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Tonya shoos me out of the kitchen toward the front room. “Go on, girlie. Go enjoy your pancakes!” Her voice lifts as she looks over my shoulder as she follows me to the now open front door. “It was nice meeting you, Malachi.”

Charlie’s practically bouncing in place by the time I’m almost at the front door. Malachi stands beside her, hands in his pockets, casual and composed, with Charlie’s backpack slung over one shoulder. He grins at Tonya. “Good meeting you too.” He looks at me, his grin turning into something warmer. “You ready?”

I nod, smoothing my hands down my wrinkled sweater.

Then, as we’re walking down the stairs toward the parking lot, Charlie pipes up again—deadpan and cheerful. “He said he knows a place where we could get tattoos after pancakes.”

Malachi doesn’t deny it fast enough.

ChapterTwenty-Five

BLAKE

The drive back to Topside is peaceful in the best possible way. Charlie’s in the back seat, humming to herself while scrolling on her phone, and Malachi’s one hand stays casually draped over the wheel, while the other reaches across to rest on my thigh. It’s possessive in the gentlest way—like a claim made not with force but with certainty. Steady. Reassuring. Like he’s with me right now, and he’s not going anywhere.

Eating a late breakfast at Blue Moon Diner turned out to be a fantastic idea. The place was all chrome and cracked booths, the kind of breakfast joint that smelled like maple syrup and a hundred years of coffee grounds. Charlie had pelted him with questions from the second we sat down: about vampires, about The Place, about his opinion on reality TV, and whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

And Malachi—to my absolute shock—answered every single one of them. Playfully. Patiently. Like he wasn’t the literal general of a vampire crime family but just some guy who happened to be wearing a very nice shirt while listening to my kid talk about roller coaster architecture.

It’s Saturday. No school. No immediate responsibilities, except prepping for night two of The Place’s grand opening. Joséphine’s coming back over to stay with Charlie for the evening. Malachi arranged it before we even left the diner, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like taking care of my life was just . . . what he did now.

My phone buzzes. A glance at the screen makes my stomach twist. It’s Sam.

Where are you?

Why the hell are the locks changed??

You okay? I went by to check and there were Nightshade guys watching the place. What’s going on? Are you in trouble?

I frown, not having any idea what he’s talking about. I steal a glance at Malachi and realize it must be something he did. Truthfully, I haven’t let myself think about the break-in. I’ve been too buried in work with the opening and making sure Charlie is taken care of. Malachi hasn’t said anything about putting people in front of my house, and now I don’t know if I’m more confused or rattled.

“Everything okay?” Malachi asks, glancing over.

“Yeah,” I say automatically, then catch myself. “Actually . . . no. Not really. Sam is texting me. He stopped by my place.”

I give Malachi a pointed look.

He doesn’t so much as blink. His hand stays exactly where it is on my knee, that possessive, protective weight anchoring me even as irritation flickers low in my chest.

Before I can say anything else, Charlie pipes up from the back seat.

“Was he asking to borrow money again?” she asks, voice flat. “Because maybe he should try getting a real job.”

I snort before I can help it, tension breaking just enough to make room for a breath. I sigh dramatically.

“Because he has so many ideas, Charlie girl. He’s an entrepreneur, remember?”

She giggles and I shake my head.

Malachi pulls into the underground garage a few minutes later. We all pile out, Charlie rushing ahead with her backpack to the elevator. The moment we step inside the penthouse, the warmth of the drive and the easy rhythm of breakfast evaporate. I close the door behind us and Charlie immediately beelines for the couch, settling in and mumbling something about watching a new survival show that’s like The Hunger Games.

Malachi moves past me like a shadow—heading toward the stairs. I watch him from the entryway for a beat too long, the slow coil of unease that started with Sam’s texts tightening with every breath I take. After another look at Charlie, reassuring me she’s already absorbed into her day’s plans, I follow him.

It’s not just that he had men posted outside my house. Or changed the locks.

It’s that he didn’t tell me.

My heart races with a mix of confusion and frustration as I make my way upstairs. I think I understand what he’s trying to do—he wants to keep Charlie and me safe after the break-in—but there’s a weight to his silence that gnaws at me. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on, that it has something to do with the few gifts I’d gotten. I realize now I was wrong to ignore the fallout of the break-in, too caught up in the stress of opening night and the chaos of every day since. But that doesn’t mean Malachi shouldn’t have been clear about what “taking care of it” actually meant.