Page 23

CHAPTER 23

Raven

This kitchen is a disaster.

Not in the there's dirty dishes everywhere kind of way—no, Malakai’s place is way too put together for that—but in the how the hell does this man survive with literally nothing in here kind of way.

I stand in the middle of the space, hands on my hips, scowling at the bare cabinets and nearly empty drawers.

It’s like he went out of his way to stock up on exactly nothing.

No cutting board. No proper spatula. The one pan I did manage to find is so questionable that I debated wiping it down twice.

The fridge? Pathetic.

Half a carton of eggs, a suspiciously old-looking bottle of beer, and a single container of leftover takeout that I refuse to investigate further.

I exhale sharply, determined not to let this ruin my plan.

Because I have a plan.

I’m cooking for Malakai.

Not because I want to. Not because I’m some devoted fake-girlfriend trying to win his affection with food.

No.

This is strategy.

Because I need leverage.

Because I need to disarm him—to get him to drop his guard just enough for me to figure out why he hates Alex so much.

And if I have to charm my way there? Fine.

I tighten my ponytail, rolling my shoulders back like I’m stepping onto a battlefield instead of into a half-stocked kitchen.

"Alright," I mutter to myself. "Time to work with what I’ve got."

I manage to find one decent knife, and that’s where the good news ends.

I grab the eggs, crack them into a bowl, and rummage around the kitchen until I locate salt and pepper shoved in the back of a drawer like Malakai forgot they existed.

"How do you live like this?" I grumble under my breath, shaking my head.

I whisk the eggs, trying to focus, but my mind drifts.

Because this whole thing is insane .

I’m in Malakai Vega’s kitchen, making him food, living in his apartment, pretending to be his girlfriend?—

What the actual hell happened to my life?

I scoop butter into the pan, watching as it melts and sizzles, filling the space with the first actual warm smell this apartment has probably ever seen.

If nothing else, this place needs more color, more food, and more fucking soul.

Maybe I should insist on decorating the kitchen too, just to piss him off.

A grin tugs at my lips as I picture how he'd react if I replaced his soulless black coffee mugs with pastel pink ones.

Maybe I’ll do it. Just to see what happens.

I pour the eggs into the pan, watching them bubble and settle, but my focus is still fractured.

Because I’m not just here to cook.

I’m here to figure him out.

And right now? Malakai isn’t making sense.

I get that he hates Alex. I get that he wants to ruin him.

But there’s something more there.

Something personal.

And I need to know what it is.

I flip the eggs with the sad excuse for a spatula, then move on to toast—except, plot twist, Malakai doesn’t even own a toaster.

I stare at the bread in my hand, then at the lack of appliances, then back at the bread.

"You’re kidding me."

I search the cabinets again, as if maybe, magically, something useful will appear.

It doesn’t.

I groan, throwing my head back, then grab a damn frying pan and decide I’ll just toast the bread like a peasant.

I drop it in, pressing it down with the back of a spoon, and try to focus?—

But my mind wanders again.

This time, straight to Malakai himself.

Because for all his cocky, untouchable bravado, there’s something off about him.

Something not adding up.

I saw it that night in the abandoned building, before everything changed.

I see it when he thinks no one’s looking.

And I felt it today, well vicariously, at least—when he stood up for me.

My stomach tightens at the memory.

I wasn’t there, but I can picture what happened. Erica heard it from someone who was lurking in the locker room when it all went down. I don't know how I would've reacted, but just thinking about it, I feel a sudden sense of joy, of pride. I have no business feeling this way, but I do.

Malakai nearly lost his temper with Alex. And he—Malakai fucking Vega—defended my dignity. It doesn’t make sense. He’s supposed to be using me. So why did he almost snap when Alex called me that?

And more importantly… Why do I kind of like that he did?

I shove that thought down immediately, flipping the toast before it burns.

No. I’m not here to analyze Malakai. I’m not here to catch feelings or wonder why he’s starting to feel like something more than a nightmare in my life.

I’m here to win this game. And right now? That means getting information. And if cooking for him is the way to get it? Then so be it.

I just have to make sure I don’t lose myself in the process.

By the time I finish, the kitchen actually smells good for once.

I take a step back, hands on my hips, surveying my hard-earned success.

Scrambled eggs. Toast. A meal made from the barest of ingredients, but still better than whatever Malakai has been living off of.

I exhale, rolling out my shoulders, before grabbing two plates and plating everything neatly.

