Page 36 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

His Lucky Day

Morning light struggled to find its way past the closely closed curtains, and Makros' room was filled with broken shadows.

Leila lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, breathing steady even as a storm raged in her head.

Makros' arm was slung around her waist, weighty and possessive, the heat of it invading her clothing and settling into her skin.

Her gaze traveled to the dragon tattoo on his arm.

The ink was darker, the edges crisper–almost too fresh, as if it had been redrawn recently.

A slow, creeping horror curled in her chest. This tattoo was the last thing she'd ever seen before her world dissolved, before waking up to this hell.

"What have I done?" she thought.

The previous night flashed through her mind in slides: the champagne, the argument, the gun, the way he'd pushed her, pulled her, devoured her. The way she'd let him.

She tried to shift away, but his arm pulled her back, and he stirred. She felt it before she heard it—the change in his breathing, the subtle shift of the air as his senses awakened.

"You're avoiding me," he said, voice rough with sleep.

Leila didn't look at him. "I'm giving you more space to sleep."

There was a beat of silence between them. She expected him to laugh, to tease her. Instead, when he spoke, his voice was disgruntled.

"Why?"

She pressed her lips together.

Makros sat up, elbow supporting him, looking at her. She felt his gaze piercing her, testing for vulnerability.

"You don't like what happened last night," he continued. It wasn't a question but a statement.

Leila drew in a sharp breath. "I should."

"Did you?"

Leila didn't reply.

Her silence was loud.

Makros looked at her for a moment before he spoke.

"I've indulged you long enough." His hand closed around her jaw, forcing her chin sideways so she couldn't look away from him.

"Your excuses. Your little games. I’ve entertained for far too long.

But that's over. I don't care about how you feel about last night.

I don't need your permission to do anything to you. I never did."

He released her just as swiftly as he had seized her, dismissing the entire conversation.

Leila wanted to lash out, to demand just who the hell he thought he was, but she didn't have strength for it.

Makros didn't concern himself with whether she had regrets about being intimate with him. He was only interested in making sure it happened again and again until she surrendered her mind and soul.

There was a knock at the door.

Makros didn't glance away from her as he sharply said, "Enter."

The door opened and a woman entered, bringing a shiny black shopping bag. She was young, efficient-looking, her face set in a gentle expression. Without a word, she dropped the bag on a chair next to the bed and unpacked its content for them to see. A gorgeous, costly, fitted dark green silk dress.

Leila's stomach clenched.

Not again.

She hated when he dictated what she should wear.

The woman spoke to Makros. "As you requested, signor ."

He nodded brusquely in agreement before turning to Leila. "Freshen up. Dress."

She tensed. "Why?"

He rested against the headboard, his expression unyielding. "You're going with me."

Leila swallowed. "Where?"

Makros stood up, stretching with a loose ease before reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "A meeting." His eyes flicked toward the dress. "I want you to be presentable."

Leila did not budge. "And if I don't?"

Makros' lips pulled back into a sort of a sneer. "Then I'll dress you myself."

Her hands clenched in the sheets.

He was serious.

The woman hesitated, glancing back and forth between them, before Makros said again—low, commanding. "Leave us."

The woman left the dress on the chair, hurriedly departed, and shut the door behind her.

Leila hauled herself up, pushing the covers away.

Her jaw locked into place as she planted her feet on the floor, retrieving the dress from the chair.

All she wanted was to protest, to throw it back at him.

But to disobey him now, when she was still unsteady—would give him a reason to remind her of exactly how much he controlled her.

So she simply stood up, and went into the bathroom, closing the door.

Makros smiled to himself as he heard the soft rushing sound of his shower. She could struggle all she wanted to, yet she still complied.

They drove up before the high-end hotel, a towering glass-and-steel edifice. It was a private club, members-only, for the kind of people whose money could buy anything—and that included silence.

They were alone, just the both of them. He'd sent Duragon to make an investigation and told Nicolai not to bother coming along.

Makros and Leila strolled side by side through the lobby, but they were worlds apart.

She remained distant.

Remote.

Her silence gnawed at him, more than any words she could have hurled his way.

Makros was a master of restraint. Of reading people, playing them for his ends. But Leila was an enigma. She was fire and fury one moment, ice the next.

Now, she was being icy.

A seething, gnawing frustration curled up in his belly.

He could command men to kill on a whim. He could negotiate with the most lethal crime lords on earth.

