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He steps in front of the window I’ve already scrubbed twice, swallowing the light. Typical. He fills a space without trying, shoulders like a barricade, presence like a command. My eyes track the scars twisting along his forearms—raised, ridged, cruel. Someone carved those with intention. Someone wanted to ruin him permanently. Maybe they succeeded. Maybe they didn’t.

Either way, I look anywhere but his face. Those mismatched eyes strip me bare every time.

Silence settles between us, familiar as breath. I’d slipped back into it without meaning to—back into that quiet place I crawled into when I thought Cass had come home, when fever blurred the lines and I chased a ghost through my own house. Malek ripped the truth out of me like he was tearing out a rotten root, and I haven’t forgiven him for it. I don’t know if I ever will.

“The world keeps taking from me.” His voice is low, rough, scraping against the inside of my ribs. “You’re the only thing I reached back for.”

The words lodge in me like shrapnel—hot, festering, impossible to ignore. Why should it matter? Why should I care if I’m the only thing he’s reached for? Why does that ache feel like a wound I don’t know how to treat?

“Selah,” he says, and something in his tone snaps tight enough to hurt. “Look at me.”

There’s an edge there—sharp, almost desperate—and my gaze jerks up before I can stop it. Our eyes collide. His are a storm and a wildfire at once, clashing in a way that makes me feel like I’ve stepped into the blast radius.

And for one breath, one heartbeat, I can’t look away.

He studies me—slow and deliberate, like he’s checking for cracks no one else can see. His gaze drags over every inch of my face, lingering in places that make my skin tighten. Then his throat works, once…twice…like he has to force the words out past something raw in him.

“I’m still here.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

I’m still here.

Because you swore too, I almost spit back. Because you’re stubborn and reckless and loyal in all the wrong ways.

But I don’t say it.

What good does it do to kick an already beaten dog? Malek’s been bruised by this world long before he ever laid eyes on me. Scarred. Carved. Broken in ways he thinks he hides.

I wordlessly drop the rag. It hits the floor with a dull slap, and Malek gives a single approving nod.

“We’re patrolling the west side of the property today.”

My breath stutters.

The west side.

Where he’d gutted that Iron Gospel fanatic like he was carving rot out of a carcass. The dirt still dries darker there if you stare long enough. Even now, I see it again—the way the blood steamed in the cold, rising in thin, ghostly ribbons. The way he killed him ruthlessly with no hesitation.

And now he wants to go back?

My pulse kicks hard. I take a step back without meaning to.

Malek steps forward like he was expecting it—slow, deliberate. His breath ghosts across my cheek, warm and close, and underneath the smoke and steel of him there’s that impossible scent of lavender. It throws me off every damn time, like softness stowed away on a man-made of ruin.

His hand lifts—and I see it tremble, just a flicker, barely there, but unmistakable.

He brushes my hair off my shoulder, fingers skimming skin that shouldn’t feel as hot as it does.

“Come on, little crow,” he murmurs, voice low enough to settle right under my ribs. “Who are you going to let win? Those rotten bastards…or you?”

The words hit me harder than the touch.

Before I can answer, he whistles—one sharp, commanding note—and Shadow bounds toward him like joy hasn’t been outlawed in this world.

Malek heads for the property line without looking back, shoulders set, steps steady.

And I follow—of course I do—trailing behind the man who terrifies me, steadies me, and knocks my whole world off its axis with a single touch.