But a new thought struck me like lightning.
I stiffened.
Pulling back from her, I met her gaze with sudden urgency. “I have to speak with Malik. Alone.”
“Yes,” she breathed, her eyes bright with anticipation. “You must hurry—before he strikes first.”
With that, I spun on my heel and stormed out, the fire of vengeance igniting beneath my skin.
Malik’s estate loomed in the quiet heart of London, veiled in elegance and power. The iron gates rose high, adorned with curling gold filigree, and beyond them, manicured gardens stretched in perfect symmetry—lavender, roses, and foxgloves blooming in violent color. A fountain roared at the center, its marble figures forever caught in a dance of myth and splendor.
The house stood at the end of a long path, proud and white against the darkening sky. Ornate columns framed the entrance, and intricate carvings adorned the stone facade—flawless, stately, inviting.
The entrance to Malik’s estate was a masterwork of craftsmanship—an ornate portal of burgundy-painted mahogany, carved with filigree so precise it seemed to ripple in the fading light. Two brass knockers flanked the door, each sculpted into a lion’s head mid-roar, their jaws frozen in silent challenge. Beneath them was a polished metal plaque engraved with intricate swirls and curlicues—symbols of elegance, secrecy, and power.
Above, a grand bay window overlooked the street, and from it extended a pair of balconies crafted in matching wood and finish, like open arms welcoming the world—or warning it.
Classic Malik,I thought. He always had a taste for refinement, surrounding himself with beauty and control.
When the door opened, he looked surprised to find me on the stoop.
“Balthazar,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’ve recovered quickly. How fortunate.”
“Yes, yes, spare me the pleasantries,” I said curtly, brushing past him into the foyer.
I shed my coat and hat, hanging them on the claw-footed coat rack carved from ebony. Then I turned to face him squarely.
“We need to talk.”
Malik studied me briefly, his expression unreadable—but I knew him too well to be fooled. Somewhere behind his mask, calculations were being made.
I looked at him, truly looked at him—and for a moment, I hoped Alina was wrong. Iwantedher to be mistaken. I loved Malik. Adored him. I had nurtured his darkness like a father, like a brother, like a twisted mirror of myself. We’d killed together, bedded women together, whispered secrets in the dark no one else would ever understand. To think he now desired to eclipse me—to rise above me—was a wound I hadn’t yet figured out how to stop bleeding.
“Of course,” he said, his voice calm and controlled. He closed the door gently behind us. “Can I get you anything? A glass of wine? Bourbon?”
I held up a hand. “No. I’m fine. Where can we speak privately?”
He nodded and led me through his opulent halls, past rooms overflowing with curated treasures from across the globe—silks from Persia, statues from Rome, ivory from the East. The air was thick with the sweet scent of fresh flowers artfully arranged on every surface, making my stomach turn. It didn’t suit him. It felt… curated. Artificial.
We entered his smoking parlor, a space far more to my liking. The scent shifted—tobacco and leather, rich and earthy. Dark wood-paneled walls glowed beneath low lamplight. Leather armchairs sat around the hearth, flanked by carved tables topped with cigars, crystal ashtrays, and fine smoking implements. The decor was masculine and tasteful—artwork of hounds mid-hunt, men on horseback charging through fog and blood.
Malik gestured toward one of the deep leather armchairs.
I sat, sinking into the worn cushion as he crossed the room with unhurried elegance. From a Spanish cedar-lined humidor in the corner, he retrieved a box of his finest cigars—aged, hand-rolled, and absurdly expensive. He extended the box to me.
I carefully selected one, brought it to my nose, and inhaled the rich scent of tobacco and clove. It was earthy, discreet, and dangerous.
Malik did the same, choosing his with practiced ease before settling into the chair opposite mine.
“Let’s light up, shall we?” he said, striking a wooden matchalong the side of the box with a drag that revealed the flicker of flame.
I mirrored him, touching the flame to the tip of my cigar and puffing gently until it smoldered to life. The scent of burning tobacco filled the parlor, smoke curling like serpents around us, filling the air with a familiar and foreign haze.
We smoked in silence for a time—two predators in a den, pretending peace.
Finally, Malik broke the quiet. “So… what do you wish to speak of?”
I tapped ash into the tray, watching the smoke dance lazily upward.
