Page 13

Chapter Thirteen

MALACHI

T he card still reeks.

It lies on my desk like a corpse, all perfume and intent, blue cardstock trying to play innocent under the amber glow of my desk lamp. I’d taken it from the garbage the moment Blake threw it away after leaving. But there’s no mistaking the scent clinging to the fibers.

Wolf.

Faint, but unmistakable—like musk pressed into velvet, paw prints through a garden after midnight. Predatory. Posing as harmless.

It’s there beneath the faint powder and ink and the fragrance of flowers no wolf would fucking wear unless they were trying to send a message.

Orange blossom. Dahlia.

And then, smoke—low and curling, the edges of burned paper and ash sealed into the fibers.

I lean in, breathing through my nose in slow, deliberate pulls. The scent stirs memory like blood in a still pond. Sulfur and sweat. A cheap cologne that couldn’t hide the scent of fur slicked by rain. The clinging throb of testosterone disguised behind cologne and suicide charm.

A shape forms.

The edges sharpen.

And then I have it.

Kit.

The shit-stained wolf from The Gentlemen’s Study. The one who thought breathing near Blake’s temple meant something. The one who watched her work behind the bar with his chin in his palm and eyes that wandered too goddamn freely. The one who asked if she was my mate, as if he already knew she wasn’t.

My spine straightens with the horror of realization, breath whistling too hot past my teeth.

He sent her this.

That bracelet—nearly an exact match for the one she’d held onto for years, the one only people in her inner circle could possibly know about—wasn’t just a gift.

It was a message of intent.

One meant to worm its way past her walls, right into the part of her that would endear her to him. Did the fucker think that she was the mate the universe means for him?

Flashes burn in my vision, tinged red with memory.

The Gentlemen’s Study.

Smoke clung to the rafters and sex hummed through the speakers like a purr. Dancers moved like shadows, drunk on rhythm and velvet. I’d ignored them all from the back booth, untouched by the strobe lights. Disincarnate. Silent.

Except for her.

Blake behind the bar with her hair teased and teased again into that soft lilac halo. Shorts riding high enough to expose the curve of her ass every time she leaned forward. She stood like she wasn’t afraid to swing first, even when every man watching her imagined she’d fold.

I’d watched her pretend—smile at the drinks she didn’t pour for herself, laugh at jokes that probably didn’t land.

And Kit’s fucking eyes had been following her every movement.

His hand on the bar, knuckles brushing hers. His mouth too close as he tried to keep her attention. Talk of how “she was leaving him” like she owed him a part of her.

She didn’t owe him fucking shit.

Except I hadn’t stopped it then.

Not properly.

Just a warning.

Just a low-voiced threat under gritted teeth. A smile that bared a hint of fang. A false claim that she’s mine.

I thought it was enough.

But now that his scent is here, in my office? On a gift meant to follow Blake from her past into her bed?

Now that I know he’s not going to stop?

That soft growl spills from my throat like the crack of a snapped bone.

She’s mine.

The thought echoes, low and instinctive, rising from some primitive corner of me that I thought I’d long since buried. My hand tightens on the scraps of fabric. The wolf’s scent still clings to it, a signature left like he wanted me to know he’d been here. Like he wanted to taunt me. And it works.

But it shouldn’t. The possessiveness crawling under my skin is irrational. Dangerous.

I’m not Kasar or Ashe. I don’t get emotionally involved with humans. I don’t “mate.” I don’t bond. That’s not how I work.

She’s part of my business now. That’s all. She’s under my protection because she’s mine—under my employ.

That’s different.

This rage curling warm and cruel in my chest has nothing to do with Blake personally. It’s territorial. A power assertion, if anything.

That’s what I tell myself.

Kit stepped into my territory. I’m merely responding—as any Nightshade would.

My nails don’t threaten to lengthen because I care. My blood doesn’t simmer because the thought of her being with any other male makes my fangs ache in ways they never have. I’m just… I’m making sure no one threatens the success of The Place. That’s logical. Practical.