There.

Done.

Now comes the hard part.

Getting Malakai to actually talk.

Because tonight?

I’m not just serving breakfast for dinner.

I’m serving myself an advantage.

I hear Malakai before I see him.

The sound of his footsteps approaching, slow and deliberate, like he already knows something’s off.

I don’t turn around right away.

I stay focused on the two plates I’ve set on the table, straightening the silverware, adding a napkin to his side—just because I know it’ll throw him off.

I want him off his game tonight.

I want him distracted.

Because I need answers.

And Malakai Vega? He’s most dangerous when he’s in control.

So tonight, I’m flipping the script.

When he finally enters, he pauses in the doorway, and for the first time since I met him, I think I actually catch a hint of shock on his face.

"You cooked."

I turn, smiling sweetly, and gesture to the fully set table.

"Look at you, Einstein. So perceptive."

His gaze flicks between the plates and me, and I see the exact moment suspicion settles in.

Because I’m not being my usual self.

No sass, no sarcasm, no glaring at him for existing.

Instead?

I’m welcoming.

I’m sweet.

I’m the girl-next-door version of myself, and I can tell it’s messing with his head.

He narrows his eyes, stepping forward slowly. "Alright, what’s the catch?"

I feign innocence, batting my lashes. "What do you mean?"

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "Lamb, I know you. You don’t just… make dinner out of the goodness of your heart. Especially for me."

I pout, leaning a hip against the counter. "Maybe I just felt like being nice."

His lips curl, eyes darkening as he walks toward me, stopping just a breath away.

"You?" he murmurs, voice low and teasing. "Nice?"

"Shocking, I know." I reach past him, picking up a plate. "Now, are we going to eat, or are you just going to stare at me all night?"

His gaze drops to my lips for a fraction of a second.

I pretend not to notice.

Malakai doesn’t sit right away.

He leans back against the chair, one arm slung over the backrest, his sharp green eyes locked on me as I take a seat.

He’s studying me.

Trying to figure me out.

I grab my fork, slicing into my eggs, completely unbothered.

Or at least, that’s what I let him think.

He finally picks up his fork, spearing a bite of egg and bringing it to his mouth.

The second it hits his tongue, I watch as his expression flickers—just for a moment—before he schools it into his usual, unaffected smirk.

I grin. "Good, huh?"

He shrugs, chewing. "Edible."

I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. "Wow. Such high praise. Coming from a man whose fridge had nothing but expired beer and desperation."

He chuckles, setting down his fork. "You know, Lamb, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to impress me."

I tilt my head, eyes playful. "If I was, is it working?"

He leans in, that damn smirk deepening.

"Maybe," he murmurs.

And suddenly, the air between us shifts.

It’s charged.

Heavy.

Because yeah, I’m playing a game tonight, trying to get him to loosen up, let something slip—but it’s also doing something to me, too.

Something I wasn’t expecting.

His eyes drop to my lips again, his fingers tapping against the table, his entire focus pinned on me like I’m something worth devouring.

I should look away.

I should say something to break the tension.

Instead, I hold his gaze, pushing it a step further.

I take a slow bite of my toast, chewing deliberately, letting my lips curve around the bread before swallowing.

Malakai’s fingers still against the table.

His jaw tightens.

I smile.

"Something wrong, Kai?" I ask sweetly, dropping his nickname deliberately, just to poke at him.

His expression flickers for just a second before he recovers.

"Not at all," he says smoothly. "Just wondering when you became such a tease."

I shrug, lifting my fork again. "Maybe I just like watching you squirm."

His smirk sharpens, his eyes dark and knowing. "Careful, Lamb. Keep playing games like that, and I might just start thinking you want me."

I arch a brow. "And that would be terrible, huh?"

His eyes flash, but instead of answering, he picks up his drink, takes a slow sip, and sets it down with a soft, dangerous chuckle.

I swear my pulse skips a beat.

This game?

It’s a dangerous one.

And I think I just stepped too close to the fire.

I need a second to breathe, to regroup before I forget why I started this in the first place.

I stand, grabbing my plate. "I’m getting dessert."

Malakai raises an eyebrow. "Didn’t take you for the domestic type, Lamb."

I roll my eyes, stepping past him, deliberately brushing too close as I move toward the fridge.

As I reach for the dessert, I hear him exhale slowly, like he’s holding back something dangerous.

Good.

Let him simmer.

Because if I play this right, he won’t even see me coming.