It rained the next night.
Not the gentle, lover's kind of rain—no. This was a bruising rain, sharp and slanting, like the sky was purging a grudge. The orchard groaned under it, branches bending low, leaves sobbing in surrender.
Citrine stood in the heart of it, barefoot on cracked soil, his hair plastered to his cheeks in glistening golden ropes. He wore the storm like silk. Wings spread behind him in slow, defiant pulses of light, refusing to dim.
He wasn't hiding from the rain. He was daring it.
A low whistle cut through the air.
He turned, blinking water from his lashes. Malakhov stood beneath a crooked lemon tree, not a single drop touching him. The rain parted around him like it feared him too.
"You like dramatic entrances," Citrine noted, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked like a scolding aristocrat.
"I don't enter. I arrive," Malakhov replied, voice wrapped in gravel and smoke.
Of course he did. The man didn't walk—he prowled. Even soaked earth didn't dare cling to his boots. He moved like consequence incarnate.
"Didn't peg you for the kind who visits his garden in a thunderstorm," Citrine mused, flicking his wrist. A lemon blossom bloomed instantly on a dying tree nearby. "Unless this is your version of foreplay?"
Malakhov's eyes narrowed. "The trees are reacting. Stronger. More blooms."
"Flattery gets you everywhere," Citrine sang.
Malakhov ignored him, stepping closer. "And the ghosts?"
"They're listening," Citrine said, voice softening. "Some are curious. Some... want revenge."
A flicker crossed Malakhov's face. Not fear. Something older. Guilt, maybe. Or maybe the memory of how many bodies it took to build this empire.
Citrine tilted his head. "You buried them too shallow. The earth remembers."
"I didn't bury anyone," Malakhov said flatly. "I burn what's useless."
"And yet I'm still here." Citrine smirked, wings twitching in satisfaction.
Malakhov's mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like a warning. "Barely."
Citrine floated up, crossing his legs mid-air. "You know what your problem is?"
"Only one?"
"You don't feel anymore. You control. You command. You crush. But you don't feel. That's why your orchard was dying. Not from rot. From absence."
Malakhov stepped forward, too close. "And you think you can fix that?"
Citrine didn't move. "No. But nature can. If you stop strangling it long enough to let it breathe."
Their eyes locked again—green storm against golden fire.
Then Malakhov did something unexpected.
He crouched. Not to touch, not to command—but to observe. His eyes scanned the soil, the roots, the pattern of decay.
"You don't have to be part of it to listen," Citrine said gently. "You don't need power to respect what lives here."
"I don't respect the dead," Malakhov muttered.
"Then respect the ones trying to grow," Citrine replied.
A heartbeat passed.
Malakhov stood slowly. Silent. Watching. Measuring. Not interfering.
Citrine smiled—soft and slow. Not mockery. Not sass. Something rare. Approval.
Malakhov glanced at him.
"What now?" he asked.
Citrine's grin sharpened. "Now? We play house, sugarplum. Me, the radiant lemon spirit. You, the mafia bastard with unresolved trauma. And if you break my orchard again…"
He leaned in, whispering like a curse wrapped in silk, "I'll hex your bullets into bubbles and your vodka into pink lemonade."
Malakhov stared. "I'd kill you."
"Aw," Citrine cooed, fluttering up to perch on his shoulder again. "That's practically foreplay in Russian, isn't it?"
He scoffed. "Tomorrow I'm having a big shipment.....I don't want to see any of this glitter bomb, near here"
"Excuse you, glitter bomb?! I'm an ethereal being!" Malakhov rolled his eyes and walks away.