That if I just stay out of his way, avoid eye contact, don’t speak unless I absolutely have to, I can survive the rest of this damn lunch without snapping.
Then the meeting room door opens, and one by one, they start to file out. My father exits first, eyes scanning the room but skipping right over me as if I’m nothing. The others follow—James, Knox, East, Nash—each lost in their own thoughts.
Then Malachi walks out.
Last, as always, commanding attention without saying a single word. His leather cut hangs open, revealing a deep red shirt that hugs his chest with a possessiveness that borders on obscene. His walk is slow, confident, that ever-present undercurrent of danger and control wrapped in muscle and ink.
He sees me.
Of course he sees me.
Instead of passing by, instead of pretending I’m just part of the scenery as everyone else does, he leans against the doorframe and looks at me as though I’m the only thing in the room.
My pulse betrays me first. A sharp stuttering kick against my ribs before it starts to race. My body betrays me before my mind can shut it down.
That look on his face—as if I’m something worth watching, worth wanting—it lands with a heat I don’t know how to carry right now.
I hate him. I do. I hate the way he talks to me, the way he teases, the way he always gets under my skin as though it’s his personal hobby.
But I can’t stop looking at him.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
The more I try to hate him, the more he becomes the only person I want to see when everything else falls apart. The onlyperson who doesn’t ask me to smile, doesn’t pretend I’m not angry, doesn’t flinch when I shove.
He just meets me there in the fire. Unbothered. Unburned.
His smirk spreads slowly, eyes dragging over me with maddening focus. It’s not just attraction, it’s curiosity. It’s that same look he gave me outside the club when I blocked him out and he didn’t budge.
Like he’s daring me to admit I feel it too.
And I do.
I glance away first. Not because I want to. Because I have to.
Because the last thing I need right now is for him to see how close I am to falling apart.
But the moment is already burned into my skin. The tension. And heat. The ache I’ve been denying since the first time he called meSour Patchas if it were some kind of secret between us.
I don’t understand why I feel this pull. Why the man I swore I’d never trust is the one person I keep reacting to.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s because he sees all the parts I keep trying to hide and he doesn’t look away.
Chapter 16
Malachi
Mygazetrackseveryinch of Candace—her ripped denim shorts, that damn “Desperado” tee that hugs her curves as if it’s doing the Lord’s work. Her golden hair catches the light as she turns slightly, and I swear she wore that outfit just to torture me.
My jaw tightens against the rush of heat. She’s been dancing on the edge of my control since the second she walked in. Doesn’t even realize how easily she sets something wild loose in me just by breathing the same air.
Her legs cross tighter. A defensive move or maybe a tell.
She’s holding herself as if she’s a fortress under siege. But even the strongest walls crack when no one’s watching.
When our eyes lock, I smirk. The thing I know gets under her skin and makes her body stutter even as she tries to keep her face composed. She’s tense, always tense around me, as though she’s coiled too tight, ready to snap or bolt. But she hasn’t yet. Andthat alone? That tells me I’m under hers just as much as she’s under mine.
A flicker crosses her face, one she clamps down fast. As if desire itself is a weakness she can’t afford to show.