I push the vile piece of paper between two pages of the ledger and slam it shut. The boom rocks through me, my pulse rattling in tune.

Blake.

She’s been pulling away since that night.

Too polite. Too professional.

Like her boundaries need re-cementing after I crossed them—and then left her splayed on her couch without so much as a pillow under her head afterward.

Gods, I’m such a fucking idiot.

I never should’ve touched her.

Because now every part of me is wired to want more. To crave it.

I pull out my phone, thumb tight on the screen as I dial.

“Perry,” I snap. He answers on the second ring.

“Mal—”

I cut off his greeting, barking out more harshly than my manager deserves. “I’m concerned about Ms. Taylor’s safety. I want you to hire another two security officers. If any other packages arrive for her, they’re to be delivered to me first. Understood?”

Perry is silent on the other end. Rehearsal music comes through the line but a door closes and it disappears. “What are we dealing with here, Mal? Something that’ll threaten the opening or is it Nightshade business?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, scowling. Other than Blake, Perry is the only one here that knows my true nature.

“It’s business, Perry. The opening night depends on her.” I’m quick to strip the truth of the matter down to a cold, hard calculation—Blake being a vital cog in this well-oiled machine of mine. “A second Stage Producer quitting would wreck us. Her safety, her focus, this is crucial. Understand?”

“Right,” Perry says, but I can hear his caution in the silence that hangs afterward. “Business first, then. You’ve got it.”

I disconnect without allowing myself any more regret, almost too abrupt, the click echoing the tension through my bones. The backlit numbers glow on the screen, mocking what I’ve done—what I’ve created by crossing that line with her. She’s become essential, yet I’ve masked that truth in layers of thought that feel like lies. Lies that soothe me and sting like alcohol on an open wound.

I rise from my desk, each movement intentional, methodical, as if I’m choreographing the steps to a dance that hasn’t ended. I sidestep the raging tempest inside me—a dark confluence of obsession and responsibility. A logic that shouldn’t exist between protector and the protected.

The alley greets me like an old friend, the sharp air slicing through the remnants of stale cologne and wolf musk clinging to my clothes. I journey through the shadows, every step resonating with the nightlife thrumming just out of reach. Gray smoke coils from a nearby dumpster, the light of my phone swinging in wide arcs, illuminating the jagged bricks and scattered litter around me.

But my mind clings to her.

The way she moves, that alluring defiance punctuating her laughter as she serves drinks. The ravenous glints that flash in her eyes when her humor clashes with an unwelcome advance. I grumble at myself, breaking the pattern of snowballing thoughts; it’s business. Just business.

Yet, as I run across the rooftops toward the Nightshade Clan House, every footfall echoes with a deeper truth I refuse to acknowledge. She’s not just my worker. No, she’s become something I can’t put into words without poisoning the air around me. There’s a shift in my pulse, an ancient rhythm thrumming through my veins—the urge to claim what’s mine.

Is Kit’s interest pulling at my seams? He thinks he can just move in. As if this game—this insipid duet of glances and tension—is for him to engage with. I suppress a growl, drawing in a breath so sharp it scrapes down my throat like broken glass.

He doesn’t get to play this game.

Not in my city. Not with her.

We had one night but that doesn’t mean she’s available. If she’d wanted the shifter, she’d have accepted his advances during her last night at The Gentlemen’s Study. But she didn’t. Which means he needs to get the message to back the fuck off.

The Barrows House rises like memory out of the dark—charming, quiet, and deceptively warm beneath the night. Not the gothic monstrosity newcomers always expect, but a three-story French colonial with hanging baskets spilling color between white porch columns and gardens blooming even under moonlight. The black wrought-iron gate clicks shut behind me with a polite finality. Lush greenery crowds either side of the short brick path, brushing my boots as I pass.

The wraparound porch is empty, lamps low behind the glass mosaic front door. Joséphine’s aesthetic is all over this place—welcoming, lived-in, strategic. It draws you in before you realize you’re inside the lion’s den.

