Page 33 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

Chapter Nineteen

I sneak out of bed and into the shower before Malachi wakes up.

God, even asleep he looks good—his hair all disheveled, his body relaxed.

I don’t know what’s come over me. The kiss, the way his hands felt on me, the sound of his voice saying my name…

It’s too much. I need this cold shower to wake me up, to get my mind out of the gutter.

The cool water shocks me, grounding me as I run my fingers through my hair, rinsing away the heat clinging to my skin.

I crossed a line last night, and I’m not sure it’s one I can come back from. Not that I want to take it back, but I don’t want things to be weird. What even are we? I don’t know how Malachi feels, not really, and I groan, tilting my head back under the spray.

None of it matters. I don’t even know what my life is going to look like in the next couple of weeks. It’s reckless to think I even have the luxury of entertaining these feelings.

Get it together, Kat.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the mission.

Don’t let a hot, charming, infuriatingly sweet guy distract you.

If—and it’s a big if—Malachi really does find a way to free me from Marco, then maybe I can revisit whatever this is.

But until then, I need to protect myself, because if I fall too hard, the crash will destroy me when reality sets in.

I turn off the water, towel off quickly, and dry my hair.

A little makeup helps me look more put together, and I decide on something cute but practical: warm tights and a form-fitting long-sleeve blue dress.

It’s thick enough not to look completely ridiculous in the snow but flattering enough for me to feel confident in.

Satisfied, I open the bathroom door, expecting Malachi to still be passed out in bed.

Instead, he strolls in from the hallway wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, his dark hair damp and tousled.

Not today, God.

My eyes betray me, dragging over the hard lines of his chest, the strength in his arms, the sharp curve of muscle at his waist.

He clears his throat, a knowing smirk pulling at his lips. “See something you like, demon?”

I cough, snapping my gaze to his face, my cheeks heating. “You wish.”

He chuckles, walking to the window and pulling the blinds open, flooding the room with blinding light.

Then he turns and closes the distance between us in three slow strides, his gaze raking over me.

“You look so good I could take a bite out of you,” he teases, leaning down, his mischievous smile daring me to push him away.

“Hey, I do the biting around here, remember.” I show him my teeth and chomp.

As his face nears mine, he freezes, his body going rigid. His eyes narrow, locking on my neck like a predator spotting prey.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my heart skipping as his hand brushes my hair back over my shoulder. I know immediately what he sees. Oh, Damien. The bruises. They must have surfaced by now.

His jaw tightens, and hisses through clenched teeth, “Who did this to you?”

“No one alive, remember?” I force a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“Kat.” His voice is tight, his eyes dark with restrained fury. “I let it slide the first time, but this is the second time you’ve had bruises on your neck. What the fuck happened in the veil? I thought spirits couldn’t touch humans.”

I shift, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “It’s complicated,” I say quietly, looking at my hands instead of him.

“Try me,” he says, crossing his arms but staying close, his tension palpable.

I exhale slowly, bracing myself for the explanation I’m not sure how to give.

“Spirits can’t touch humans—not usually,” I begin. “I don’t even know if it was Damien the first time. It was all confusing. I couldn’t make out his face. But this case is different.”

Malachi sits beside me on the edge of the bed, still only wearing the damn towel. His presence is steady, grounding, even as his dark eyes bore into me. “I’ve seen you pet Mischka,” he says, his tone probing but not unkind. “You're spell casting.”

I nod, tucking my legs under me. “Yes, I do pet her, but it’s not the same as it was when she was alive.

She doesn’t feel solid, but there’s...something.

It’s warm, faint. Like touching a memory.

” I glance back at Mischka, who chooses that exact moment to appear, doing her usual circles around the room before stretching out on the bed behind us. Her presence always makes me smile.

“It wasn’t always like this,” I continue. “I couldn’t feel her for a long time. Our connection grew stronger because I keep her near me. She’s here so much now that it’s like she’s closer to crossing back over, if that makes sense.”

Malachi leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his focus unwavering. “So how is this case different? Why is Damien so strong? Why is the connection there so intense?”

