Kiera's POV
Three weeks could change a person.
Not enough to make me unrecognizable. Not enough to erase what I had been, or where I had come from, or the sharp little instincts that still lived under my skin like old bruises. But enough to make me pause sometimes and wonder if I was becoming someone else inside this house.
Things with me and Malakai had been... good.
Dangerously good.
Not loud. Not rushed. Not reckless in the way I used to imagine men like him would be. After what happened in the bathroom, he hadn't pushed me. Not once. There had only been quiet kisses stolen in shadowed hallways, his hand at the small of my back when no one was looking, nights where he held me like I was something fragile he didn't trust the world with. Sometimes we only lay there in the dark, breathing each other in. Sometimes it became more—mouths, hands, heat—but never farther than I could take.
He respected my body in a way I still didn't know how to process.
And somehow, that made him even more dangerous to me.
Because if Malakai had been cruel, I could have hated him.
If he had only wanted to own me, I could have resisted him.
But he was patient.
And patience had a way of slipping past defenses violence never could.
The only thing that kept scratching at the back of my mind was Bridget.
I couldn't tell if she knew something or suspected something or if guilt was just making me paranoid. Sometimes the way she looked between me and her brother felt too sharp, too observant. Other times she acted completely normal, and I would convince myself I was imagining it.
Today, she had dragged me into the second living room—an open lounge-like space on the west side of the mansion with low cream sofas, a sunken conversation pit, tall windows, and shelves lined with art books no one touched. It wasn't as formal as the main sitting room and nowhere near as private as Malakai's study or library. It was the kind of room made for company. For noise. For pretending this house was normal.
Bridget had two of her friends over for a group project, and she'd insisted I join them.
So there I was, sitting cross-legged on a thick charcoal rug with textbooks spread around us, papers everywhere, rulers, pens, a half-open calculator, and four people who looked far too polished to be struggling over geometry.
Jake sat opposite me, brown hair falling over his forehead in that deliberate, careless way boys thought made them irresistible. I recognized him vaguely from school. Ruben sat beside him, quieter, flipping through pages like he actually wanted to finish the work. Stacy was next to Bridget, her legs folded neatly to one side, chewing on the cap of her pen while studying a diagram with furrowed concentration.
The late afternoon light spilled gold through the windows, but the room still felt cool. The air-conditioning hummed softly overhead. Somewhere farther down the hall, I could hear faint footsteps and the muted clink of dishes from the kitchen.
Ruben tapped the page. "No, look—the angle should be sixty-eight if the triangle is isosceles."
Stacy frowned. "But that would throw off the next equation."
Bridget leaned over the book. "Unless the line segment is wrong."
Jake, sprawled lazily with one arm over his raised knee, smirked. "Or unless all of you are overthinking it."
I looked down at the problem, scanning the diagram once.
Then twice.
Something pinched at the edge of my mind.
"No," I said quietly. "The segment labeling is right. The problem is the theorem you're using."
Four heads turned toward me.
Jake lifted a brow. "Oh?"
I reached over and pointed to the page. "You're treating those angles like they're corresponding, but they're not. This line shifts the whole structure. If you calculate from the interior angle first, then use the exterior angle theorem, the answer changes."
For a second, no one said anything.
Then Ruben blinked, grabbed the pencil, and did the math quickly.
"Oh," he muttered. "Damn. She's right."
Stacy leaned closer. "Wait—yeah. Yeah, she is."
Bridget grinned like she'd won something personally. "See? That's why I told you all to let her sit with us."
Jake's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I caught it.
That little flicker in his eyes—not surprise, not embarrassment. Resistance. The kind some boys had when a girl corrected them and they couldn't decide if they were more annoyed or intrigued.
The conversation moved on, but I felt it. The subtle shift.
They started talking again, tossing answers back and forth, books sliding across the rug, Bridget arguing with Stacy over wording, Ruben half-laughing through it all. I was listening, trying to keep up, when I felt a hand settle on my shoulder.
I stilled.
I turned my head.
Jake.
His hand rested there too casually, his fingers warm through the fabric of my top, like he had every right.
He smiled.
Not mean. Not openly.
Just... familiar in a way I hadn't given him permission to be.
I gave him a small smile back, tight around the edges. "You should probably keep your hands to yourself."
He chuckled. "Relax. I'm being friendly."
Before I could answer, Bridget looked up.
"Yeah," she said dryly, "get your paws off my friend unless you don't want to use your hands again."
Ruben snorted.
Stacy hid a smile.
Jake raised both hands in mock surrender. "Jesus. Fine. I'm kidding around. She gets it."
I looked down at the page in front of me.
Actually, I don't.
I didn't like being touched unexpectedly. Not by boys who thought charm excused entitlement. Not by anyone I didn't choose.
I told myself to let it go. It was nothing. Bridget had checked him. The moment had passed.
Then, a few minutes later, he did it again.
A light brush this time—his fingers at my shoulder as he leaned in to look at the book.
I shifted away before I even thought about it.
The motion was small.
Instinctive.
But I knew he felt it.
And before anyone could say another word, a voice cut through the room.
Low.
Controlled.
Sharp enough to turn the air colder.
"It's getting late."
Every muscle in my body went still.
I looked up.
Malakai stood at the entrance of the room.
I hadn't heard him walk in.
He was still in black—of course he was—dark shirt rolled at the forearms, suit trousers, the top button undone. His presence seemed to pull the light out of the room instead of stepping into it. One hand rested in his pocket. The other hung loose at his side. Calm. Too calm.
His eyes were on Jake.
Not just looking.
Pinned.
Jake straightened a little. "We're still working."
Bridget rolled her eyes. "Can't you see that?"