The air inside is light. Too light for the work we do here. Faint lavender clings to the corners, but underneath it is something older—ash and blood and the sharp hum of power. The kind of quiet you only earn through centuries of loyalty and enforcement.

Off the foyer, I catch Eloise’s familiar scent and the steady drum of her heartbeat as she’s tucked in an oversized chair in Ambrose’s urban jungle of a sitting room. I still think it’s amusing that he’s found someone as intense about houseplants as she is. Since she’s moved into his suite on the top floor, she’s added another twenty plants at least. She’s currently focused on whatever is on her laptop and I’m not in the mood to tease her. Not with the agitation crackling in my joints.

I bypass the dining room and art-lined hallways without glancing twice at the keepsakes cluttering the bookshelves. Each one tells a story no one’s asked to hear in decades. Some of them are mine.

Through the east wing, past Ambrose’s suite, I descend a narrower hall lit by soft modern sconces—Joséphine again. The door I stop at is sleek and steel-cored, disguised as wood. The biometric lock hums beneath my palm as I press to unlock it.

It yields, the door sliding into the pocket in the wall.

Inside, the data chamber smells faintly of ozone and old paper. Books stacked beside state-of-the-art screens. Technology woven into legacy, many of the upgrades recent thanks to Lan’s mate Wren and her access to unreleased technology.

Kasar leans against a central table, long fingers idly turning a dagger hilt. He doesn’t look up, but the tension in his stillness shifts—a readiness coiling under velvet calm. Beside him, Lan barely glances up from the wall of monitors, golden eyes flickering in the glow of rapid data scroll. The room is full of soft clicks and the quiet insistence of information being bent to our will.

I pull out the gift and the bracelet box hits the tabletop with a satisfying finality. It doesn’t clatter. Doesn’t tip. Just lands with a soft, damning weight on the polished old wood—right in front of Kasar and Lan.

Lan doesn’t look up immediately from whatever stream of digital filth he’s filtering through. Kasar, though . . . Kasar watches me with that patient, perpetual stillness of his—like gravity is centered somewhere under his sternum.

The box is followed by the card. I touch it as little as possible, loathing the fact that I already have enough of Kit’s scent on me as I do.

Lan gives a little flick of his eyes toward the items between us.

“So,” he drawls, “we having tea and trinkets now? Shall we braid each other’s hair and talk about our feelings next?”

Dick. If he spent most of his time here, I’d be tempted to eat his Count Chocula cereal but the cabinets have been empty of it since he’s moved Topside with Wren and their daughter, Emily.

Kasar hasn’t said a damn thing yet, but I feel his attention like a burning fuse. The difference is, Kasar doesn’t bait. He waits. And right now, he’s waiting for the reason I dragged both of them off more critical tasks for what looks like a scented note and jewelry.

Lan shifts forward, finally.

He cracks the box open—just a fraction—and sniffs the air like a bloodhound bred for disaster.

And then his mocking demeanor falls like a collapsing scaffold.

“Wolf,” he mutters, tone sharpening. “Lowland variety. Eau de Entitlement and dickhead shampoo.”

“His name is Kit,” I confirm, voice clipped. “He gifted this to Blake—Taylor,” I’m quick to tack on her last name and explain, not wanting my brothers to suspect any personal interest. “He pursued her while she worked at The Gentlemen’s Study, despite her rejection.”

“Blake Taylor.” Lan’s lips part in a slow exhale. “The former stripper you had me run a background check when looking at potential employees?”

“She’s our new stage producer,” I correct, sharply, because I need to. “This isn’t about her. It’s about securing The Place before we open. If she’s distracted, it’ll fuck up our opening night.”

“Sure,” Lan murmurs. “It’s not about her. This being the same woman that you claimed on Blood Street as your girlfriend?”

The knowing smug expression of his cements it. I’ll do what I have to to get into Wren and his place and ruin Count Chocula for him forever. Of course Lan would know about that one instance of me playing the knight in shining armor. He has more ears and eyes in the Barrows than anyone else. It’s how Ambrose knows everything going on in our territory.

