I won't fall for the queen who burned my world-Chapter 170: Wich room ?

After dinner, Malvoria walked the dim halls of her castle like a queen with a mission.

An incredibly stupid, slightly emotional, definitely overthinking mission.

Where the hell were they supposed to sleep tonight?

The evening had gone better than she expected. Or worse. Or possibly both. She wasn’t sure anymore. Elysia had sat beside her at dinner like it was natural, like they’d done it a hundred times before.

They whispered, smirked, kicked each other under the table. For five whole minutes, Malvoria had forgotten about politics, Zera, spies, treaties, angry kings, and the fragile string that held the realm together.

And now she didn’t know what to do with that.

Where to sleep.

Where to sleep. free𝑤ebnovel.com

The concept sounded simple. Trivial. But this was not a normal situation. Nothing about their arrangement had ever been normal.

There was her room, of course.

The one Elysia had slept in last night—twice, actually, if one counted the pre-bath distraction and the post-mountain collapse into bed.

It was familiar now. Warm. Filled with the faintest traces of shared breath and stolen touches.

But then there was Elysia’s room, which, frankly, had better pillows and a suspicious amount of embroidered cushion covers for someone who claimed not to care about aesthetics.

And then there was their chamber.

The one no one had entered in months.

The one they’d slept in once.

On their wedding night.

Malvoria slowed her pace and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Gods. The wedding night.

What a glorious disaster.

There had been the ceremony. The awkward public binding ritual. The wine. The dagger hidden up Elysia’s sleeve.

Malvoria had disarmed her mid-kiss. They’d argued. Loudly. And then—well. The sex had been excellent, but the atmosphere had been what her mother liked to call "volatile" and what the court liked to call "a formal ceasefire disguised as foreplay."

Elysia had woken up the next morning, thrown a pillow at Malvoria’s head, and moved into a different wing.

Malvoria, naturally, had taken that in stride by pretending she didn’t care at all.

So... returning to that room was a choice.

A bold one.

And perhaps a deeply unwise one.

She reached the nearest wall and thunked her head gently against the stone. "This is ridiculous," she muttered.

A passing servant, balancing a tray of candied almonds, froze in the hallway.

Malvoria turned just enough to glare at him without saying anything.

He bowed. "Of course, Your Majesty. Very reasonable to speak to walls."

She raised one brow.

He bowed again and bolted.

Malvoria sighed and turned toward the wing that held the royal suites.

Alright. Her room was safe. But it was starting to feel too familiar. There was something dangerous about comfort—it lulled her into a false sense that she wasn’t still standing at the edge of a very sharp blade.

Elysia had a way of disarming her with small things: the way she touched her knee under the table, the way she whispered stupid comments about the dry meat like they were schoolchildren mocking a teacher.

And Elysia’s room?

Going there might make it seem like she was retreating. Like Malvoria didn’t want to claim her.

Which was absurd.

She wanted to claim her in several languages.

But their shared chamber... it was symbolic. Unused. Haunted by tension and threats and that time Elysia had aimed for her throat with impressive precision.

It would be poetic.

It would also be chaotic.

Malvoria turned the corner and stopped in front of that door.

Tall. Black-wood. Carved with the runes of their union. Still sealed by the subtle enchantments woven on the day they married—enchantments they’d both ignored ever since.

She stood there a long moment.

Then, because she was absolutely overthinking this and needed to regain some semblance of control, she reached for the handle and pushed.

The room had not changed.

The fireplace crackled quietly in the corner, automatically lit by proximity spells. The bed stood massive and untouched, the silk sheets still crisp and tucked like it was waiting for them to come back and finish an argument from weeks ago.

Gold embroidery caught the firelight in delicate arcs. Two chairs. A shared wardrobe. The carved mirror that neither of them used. A faint trace of jasmine lingered in the air—probably from Elysia’s soap. Of course it had lasted this long.

Malvoria stared.

This was stupid.

She was the Queen of Demons. She had built fortresses out of shattered bones and defied oracles with a smile.

She could handle a bedroom.

Still, she walked in like the floor might explode.

She took two steps.

Then stopped.

Then walked back to the door.

"Okay," she muttered. "This is fine. I will wait here. Like a sane, stable, extremely cool adult."

She leaned against the doorframe.

Then stood up again.

Then sat on the edge of the bed, and immediately stood up because it felt too intentional.

"Gods above," she groaned, dragging both hands down her face.

She paced.

She fixed one of the pillows.

She picked up a decorative dagger from the bedside table (because yes, of course there were decorative daggers) and twirled it absentmindedly, remembering the exact angle Elysia had used when she’d tried to stab her. It had almost been impressive. Romantic, even.

Then, right when she was mid-thought about how she really needed to ask her steward to restock the good wine in this wing—

The door creaked.

She spun.

Elysia stood there.

In a simple robe tied at the waist, hair damp again she must’ve washed her face after the dinner and cheeks still flushed from emotion and heat. She blinked once at Malvoria. Then at the room.

Then back to Malvoria.

Malvoria’s mouth opened.

But before she could say anything, Elysia’s lips twitched.

"You’re already here."

"I live here."

"In this room?"

"I—" Malvoria hesitated. "Was evaluating options."

"Were those options... wall-related?"

"Possibly."

Elysia walked in, slow and suspicious. "You look like you’re trying to decide whether to throw me onto the bed or jump out the window."

"I’m trying not to make this weird," Malvoria hissed.

"You’re failing."

Malvoria glared. "I’m doing my best."

Elysia stepped closer, eyes amused now, head tilted. "So... you picked this room?"

Malvoria nodded, slow and solemn. "We did technically survive our wedding night here."

Elysia smirked. "You mean the night I almost impaled you before the foreplay?"

"I said ’survive,’ didn’t I?"

Elysia laughed, and the sound knocked something loose in Malvoria’s chest. She took another step toward the bed and sat down, stretching her legs and sinking into the plush covers like she belonged there—which, Malvoria supposed, she did.

She tilted her head. "You’re not going to pace all night, are you?"

"No," Malvoria said, finally exhaling.

She walked over, sat beside her, and—after a moment of hesitation—reached out to take her hand.

Elysia didn’t pull away.

Didn’t speak.

Just laced their fingers together and leaned her head against Malvoria’s shoulder.

The tension bled out of the room slowly.

Malvoria closed her eyes and thought—not of battles, or court, or spies, or Zera.

Just of this.

Of her.

And the fact that, somehow, impossibly, this room no longer felt like a prison.