Malachi’s apartment. He doesn’t appear to be there. Huh. I wonder if he’s made it home yet. Another tap, and six squares pop up. One for his living room. Another for his kitchen. His bedroom. Guest bedroom. Utility room and back door. And the last for his front door.
I’ve had these hidden cameras installed in his place for about a year, and one of my favorite pastimes is checking them to make sure he’s good. Or to see what movie we’re watching for thenight. Or to check out what book he’s reading. Those Chronicles of Narnia seem to be a standard fave.
Some people have physical touch or words of affirmation as their way of expressing love.
Mine is stalking.
I close out of the app for good and dial Tera. She’s serious about all of us calling and checking in when we get to wherever we’re going. I wouldn’t call her a mama bear because, well, the bitch too crazy for that. But I’ll say she’s mama bear adjacent. Protective as fuck.
“Hey, you’re there?” Tera answers before the first ring even finishes.
“Just got in.”
I put her on speaker and set my phone on one of the attached shelves. After snatching off my motorcycle gloves, I pull out a drawer and carefully store them next to the other sets. I shrug out of my leather jacket and fix it just so over a hanger before storing it in a locker with the other four of various colors. Nef has accused me of being anal, while Kenya has thrown straight-up OCD at my head, but neither of the labels fazes me. I like my shit in order so I know exactly where I can find it. No surprises. Surprises aren’t fun; they’re chaos. And chaos gets people killed.
I sigh, bending down and unlacing my boots, then toeing them off.
My chest rises and falls on my harsh, burning breaths, my fingers curling into tight fists at my thighs. Rage rolls through me, and I don’t try to stifle it. Nah, I inhale it, drink it down, let it spread through me, engraft itself on me. Rage and I have become more than lovers in the nine years since Ma’s murder. We have soul ties.
I punch in the code to the garage entrance, then lean forward for the retinal scan. Once the subtle pop of the lock disengaging echoes in the silent room, I snatch up the phone and press down on the handle before pulling the door open.
“A’ight. I’m going back to the compound. See if I can get up with Dakari.”
“Sounds good. I—” I glide to a stop in the doorway, going still. “Let me hit you back.”
“What? What’s wrong?” Tera sharply asks.
“Nothing. Just let me hit you back.”
“Fuck that. I’m on my way over there.”
The calls ends, and I shake my head. No respect, I tell you. I’m her olori, but does she listen to me? Oh nooo. Still, she’s on the other side of town, so that gives me a good twenty-five minutes before she gets here. If she calls one of the other Seven to beat her here, I don’t have long, since Kenya lives the closest to me.
It’s still more than enough time.
And yet not nearly enough.
The corners of my mouth slowly curl upward even as the nerves across the back of my neck dance across my skin in flame-tipped boots.
He’s found me.
Sooner than I expected. But then again, if there’s one thing I’ve come to discover about him in the time I’ve… researched the Huntsman, it’s never to underestimate him.
Shit. Where’s the fun in that?
“I would ask how you got in past my security system, but I’d hate to ruin the mystery in our relationship.”
I close my eyes, shivering as all that delicious and gorgeous hate damn near rolls off him in waves and singes my skin through the layers of my clothes. It’s our thing, I think. Our form of foreplay. Well, one of them. I smile wider as I lower my hand and caress the black handle of my karambit knife.
Slowly, I turn around, unerringly finding him in the darkness of the den. This man might be able to meld into the shadows and become one with them with everyone else. But not with me. I could peep those wide shoulders with the divots next to his neck as if my fingers notched them there themselves. Could detect hisparticular scent of leather, gun oil, and scarred golden skin from a room permeated with others. Could pick up on that deafening void of sound in a space packed full of inane, useless chatter and laughter. His silence is more important, says more than a fucking State of the Union speech.
I know Malachi Bowden better than anyone alive.
And yet I am excruciatingly greedy to fill my well with my knowledge of everythinghim.
I move toward him, and like the devil rising from the gates of hell, he emerges from the deeper shadows beneath the stairs. And fuck if my breath doesn’t catch in my throat at how all that visceral, lethal strength and beautiful grace work together in a macabre ballet. The sharp angles and lines of his face appear even more brutal and stark with his fixed gaze and hard, wide mouth. His expression is flat, undecipherable, and yet I can read it clearly as if I alone possess the code. He’s death—my death—walking, and the insane part of me wants to drop on all fours and crawl toward it.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long. One thing my mother taught me—well, besides how to properly torture a person and keep them alive for at least forty-eight hours—is promptness. Tardiness is such a sign of disrespect.”
