Page 21

CHAPTER 21

Raven

This is not, and I repeat, not my vibe. Malakai's apartment is the exact opposite of everything I manifest, period.

It’s dark. Not dimly lit dark. Not moody bachelor pad dark. Dark dark. Like, this is where serial killers lure people to die dark. Well, not the average dirtbag killer, but the rich ones.

Black leather couch. Charcoal walls. Dark wood furniture. The whole place is severe, sleek, completely void of warmth. It still boasts a luxurious look, because, come on—he's the captain of one of the most successful hockey teams in the league. But it sure isn't for me.

I step further in, my sneakers barely making a sound against the polished hardwood floors, instantly regretting this entire situation.

This isn’t just a place. This is Malakai’s territory. And now? It’s mine too. No matter how unfortunate that is.

I drag in a slow breath and adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder, trying not to let the aftermath of my decision crush me. Well, I didn't have much choice to begin with anyway. Behind me, Malakai swings the door shut and grins.

“Welcome home, Lamb.”

I roll my eyes, dropping my bag onto the floor. “Don’t push it.”

He chuckles, brushing past me, effortlessly grabbing the heaviest box I’d brought in from his absurd, monster-sized truck.

I frown. “I can carry my own stuff, you know.”

He smirks. “Sure you can.”

I bristle, marching toward another box—only for Malakai to snatch it away before I can even lift it.

"Seriously?" I glare at him. "I got it ."

He cocks his head, so fucking smug. "Nah, you don’t."

I narrow my eyes, my stubborn streak flaring like a goddamn alarm. “Are you always like this, or are you just trying to piss me off?”

“Both,” he says smoothly, tossing the box onto the couch like it weighs nothing.

I inhale through my nose, ready to fight this, but before I can even think about grabbing another box, he’s already moving again—lifting, carrying, loading in my things like he’s on a goddamn mission.

It’s infuriating. And worse?

I know what he’s doing. This isn’t about me needing help. This is about control. Him staking his claim on this arrangement.

On me.

And I refuse to let him think he has the upper hand. So I grab the last box, yanking it toward me before he can snatch it.

His smirk deepens. “You really gonna fight me over this, Lamb?”

I lift my chin, gripping the box tighter. “You gonna be an overbearing asshole the entire time I live here?”

His green eyes glint, amusement flickering through them. “Probably.”

I grit my teeth. “Good to know.”

Then, just because I can, I march toward the hallway—box in hand, refusing to give him the satisfaction of taking this one from me.

Malakai watches me go, and I swear I hear him chuckle under his breath.

Once the last of my stuff is inside, I drop onto the couch, exhaling sharply.

The apartment is way too nice for a college student.

It’s massive. The ceilings are high, the layout open, and the entire place screams money and power .

But it also screams Malakai .

Everything is dark. Black, gray, more black. The kitchen? Dark countertops. The floors? Dark wood. The furniture? Black leather.

The only color in this whole damn place comes from the view outside the window—from the city lights glowing in the distance.

I glance around, slowly turning to Malakai with a smirk.

“So,” I say casually. “What’s with the villain aesthetic?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “The what?”

I gesture at the depressing-ass decor. “All this. Your Batman cave. It’s like you picked every item based on how evil it looked.”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed. “I like black.”

I snort. “No shit.”

He watches me, waiting, knowing I’m not done yet.

I grin, stretching my arms over my head. “You know, we should add some color in here.”

His expression flatlines.

I tap my chin, pretending to think really hard. “I’m thinking… some nice soft pink pillows. Maybe a cute sunflower painting. Oh! And a fuzzy white rug?—”

"Don’t push it, Lamb," Malakai cuts in, voice low, dangerous.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Because for all his glowering and scowling, I can see the way his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smirk.

“Oh, come on,” I say sweetly. “A little color won’t kill you.”

He steps closer, his green eyes dark with warning.

"Try it, and I’ll burn your shit in the fireplace."

