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“I’m done denying anything,” I whisper.

“That a yes?”

“Yes.”

Malachi doesn’t kiss me again.

He lifts me—again—into his arms, bridal style, his breath a snarl by my ear. My arms fold around his neck, and I don’t ask where we’re going.

Then he moves, and the world becomes motion.

The hallway blurs. He’s too fast. Inhuman. The walls slip past in blink-thin jerks of light and shadow, until the back service door bursts outward and the cold night air slams into my face. A hush rings around us as we cross the lower parking garage—not the quiet of stillness, but the kind of silence the forest goes when a predator is stalking through. Absolute.

The SUV is already waiting—engine rumbling to a purr at the press of a button on his key.

He places me in the passenger seat like I might break.

Then he gets in beside me and drives, one hand locked on the wheel, the other still trembling between the gearshift and his thigh.

ChapterTwenty-Two

BLAKE

The silence in the elevator squeezes the air from my lungs—a plush, sound-swallowing luxury lift that erases the world the instant its doors seal. I hadn’t noticed it the first time, too busy clutching Charlie’s hand and drowning in panic after the break-in. But now, with Malachi beside me, I can’t not notice. The black-gloss walls, the brushed steel, the gentle, apologetic lighting, and every molecule of stillness pressing in. All of it turns too confining, too close, and every nerve ending I have is tuned to him.

Malachi stands so near I can feel the boundaries of his body without being touched—his presence a pressure field, electric and steady, radiating off him in slow, relentless waves. My pulse flickers at my wrists and races in my throat, the tension winding through my muscles so tight it’s a wonder I’m still standing.

I can feel myself unraveling, strand by desperate strand.

His energy suffuses the elevator, not loud or showy but solid, resolute—like a storm about to break. His scent invades the sterile air: dark woods, clean spice, and something earthy and biting beneath. My skin prickles. My stomach tightens with a hungry, twisting need.

He hasn’t met my eyes since we stepped in, jaw set, one hand buried in his pocket as if it’s anchoring him to restraint.

Then he moves.

My back hits the cold wall before I think to move. My gasp is swallowed by his mouth as he crashes into me—rough, unrestrained, like he’s been damming this back for a century and the flood’s finally here. There’s no warning, no gentle prelude. Just sheer heat and want.

I make a startled sound—half shock, half relief—as his hands seize my hips, pinning me with sure, urgent force. He traps me in place, my spine pressed hard to the steel, every inch of me bracketed by him.

This isn’t coy or careful. It’s frantic and jagged, as if we’re both frayed down to the threads and finally have permission to fall apart.

He breaks the kiss, breath painting my cheek, hot and ragged. “I can’t fucking wait anymore.”

“Don’t.” The word escapes me, a confession sharper than prayer, and my voice cracks under the weight of what I’ve tried so hard to bury. “Don’t wait.”

Because waiting is all I’ve done. Waited for logic or responsibility, trying to smother this hunger under layers of practicality—because he’s my boss, because it’s reckless, because wanting something for myself has always been a luxury I’ve never let myself take.

But this? Him?

This is the want I’ve choked down under years of discipline. That night after the interview, I told myself it was nothing. I shoved him behind the glass with every other near-miss—a want I never let myself grasp because timing was wrong, because I had to be careful, because I’ve taught myself never to let my longing show.

But no one has ever looked at me the way he does. Like I’m not broken or borrowed, not just surviving. No one has ever made me feel like I could want something unapologetically.

So for once—just this once—I’m choosing need. Nothing safe, nothing practical. Only heat, and whatever blaze it starts.

His palm slides up along my jaw—rough-skinned, careful, intent. His thumb brushes my lower lip, neither teasing nor commanding. Just memorizing me, mapping the truth of me like something fragile and sacred.

“I’m going to devour you,” he whispers against my mouth, voice low and intent, darkness curled at every word. “And you’re going to love every fucking second of it.”