But he couldn't command her.

He wasn't sure if he minded that or if it made him desire her more.

They moved towards the elevators, heading for the conference room where the meeting would be held.

Then the mood shifted.

Makros felt it the fraction of a second before it happened—the sudden silence, the imperceptible move of the receptionist's hand under the counter, the wide eyed glance a visitor standing close gave them.

He tensed.

Leila whirled in time to see a man pull a gun out of his suit coat, aimed directly at Makros.

The initial shot cracked and the bullet hit Makros. He stumbled, a curse tearing from his lips as blood erupted from his wound.

A woman screamed out. A man overturned a chair as he dived for cover. The chaos swept through the lobby in an instant, people rushing, screaming, overturning tables in their frantic bid to avoid a stray, or targeted bullet.

Leila moved without thinking, gun in her, her movements sharp and automatic. She fired once, and the bullet lodged in the shooter's back as he tried to make an escape.

He fell to the ground.

But she wasn't done yet.

Leila approached him, her heels clicking on the marble floor as if nothing had just happened. The man rolled over onto his back to face her with his gun but she shot again—head, chest, belly. A controlled, methodical killing.

The silence after the final shot was stifling. The tension remained in the air, heavy and electric. A few of the guests continued to cower behind bits of furniture, their eyes wide with terror. One man whimpered behind the concierge counter.

Then, the receptionist who’d scarcely even blinked, breathed a sigh, slumping against the counter in a casual stance. "Close call. I almost beat you to it."

With that, she pulled out a gold revolver from behind the counter and laid it on the shiny surface, and it fell with a muffled clank.

Leila looked at her.

Then the gun.

Then at her again.

The woman just winked and went back to typing at her computer, as if the assassination in the center of the hotel lobby was a usual sight, a small inconvenience.

Makros slapped a hand over his wound, scowling as he faced Leila. "Enough gawking. Get in the elevator."

She paused for another moment, then tore her gaze away from the receptionist and followed him into the elevator.

The doors slid shut.

The hotel suite was opulent, dripping with gold and marble, but Leila had only one thing on her mind—the first aid kit she found in the bathroom cabinet.

Makros sat in a chair, blood dripping through his tunic. He watched her move with chilly intent.

She thought for one shattering moment to let him bleed to death and die, but Makros was hers to kill on her own time, in the prettiest possible way and so she would patch him up.

She knelt down next to him, tearing open the kit. The bullet had lodged near his ribs.

"Shirt off," she ordered.

Makros smiled through the agony. "At least wait, let's go home first."

Leila glared at him coldly before she reached for the fabric and tore it open herself, exposing his wound. His smirk fell.

She worked rapidly, pulling out the tweezers and gauze. The bullet wasn't deep, but she still needed to dig in order to take it out. Her hands were steady, too steady.

Makros watched her carefully.

"You're calm under pressure," he stated.

She didn't reply. She packed a wad of gauze on the wound, applying firm pressure to stop the bleeding.

He was watching her hands.

The same hands that had hesitated before. The same hands that had trembled when she pointed his gun at him.

Now, they worked with precision.

She reached for the needle and thread, threading it swiftly before pressing the needle into his skin. Makros hissed, but he didn’t flinch.

“You’ve done this before,” he noted.

Leila remained silent, focused. The needle weaved in and out, pulling the wound shut.

Makros tilted his head, his gaze never leaving her face.

She was different.

Not just ruthless. Not just lethal.

She was his savior. And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure if that terrified him or thrilled him.

“Somebody just tried to kill you,” Leila finally said after she was done. “You’re not bothered about that fact?”

Makros leaned forward, resting his hand on the stiches. He exhaled through his nose, chuckling. "Honey, if I lost sleep over every man who attempted to kill me, I'd never close my eyes."

She crossed her arms, watching him. "You were shot."

He glanced down at the bloody shirt. "And yet, I'm still breathing and he's not."

She shook her head. "One day, someone's going to get lucky."

Makros grinned, bending towards her. "Well, aren't you the lucky one?"

Leila didn't back down. She looked at him, firm, unblinking. "You should have died back there."

His hand brushed against her jaw, a light, mocking touch. "Disappointed?"

"Not yet," she replied. “I clearly told you not to let one harm come to your hair. Now this....”

"Come on," he said, standing up. "We have a meeting to attend."

Leila paused for a second before falling into step with him.