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His golden eyes land on the bracelet—then on me.

The phone slides into his pocket, forgotten.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bravado’s the only thing keeping me on this stupid landing.

“You left in the middle of the night without a word,” I remind him, my voice flat. No inflection. No invitation. “I figured that was the end of it. Which was the deal, by the way. No strings. No notes. No bouquets and charm bracelets delivered to my job.”

His gaze narrows, but he hasn’t looked away from the piece dangling from my hand.

“I didn’t send that.”

Everything in him shifts.

The warmth drains from his features, replaced with that silent, terrifying stillness vampires pull from some ancient grave.

His voice ticks lower. Denser.

Ice and command in equal measure.

I try to laugh, but it catches in my throat. “Sure. That’s what they all say.”

Then he moves.

In a blink, he closes the distance between us and his hand wraps around my wrist—firm but not painful. My whole body tenses. First with alarm, then with, damn it, awareness.

His touch snatches all the air from the stairway.

He plucks the bracelet from my fingers and turns it over, inspecting the metal and clasp like it’s evidence in a murder case. His jaw tightens as his eyes roam the pale blue tinge of the inner box lid.

I wait for him to explain.

To apologize. To do anything.

Finally, he shakes his head and looks at me.

There is nothing in his gaze now but the cold, sharp calculation of a man with centuries of secrets behind him.

My stomach twists.

A strange sense of disappointment wells inside my chest.

Why did I expect more? Why did I think this was different?

I don't know if he notices, but Malachi's lips press into a thin line. "If I'd known you were looking for a gift, I would've asked what you wanted."

The joke falls flat, but a corner of his mouth quirks up.

It doesn't reach his eyes.

"Right." I clear my throat.

This time, I don't meet his gaze. Instead, I turn and head down the stairs, the bracelet box still clutched in my hand.

"Blake?"

I turn back, staying silent. Malachi is still—too still. He’s drawing in deep breaths, slow and measured.