I shrug, frustration bubbling under my skin. “I don’t know,” I admit. “But it scared the shit out of me. That’s why I wasn’t in the veil for long after he...” I falter, my throat tightening as the memory sweeps through my mind. “After he grabbed me, I panicked and ran back to you.”

His lips twitch into the briefest smile, gone almost before I register it. There’s a softness in his expression, like he’s holding onto the fact that I said I ran back to him.

“I don’t like this at all, Kat. I don’t want you projecting again.

The strength of that connection…” He pauses, running a hand over his damp hair.

“And you know the first thing you said before you passed out after you crossed back over was that Carmen set up Damien and he’s alive. Want to fill me in on what that means?”

After the heat of last night, I’d completely forgotten about my conversation with Damien—and Carmen’s warning. I was too busy thinking about him.

“Can you get dressed? It’s very distracting having you next to me like this,” I say, throwing my hands out in mock exasperation.

He chuckles, entirely unbothered, strolling over to the closet. And then he drops the towel.

Fuck me.

My eyes betray me again, drinking in every inch of him before I can stop myself. His back, his shoulders, his...everything. And by the smug look on his face when he glances over his shoulder, he knows what he’s doing.

“This,” I say, turning abruptly to face Mish instead. My hand rests on her fur, petting her with more focus than necessary. “This right here is why I forgot to tell you about my conversation with Damien.”

His low chuckle carries across the room as he pulls on his clothes. “I’m sorry you’re so easily distracted, clever demon,” he teases.

When he comes back to sit in front of me, now dressed in a perfectly tailored dark-brown suit that somehow makes him even more frustratingly attractive, I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding.

I narrow my eyes at him, catching the satisfied smirk playing on his lips. “You’re insufferable, you know that?” I grumble, crossing my arms.

“And yet,” he says, leaning forward with a cocky grin, “you can’t seem to look away.”

“I don’t know who killed Damien, but I do know Carmen was playing him. She might have had something to do with his death too,” I say, my voice steady despite the unease I feel.

Malachi’s expression hardens, his jaw tightening. “But you said before—he and Carmen were having sex the night they were killed, right?”

“They were, but Carmen had a boyfriend, and it wasn’t Damien.

He made it sound like she set him up or something.

I wish I knew who her boyfriend was, but no one at Viktor’s would tell me when I asked.

They all acted like they didn’t know—or didn’t want to get involved.

And she’s been too evasive to get an answer out of. ”

Malachi leans back slightly, his brow furrowed in thought. Mish stretches beside me, her movement so lifelike it almost pulls me out of the conversation. I stroke her fur absently as I continue.

“Why won’t Damien tell you who killed him?” Malachi asks, his voice edged with frustration. “Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he never saw the killer’s face either and he’s messing with you, using this as an excuse to keep getting his hands on you.”

His fists clench slightly in his lap, the muscles in his forearm taut with restrained anger. I reach over, resting my hand on top of his, grounding him.

“I think Damien knows exactly who killed him,” I say. “But he’s bored. And an asshole. It’s a game to him, Malachi. He’s doing it because he can.”

Malachi’s gaze flickers down to my hand then back to me. I pull my hand away, the contact lingering in the air like a silent promise.

“I don’t like it,” he growls. “The idea of him touching you—even in the veil—it pisses me off.”

“Trust me, I’m not thrilled about it either,” I say, managing a faint smile. “But I’ll figure this out. I always do.”

“I don’t want you projecting again,” Malachi says, almost commanding. “If he can leave bruises on your neck like this, what’s next? How far can he take things over there? I’ll call Marco and tell him you’re done working on this. Viktor can find someone else.”

He stands, pacing as if he’s already made up his mind.

I shoot to my feet, spinning to face him. “Yeah, that would go over great. Marco would come get me or demand you take me home and?—”

I don’t want to say it. Don’t want to admit to myself what that would mean for us…for me.

“And what?” Malachi presses, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not going back to him, Kat. I told you I’m going to take care of him. Give me and my team time.”

I want to believe him. I want to lean into the hope he’s offering.

But Marco isn’t someone you “take care of.” He’s a storm, a hurricane of calculated power and paranoia.

I glance at Malachi, his jaw tight with resolve, and my chest aches with the fear he doesn’t fully understand what he’s up against.