Anastasia continued reading, tuning Malvor out with a skill that should have won her international recognition.
Malvor, naturally, took this as a personal challenge.
At first, he started small—stretching out on the couch dramatically, sighing like a man suffering from the deepest existential crisis. He draped himself over the furniture, shifting restlessly, waiting for her to at least acknowledge his presence.
Nothing.
He scooted closer.
Still nothing.
So, naturally, he escalated.
"Annie, my sweetest muffin cake," he purred, his voice dripping with faux affection. "You're breaking my poor little heart by ignoring me like this."
She turned a page.
Malvor pouted, adjusting the cuff of his immaculately tailored suit, letting the light catch on the luxury watch adorning his wrist. He leaned in, resting an elbow on the arm of her chair.
"Annie darling," he sighed, reaching out to gently tug at a curl of her auburn hair.
She stilled for half a second.
He grinned wolfishly.
Then, without a word, she casually tucked the strand back into place and kept reading.
Malvor gasped in mock offense.
"Oh, come on! What does a god have to do to get a little attention around here? I could literally, quite literally—rewire the very fabric of reality, and you'd still just be sitting there, flipping pages like I don't exist."
Silence.
Fine. If antics wouldn't work, perhaps intrigue would.
He straightened, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle in his suit, then cleared his throat.
"It was a night unlike any other," he began, dropping into a deep storyteller's cadence. "The stars had aligned in a way that foretold only one thing: adventure and peril. And I—great and powerful, breathtakingly handsome, oh and very tall, Malvor—stood before a trial so treacherous, so unfathomably dangerous, that even the most fearless of souls would have crumbled beneath its weight—"
Anastasia turned another page.
He narrowed his eyes.
"—A TRIAL in which I had to outwit a council of twelve celestial judges, each sworn to destroy me should I fail their challenge. And do you know what that challenge was, Annie pookie bear? Do you?"
She did not respond.
Malvor leaned closer, voice a conspiratorial whisper. "A baking contest."*
Still nothing.
"The fate of existence rested upon my ability to craft the most divine soufflé ever tasted. Do you understand the stakes, Annie sugarplum? The delicate balance of flour and egg whites? The agony of waiting for it to rise, knowing one wrong move could send it all crashing down—"
Another page turned.
He stared at her, offended.
Then, slowly, he sank back into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest, lips pursed in thought.
"Alright," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "I see how it is. This is war now."
Anastasia, his darling Annie pop, had no idea what she had just started.
Finally, she looked up.
"Malvor, is there something you want me to do?"
Malvor tilted his head, watching her like a puzzle he was determined to solve.
Did he want something from her? Yes.
Did he know what exactly? Not yet.
But what he did know was that he was going to see that wall break. He would get to her. He would.
He thought long and hard, weighing his options. He could keep annoying her, but she was stupidly good at ignoring him. So what would make her crack?
Then, the thought struck him.
What if… he just asked about her? Would she even answer?
He leaned forward, arms draped over his knees, flashing his most charming grin.
"So, Annie, my precious Annie, tell me about yourself?"
She turned another page. Didn't even look up.
"What do you want to know?"
This. Damn. Woman.
Wouldn't even pretend to make an effort! Not even a hint of curiosity!
Malvor narrowed his eyes. Fine. If she was going to give him nothing, then he'd start small. Something simple. Something she had no reason not to answer.
"What's your favorite food?"
She paused.
Malvor froze.
She tucked a finger into her book to mark her place and finally—finally—looked up at him.
Undivided attention.
Glorious attention.
Somewhere, angels were singing. Choirs of them.
He tried—not entirely successfully—not to let his eagerness show.
"I'm not picky," she said, her tone even. "But I love dessert. I go through phases of what food I like best at any time."
Malvor blinked.
Then, slow as a cat stretching in the sun, he grinned.
"Dessert, hmm?" He steepled his fingers. "Well, Annie cupcake, I think that means I have no choice but to test your current phase."
Anastasia sighed, clearly regretting ever speaking. "Malvor—"
Too late.
He snapped his fingers.
The space between them shimmered, and suddenly, the table was filled with every kind of dessert imaginable.
Cakes, pastries, chocolates, fruit tarts, puddings, soufflés—some recognizable, some entirely alien creations of his own chaotic design. The air filled with the scent of warm vanilla, cinnamon, and melting sugar.
Anastasia blinked at the overwhelming display, then looked back at him, unimpressed. "That was unnecessary."
Malvor smirked, leaning back with a very self-satisfied expression.
"Ah, but was it, Annie sugarplum? Or are you just afraid I might actually impress you?"
She stared at him.
Then, with excruciating patience, she reached forward, picked up a fork, and took a bite of a perfectly crafted slice of cake.
Chewed. Swallowed.
Then went back to her book.
Malvor stared.
"That's it?!" he demanded.
Another page turned. "It's good."
Malvor dragged a hand down his face.
This woman was going to kill him.
Anastasia finished her slice of cake, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and stood. Without a word, she grabbed a few more things—a selection of chocolates, another small piece of cake, a fruit cream, and a tart.
Malvor watched her with rapt attention, chin propped on his hand as if she were performing the most fascinating act he'd ever witnessed.
She sat back down, completely unbothered by him, reading as she sampled her new selections.
Malvor, of course, took this as an opportunity to launch into another completely fabricated tale.
"Ah, Annie darling," he sighed dramatically, lounging back in his seat, "I see you're enjoying the fruits of my labor. Quite literally, actually."
She didn't look up.