I blink at him, grinning. “You wouldn’t.”

He leans in, voice a low, taunting drawl. "You wanna bet?"

A shiver crawls up my spine, and I hate that I feel it. That awareness. That tension that wasn’t supposed to be here. I lift my chin, refusing to let him win this one. “You’re so dramatic.”

He smirks, stepping back. "And you’re annoying."

"You love it."

The second the words slip out, I freeze. Malakai arches a brow, like he knows I didn’t mean to say that.

I clear my throat, looking away. "Anyway," I say quickly, moving past this whole weird moment. "Where’s my room?"

Malakai grins—a slow, dangerous grin. And I immediately regret asking.

"About that," he says, voice smooth as silk.

I narrow my eyes. "What."

He jerks his chin toward the only visible bedroom door. "That’s the one."

I blink. "Okay… and where’s yours?"

His smirk deepens.

And that’s when realization hits me like his beast of a truck.

"Wait," I say, heart sinking. "That’s the only bedroom?"

He grins. "Yep."

I stare at him... then at the door... then back at him.

"You have got to be kidding me," I mutter.

He shrugs, way too fucking entertained by this. "You’re the one who made the deal, sweetheart. Hope you’re a deep sleeper."

I feel my entire soul leave my body.

I’m going to die here.

Malakai watches my horror unfold, then casually strolls past me toward the hallway, pausing just long enough to flash me a smirk.

"Come on, Lamb. Let’s get you settled in."

And as I stand there, mentally preparing for what fresh hell I just signed up for?—

I know one thing for sure.

I am so incredibly fucked.

The second I step into Malakai’s bedroom, I stop dead in my tracks.

Of course.

Of fucking course.

The entire place is just as dark as the rest of the apartment, if not worse.

Black walls. Black sheets. A massive, intimidating bed with zero personality. The furniture? Sleek, minimal, and just as depressing as the rest of his villain lair.

I turn to Malakai, who’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking way too smug.

"You like it?" he drawls, knowing full well that I hate it.

I spin to face him fully. "No. Absolutely not."

His smirk grows. "Tough luck, Lamb. Not changing it."

I narrow my eyes. "If I’m staying here, we’re adding color."

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. "No way in hell."

I cross my arms. "You seriously expect me to live here, to sleep in here, with everything looking like a damn funeral home?"

His eyes darken slightly at my words "sleep in here," but he doesn’t react otherwise.

"You don’t like it?" he says, voice deceptively casual.

"No," I say flatly.

He tilts his head, stepping closer. "That’s cute. You think I care."

I scoff, marching past him, out of the bedroom, straight toward my bags in the living room. I dig through one until I find what I’m looking for—a tiny, stupid, ridiculously soft stuffed bunny I’ve had since I was a kid.

Malakai watches me with mild curiosity as I return to the bedroom.

Without saying a word, I march straight to the bedside table and set the bunny down.

Right there.

In his space.

A bright, fluffy, offensively cute object in the middle of his doom-and-gloom aesthetic.

I turn to him, chin lifted. "There. Consider the first step toward fixing this place complete."

He stares at the bunny. Then at me.

Then back at the bunny.

Then he groans dramatically, rubbing a hand down his face.

"You did not just bring that in here," he mutters.

"Oh, I definitely did," I say sweetly.

He moves toward the table like he’s going to throw it out, but I block him instantly, arms spread.

"You touch it, you die," I warn.

He narrows his eyes. "Raven."

"Malakai," I mimic in the same deep, irritated tone.

We stare each other down for a full five seconds before he lets out a slow, heavy exhale.

"Unbelievable," he mutters, stepping away.

I grin.

Victory.

He glares at me, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it. Amusement.

"You are a menace," he grumbles, heading toward the closet.

I shrug. "You’ll learn to love it."

He pauses just long enough to smirk at me over his shoulder. "Not a chance, Lamb."

But as he disappears into the other room, I catch him sneaking one last glance at the bunny.

