Malvor stroked his chin, pacing the kitchen as he brainstormed.
A romantic grand gesture.Something obnoxiously dramatic but also… charming.
Ideas:
Option one: Candlelit dinner—but with far too many candles. Maybe hundreds? Just absurd levels of fire hazard.Bonus: Pretend it was her idea and that he's begrudgingly agreeing to be romantic.
Option two: A scavenger hunt—leading to him at the end, standing in a dramatic, over-the-top pose, possibly with a rose between his teeth.
Option three: Love poetry—he could write something horrifically dramatic, read it in his most seductive voice, and watch her try not to react.Bonus: Do it in multiple languages just to prove he can.
Option four: A ballroom dance—but without telling her how she got there. Just snap and suddenly: music, chandeliers, and him in a tux, holding out his hand like some regal bastard.
Option five: Jealousy play.But… who would make her jealous?Luxor? Hilarious.Yara? Risky.He could just flirt with literally everyone else at a party and see if she reacts.
Option six: Kidnapping… but make it romantic.Steal her away to some hidden, beautiful corner of his realm and challenge her to admit she enjoys being with him.
Option seven: The ultimate confession.Just look her in the eyes and tell her he wants her—no tricks, no games, completely sincere.
...
Malvor paused.
That last one?
Absolutely not.He'd rather explode.
So…
Which would annoy her just enough… but also make her kiss him again?
Decisions, decisions.
Malvor grinned, cracking his knuckles.
"Alright, House, tell me—what are Annie's favorite books? I need ideas."
With a soft whoosh, several books appeared before him.
He flipped through them quickly, scanning.
Masked stalker?Hot fairy?Fairy prince?Another fairy prince?
Oh. A dragon-riding hot guy.
He skimmed.
Tall.Extremely attractive. (Obviously.)Tattoos.Brooding.Moody.Possessive.
Malvor stroked his chin thoughtfully, then with a snap, summoned a full-length mirror right there in the kitchen.
He studied himself.
"Tattoos," he murmured.
Oh, he had those.
Unlike the static, predictable ink of fictional men, Malvor's tattoos were never the same twice.
Lightning veins cracked along his arms and chest, flickering with movement.
A trickster's mask on his collarbone smirked or frowned, shifting with his mood.
Swirling geometric sigils rearranged themselves across his back.
Scattered watchful eyes blinked along his spine and hands.
Subtle carnival motifs—spinning wheels, floating masks, twisting ribbons—glowed faintly when he played with reality.
But it was the broken chain tattoo that caught his eye.
Sometimes stretched along his forearm.Sometimes drifting up to his collarbone.
A reminder of connections lost.Of choices made.
It mended and broke further, depending on his actions.
He smirked, rolling his shoulders.
"Alright, my literary goddess, let's see if I can be your type."
Malvor turned on his heel, posing in front of the mirror with a flourish.
"Oh, Arbor, my favorite house, tell me—how do I look?"
He adjusted his collar, smoothed his sleeves, then shot the ceiling a charming smirk.
"Dark romance? Mysterious? Brooding?"
The candles flickered.
The mirror warped slightly—then snapped back.
The floor creaked.
Unimpressed.
Malvor scowled.
"Wow, Arbor. Betrayal."
Another flicker of light. Laughter.
"Alright, fine. What am I missing? More mystery? A deeper scowl? Should I brood in a corner and whisper about my dark past?"
The fireplace flared—then dimmed.
He pointed at the ceiling.
"Oh, you're mocking me now?!"
The windows shuddered, shaking with silent amusement.
"Don't forget—I built you!"
The chandelier dimmed just enough to express skepticism.
Malvor sighed.
"Fine. I'll try harder."
He snapped his fingers, summoning a new outfit.
Based on every book Annie had ever loved.
And then—
"Oh, no."
Arbor flickered the lights once—judging him.
Tight black Henley.Every muscle visible. Sleeves pushed up. Vein-riddled forearms.Dark pants. Slim but loose enough for that "effortlessly sexy" vibe.Boots. Heavy. Emotional turmoil boots.Leather cuff. Obviously.Silver ring. Mysterious™.
He tousled his hair just right.
The fireplace crackled.
"Oh, shut up, you old pile of bricks. This is sexy."
The chandelier blinked twice.
Doubt.
Malvor sighed.
"Fine. Maybe it's a little… predictable."
The floor creaked.
"Alright. Very predictable."
A window shuddered.
"Whatever. Annie will still drool."
A distant door slammed shut.
Malvor smirked.
"I'm taking that as a yes."
He turned in place, admiring himself.
"Am I missing anything, Arbor?"
The fireplace dimmed. Then flared.
A single window rattled.
The chandelier flickered twice.
Malvor squinted.
"What? More brooding? A tragic backstory? Do I need a dagger strapped to my thigh?"
Floor creaked—yes.
Snap.A perfectly placed dagger appeared.
Strapped in with black leather.
Arbor rattled a chair leg.
"What now?"
A soft gust of wind blew through the hall—an exasperated sigh.
Then—
A small silver chain necklace appeared on the table.
Malvor raised a brow.
"A necklace? Really? Necessary?"
Floor creak.Absolutely.
He sighed, putting it on.
Letting it rest just below his collarbone.
One final turn in the mirror.
The candles flared up dramatically.
Approval.
Malvor smirked.
"Knew you'd come around."
He adjusted the cuff. Ran a hand through his hair.
Then sighed.
"I look ridiculous."
A pause.
A grin.
"But in a good way."
Arbor flickered the chandelier—agreeing, but also 100% laughing at him.
Malvor rolled his eyes.
"Alright. Time to go ruin Annie's morning."