"You see, that chocolate? Those pastries? They come from my world. A world of rolling cocoa hills, where rivers flow with molten caramel and mountains are made of spun sugar." He gestured as if painting the scene in the air. "I toiled endlessly in those fields, harvesting each cocoa bean by hand, sweat glistening on my perfectly sculpted form—"
Anastasia bit into a piece of chocolate.
"—Day and night, I worked, my tears salting the caramel rivers, my blood staining the sugar plains—"
She sipped her water.
"—The people of the land cried out, 'Malvor, oh mighty and selfless one, you must rest!' But no, I said, 'Not until my Annie sweetpea has her dessert!'"
She finished the last of her tart, stood, and, to his absolute delight, grabbed another plate.
This time, she selected a variety of things, but one stood out, a glowing purple gelatinous substance that pulsed faintly as she set it down.
Malvor grinned. "Hmm. Brave."
Anastasia ignored him, flipping another page as she methodically worked through her new selections.
He continued, undeterred.
"The cocoa trees, Annie lovebug, were particularly temperamental. I had to sing to them, you see—"
She picked up a piece of chocolate.
"—A very specific, very ancient hymn—"
She sipped her water.
"—A song that could only be performed at twilight under the glow of the caramel moon—"
And then, without hesitation, without fanfare, she picked up the glowing purple slime with her fork, took a bite, and…
Moaned.
Malvor stopped speaking.
No, correction, his entire brain short-circuited.
His mouth hung open, his entire body physically malfunctioning as his mind completely abandoned him.
What.
What in the hell.
What in the actual, cosmic, divine, transcendent hell was THAT?!
The sound had been innocent. Thoughtless. Pure, genuine enjoyment. But it wrecked him.
His brain flatlined.
A thousand thoughts tried to form, none of them coherent.
Had she—?
Was she even—?
What just—?
Anastasia, oblivious to his absolute downfall, took another bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"Hmm," she mused. "That's really good."
Malvor physically had to restart himself.
He snapped his mouth shut, sat up straight, and gripped his own knee to stabilize reality.
He cleared his throat. "I, I know," he managed. "Obviously. That was… intentional."
She took another bite, her absolutely devastating bright blue eyes scanning her book as if nothing had happened.
Malvor inhaled sharply.
This—
This—
This was dangerous.
"Annie! What in the actual flames of hell was that?" Malvor sputtered, his brain finally managing to reboot after its catastrophic failure.
Anastasia, in all her insufferable, infuriating, completely unbothered glory, turned another damn page.
And then— shrugged.
She SHRUGGED.
"Bloody hells, woman!" he all but shouted, gesturing wildly. "That damn noise you made!"
She finally looked up, meeting his gaze with those impossibly blue eyes. Calm. Detached.
"What noise?"
Malvor gawked at her. "Oh, oh, oh, Annie, my Little Orphan Annie," he drawled, voice dripping with melodrama, "going to play coy now?"
She shrugged again.
INFURIATING. WOMAN.
His hands clenched into fists. His jaw ticked. His entire divine being vibrated with unprocessed frustration.
And then, he growled.
Freaking growled.
A low, irritated, completely undignified sound that rumbled deep in his chest before he could stop it.
Anastasia blinked, tilting her head slightly. "Did you just—"
"No," he snapped, cutting her off, straightening his perfectly tailored suit as if that could somehow restore his dignity. "Absolutely not."
Her lips twitched.
Oh.
Oh, she was enjoying this.
Malvor inhaled through his nose, recalibrating his entire existence.
He was a god. A GOD. A chaos god! He had unraveled empires, caused celestial wars, shaped reality itself with nothing but a whim!
And yet.
This woman.
This entirely mortal woman.
Had just shrugged him into a meltdown.
No. This was not over.
Malvor took a slow, steady breath, smoothing his hands down the lapels of his perfectly tailored suit.
Regain composure. Maintain dignity. Be the bigger deity.
Once he felt sufficiently less feral, he exhaled, forcing himself into a relaxed, lazy sprawl across the couch.
"Annie spice cake," he purred, voice light and teasing, "what are you reading?"
Without looking at him, she lifted the book, showing him the cover.
A very popular romance novel.
His grin exploded across his face.
"Ahhh, yes," he drawled, tilting his head as if studying an ancient artifact. Then, shifting ever so slightly, he threw her a look so smug it should have been illegal.
"So, remember me teasing you about me being like the men in your books?"
Anastasia didn't reply, but that was fine, because when had that ever stopped him?
"Well, my darling Annie, I wasn't exaggerating. In fact," he lifted a single finger, twirling it idly in the air, "I am a very popular topic of writing. There are entire genres written about me!"
One of her perfect eyebrows lifted.
Beautiful encouragement if he ever saw it.
He grinned. "Yes, yes," he continued, shifting dramatically, "I am the object of many lovers' stories, the inspiration behind passion, desire, intrigue—"
With a flick of his wrist, a book appeared in his hand.
A romance novel.
With his face on the cover.
Anastasia looked at it.
Looked at him.
Then looked back at the book.
And laughed.
Hard.
Malvor beamed as she dissolved into genuine, full-bodied laughter, something she clearly hadn't expected from herself. Her head tilted back slightly, her shoulders shaking, completely unguarded for once.
And damn it all, it was perfect.
The sound did things to him.
But more than that, he won.
"Ahhh," he sighed happily, tapping the book against his knee. "I do love being right."
Anastasia shook her head, still catching her breath, wiping at the corner of her eye. "You're insufferable."
"And yet," he teased, waggling his brows, "you're still here."
She rolled her eyes, but she picked up her book again.
And he knew.
He knew she was still smiling.