Malakai shifted his gaze to her, but only for a second. "You can finish tomorrow."
"We're not done," Bridget said.
"You are for today."
The room fell silent.
Ruben was suddenly very interested in packing his calculator. Stacy began gathering papers without being told. Even Bridget, for all her attitude, recognized the tone in her brother's voice.
Jake rose last.
Slowly.
Like he wanted to make a point of not looking intimidated.
He picked up his notebook, stepped forward—and as he passed Malakai, Malakai leaned slightly toward him.
Not enough for anyone else to hear clearly.
But I heard enough.
"If you touch her again," Malakai said softly, "I'll break every finger on your hand one by one and make you grateful I stopped there."
Jake went pale.
It happened so fast I might have imagined it if I hadn't seen the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
He gave one stiff nod.
Then he left.
The others followed.
Bridget lingered by the doorway, glancing between me and Malakai with narrowed eyes. Suspicious eyes. Eyes that saw too much.
Then she sighed dramatically. "You're both exhausting."
She pointed at me. "I'm going to my room. I need sleep before my brain melts out of my ears."
Then she pointed at Malakai. "And you need to stop acting like a mafia dictator in my study sessions."
He didn't respond.
She muttered something under her breath and walked off anyway.
Soon the room was empty.
Only me and him.
And all the things sitting between us unsaid.
Malakai didn't look at me right away. He kept staring at the door Jake had disappeared through, jaw hard, shoulders tense.
I watched him for a second before quietly leaving the room.
By the time I reached his bedroom door, my pulse still hadn't settled.
I knocked once.
His voice came from inside. "Enter."
The room was dim when I stepped in. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in strips of evening light that fell across the floor and the edge of the bed. Malakai sat in a chair near the windows with a glass in one hand, amber liquor catching gold where the light struck it. He looked tired. Dangerous. Beautiful in that cold, ruinous way that never failed to undo me a little.
I closed the door behind me.
"How was work?" I asked, because I didn't know what else to say.
He took a sip, eyes on the glass. "Work is work."
That tone made my stomach tighten.
I stayed near the door for a moment, then stepped farther inside. "You're angry."
His gaze lifted to mine at last.
"Should I not be?"
There was no shouting in it. No raised voice.
That made it worse.
I shook my head quickly. "No. I just—"
He set the glass down.
"Did he touch you before today?"
My throat went dry. "No."
"Did he make you uncomfortable today?"
I hesitated too long.
And that was answer enough.
Malakai looked away, jaw ticking once. "You should have said something."
"I was handling it."
"By shrinking away from him?"
His words struck harder because they weren't cruel. Just raw. Tight with something dark and possessive.
"I didn't want to make a scene," I said softly. "I was going to tell him to stop. I was trying to."
His eyes narrowed. "Trying."
I stepped closer. "Malakai."
Something in his expression shifted at the sound of his name in my mouth.
I swallowed. "I would never..."
He stayed silent.
I forced myself to finish.
"I would never look at someone else like that. Not right now. Not when..." My cheeks warmed. "Not when I'm already looking at you."
Stillness.
Heavy and immediate.
Something in him broke—just enough.
His shoulders loosened by a fraction. The anger didn't disappear, but it changed shape.
He leaned back slightly and held out one hand.
"Come here."
I obeyed before I could think too hard about it.
The moment I got close enough, he caught my waist and pulled me down onto his lap with enough force to make me gasp. One arm wrapped around me immediately, secure and unyielding, while the other came up behind my back. Then he lowered his head to the curve of my neck.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
I felt him breathe me in.
Slowly.
Deeply.
Like he was trying to calm himself with my scent.
My hands, uncertain at first, slid up around his shoulders.
He exhaled against my skin.
"You don't understand what that looked like," he murmured.
"I didn't want him touching me."
"I know."
His voice was rougher now. Quieter.
I rested my cheek against his hair. "Then why are you still angry?"
He gave a humorless laugh against my throat. "Because I saw it happen."
That answer did something sharp and soft inside me all at once.
So I held him tighter.
After a while, he leaned back just enough to look at me. His eyes were still dark, but no longer storming.
Then, unexpectedly, he said, "I haven't heard from Raphael in days."
I blinked. The change in subject was so sudden it took me a second to catch up. "Is that bad?"
"Not necessarily." He brushed his thumb along my side absently. "He's working. Trying to trace the leak. Using every system we have access to. But every path ends in nothing." His mouth flattened. "Whoever it is knows how to cover their tracks."
"They'll make a mistake eventually," I said.
His gaze stayed on my face. "You sound certain."
"I am." I gave him the faintest smile. "Smart people usually get arrogant. Arrogant people get careless."
That pulled the ghost of something from him—not quite a smile, but close enough to make my heartbeat stumble.
"You sound like you've done this before."
"Not... mafia-level betrayal investigations," I said, and that almost made him smile for real. "But patterns are patterns. People always leave something behind."
He studied me for a long moment after that.
Not like a man looking at a girl.
Like a man trying to understand the shape of something rare in his hands.
Outside, the evening had darkened fully. The room glowed in low amber light now, shadows stretching across the walls, wrapping around us like they meant to keep us hidden.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
We just sat there.
His arms around me.
My fingers tracing slow, thoughtless lines against the back of his neck.
The glass untouched beside him.
The silence between us no longer empty, but full—thick with things we were both too careful to name.
Even then, even held in the lap of a man who terrified half the city, I could still feel the darkness in him. It never really left. It lived in the set of his jaw, in the quiet of his hands, in the way the room itself seemed to bend around his presence.
But for once, it didn't scare me.
For once, it felt like shelter.
And when he pulled me closer, when his forehead rested briefly against my shoulder like he was more tired than he would ever admit, I closed my eyes and held him back.