human being."But Anastasia is just as wonderful, special, and amazing as the priests promised."
And oh, the look on Maximus's face.
Pure want.
Exactly what Malvor wanted him to feel.
Exactly what would make this so much fun.
Maximus's gaze bored into Anastasia.
Lingering. Hungry.
Malvor leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against the table, his own golden-tan eyes half-lidded with lazy amusement.
But inside?
Inside, something warm and dangerous curled low in his chest.
He's lucky he can't touch her without standing.
Because if Maximus had the chance, he would already be all over her—his greedy hands tracing her skin, staking a claim where he had no right.
Touching what was mine.
Wait.
Mine?
The thought settled deep, curling into something heavy and undeniable.
Mine.
Malvor blinked once, then shoved the thought aside.
Aerion cleared his throat, dragging the meeting back on track like a diligent, boring little soldier.
And so, the meeting proceeded.
Malvor… caught about ten percent of it.
Some boring horse shit about an increase in profits from the priests, a discussion about how to spend the funds—
Blah, blah, blah.
He half-listened, swirling his fingers in the air and making little sparks dance between them.
Until there was a pause.
And suddenly, he realized they were waiting for his input.
Oh. That's a mistake.
Malvor perked up, flashing a devious grin.
"Yes, yes, very important, very serious.""We should invest all excess funds into the creation of a floating circus. No—an interdimensional floating circus. With fireworks. And dangerous animals. And mortal acrobat sacrifices."
Silence.
Eleven gods stared at him.
Malvor beamed.
Brigitte, the sweet, baby-faced goddess of healing, clasped her hands together and spoke in her gentle, earnest voice.
"We should invest it in helping the less fortunate."
Malvor immediately phased out.
She continued, droning on about charity, aid, compassion—words that made Malvor want to literally dissolve into the void.
Instead, he focused on something far more interesting.
Annie.
His hand casually found her thigh beneath the table.
A barely perceptible reaction—a slight stiffening, the smallest flicker in her breathing—had his interest piquing further.
Oh.
Oh, this could be fun.
How far could he push her?
His fingers trailed a little higher, slow, exploratory, his touch deceptively innocent.
Still, she didn't move away.
Didn't react outwardly.
But he knew better.
Underneath that composed exterior, her body had noticed.
And gods, that made him bold.
His hand roamed, testing the limits, under the table—entirely unseen, entirely unnoticed.
By everyone.
Except her.