And I know I won this round.

I groan dramatically, stepping back to assess the absolute disaster that is now my section of Malakai’s closet.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter to myself, hands on my hips.

The space he’s given me is tiny—a narrow slice of the walk-in closet that barely fits my stuff. I’ve had to cram everything in, shoving my sweaters into the corners, stuffing my shoes under my hanging clothes like a madwoman playing Tetris with fabric.

Meanwhile?

His side is immaculate.

Of course.

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms as I eye his section. Dark clothes, neatly hung, each hanger evenly spaced. A few tailored suits. A row of folded sweaters. A single black leather jacket that just screams "I ruin lives for sport."

Even his damn shoes are lined up in perfect order.

"Seriously?" I mutter, still staring.

Because for some reason, I thought his space would be a wreck. That it would match his personality—chaotic, arrogant, a complete menace to my life.

But this?

This is… controlled. Intentional.

I step closer, hesitating for half a second before reaching out and grazing my fingertips over the sleeve of one of his jackets.

The scent hits me instantly.

Dark. Rich. Something sharp but warm, like smoke and cedar, leather and a hint of something undeniably Malakai.

And just like that, my mind betrays me.

Because now I’m not just standing here organizing clothes.

Now I’m remembering.

Him over me, mouth at my throat, fingers teasing, patient, knowing.

His weight, his heat, his hands on my skin, stealing every ounce of breath from my lungs.

The way he?—

I snap out of it instantly, ripping my hand away like I just touched fire.

What the hell am I doing?

I take a step back, inhaling deeply, forcing myself to shake it off.

I’m not thinking about that night.

I’m not thinking about the way he touched me, the way he made me come apart like I was made for him.

I’m not.

But just as I turn away from his side of the closet, I feel it.

A presence.

My stomach drops.

I freeze, heart hammering, because I already know who it is before I even turn around.

And when I do?

Yep.

There he is.

Malakai Vega.

Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, smirking devilishly.

I huff dramatically, trying to mask my momentary panic.

"Seriously?" I say, glaring. "Do you ever make noise when you move, or do you just materialize like a damn demon?"

He chuckles, pushing off the doorframe. "Caught you snooping, huh?"

"I wasn’t snooping," I lie, because yes, I absolutely was snooping.

His smirk widens. "Right. You just happened to be standing real close to my stuff, looking like you were about to bury your face in my jacket."

I glare. "You’re so full of yourself."

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with amusement. "I’m just saying, Lamb, if you wanted to smell me, all you had to do was ask."

I groan in frustration, whipping around and slamming the closet door shut behind me.

And that’s when it slips out?—

"Kai."

The second I say it, I realize my mistake.

Because I’ve never called him that before.

Not once.

And I see the moment it registers on his face.

Something shifts in his expression, just barely, but it’s there—a flicker of something unexpected, something softer than his usual arrogance.

I don’t know what it means.

And neither does he, apparently.

Because instead of making some cocky remark, he just… stares at me.

For half a second, the air between us tightens, something heavy settling in the silence.

Then, just as fast as it happened, he blinks, like snapping himself out of it, and shakes his head.

"Don’t call me that," he mutters.

But his voice isn’t sharp. Isn’t even annoyed.

It’s just… different.

I cross my arms, tilting my head. "Why? Don’t like it?"

His jaw tenses, his hands sliding into his pockets. "Doesn’t suit you."

I raise an eyebrow. "And Lamb does?"

His lips quirk, but he doesn’t take the bait.

Instead, he steps back, avoiding my gaze.

"I’ve got shit to do," he says casually, turning toward the hallway. "Don’t break anything while I’m gone."

I narrow my eyes at his retreating figure, way too thrown off by that interaction.

And as he disappears into another room, I stand there, heart pounding too hard, mind spiraling with a hundred different thoughts.

Because I’m supposed to be his fake girlfriend.

I’m supposed to be playing a role.

So why the hell does it feel like I’m becoming something more?