Kasar flips over the card with one martial-fingered hand, sniffing once. His expression doesn’t shift, but his grip tightens, pale scars on his knuckles blanching further.

“A threat?” he asks.

“A misguided amorous gift.” The words come out colder than I intend, but I’m standing too close to this fire to pretend I haven’t already singed myself. “The bracelet’s custom. She says it’s a replica of one she was given after her first feature performance. She wore the original every set for years. And this bastard either watched her for long enough to note it—or he got close enough to dig through her personal life.”

Lan lowers the box lid with two fingers, wrist loose and casual. Dangerous casual.

“Must’ve been quite the set,” he remarks dryly. “Though I’ve got to ask—when did tracking down shit-tier admirers start warranting clan resources?”

Kasar looks at me. Not at the table. Not at the note. Me.

And fuck if that doesn’t rankle.

“It’s not about . . . her,” I grit out again. “It’s about the optics of a security threat this close to opening. Blake is vital to the success of The Place. If she’s compromised, so is the show—and the investment behind it. Remember, this is the Nightshades’ first official venture Topside.”

Lan snorts, the sound ripe with disbelief. Fuck if I can’t blame him. I’m the one who said it and even I know that sounds pathetic.

“Right,” he says. “And you thought the appropriate way of handling that was to bring a scent-drenched seduction bomb back to vampire headquarters for a three-man task force.”

He leans back with a near-flippant sigh, lacing his fingers behind his head like his sole job in the universe is holding up the ceiling.

“And here I thought Kasar was the one prone to overkill.”

Kasar, infuriatingly silent until now, murmurs, “He also told Kit that she was his girlfriend at her last shift at the club. Deidre heard it from Darcy the next morning at Black Death Beanery.”

Fuck.

I glare at both of them, but it’s clear the damage is done. They’ve seen the fraying edges I didn’t intend for anyone, least of all these two, to notice.

I jab a finger toward Lan.

“I need everything on Kit. Pack affiliation, previous den locations, any exes with missing pet reports or restraining orders. Social media aliases, mental health red flags. Known associates. I need to know how serious he is about pursuing her.”

Then I turn to Kasar, pointing next. “You track him in person. Current movement. Proximity to Blake.”

“Should I grab him and bring him to Noir?” Our enforcer’s voice is clinical.

For a moment I consider how satisfying it would be to give Kit the same treatment that I doled out to Davin. Except we have standards and right now Kit is annoying, but not technically a danger to the Nightshade clan. I shake my head once. “Information only.”

“Just surveillance,” Kasar echoes, gaze unmoving from mine. It’s not a question yet. Not quite. But it’s getting there.

Kasar waits a beat.

We all know what he’s saying without saying it.

Just surveillance . . . as long as Kit stays outside the lines.

But if this wolf crosses them?

If he lays a hand on Blake?

If he so much as breathes near her in a way that suggests claiming?

Then surveillance becomes clean-up.

I give the smallest nod. It’s all Kasar needs.

“For now,” I say, and it grinds out of me with more gravel than steel, more warning than command. “I want pressure. Not a body count.”

“Understood.” He picks up the card again, sniffs it once more before folding it in half without hesitation. “Going to enjoy this.”

The fucker means it. Kasar lives in that tight margin between control and carnage. You point him, he eliminates. But he likes the slow walks best—the long hunts where he gets to watch his prey squirm. It’s why he’s the Lion of the Barrows.

I trust him more than anyone in the world.

Which is probably why I hate that I’m handing this task over instead of dealing with it myself.

Lan waves a lazy hand toward the air like he’s blessing the moment. “Wonderful. Me digging into another shifter’s digital footprint and Kasar sniffing him like a bloodhound with a fetish. Feels very clan-forward.”

I give him a look.

He grins. Sharp. Ferocious.

“Relax, General,” he says, dropping into his chair and spinning it toward the wall of monitors. “If the wolf’s touching your girl, we’ll find the prints.”

“She’s not—” I stop. The protest crumbles in the back of my mouth, dry and hollow.

No one’s buying it.

Not even me.

I give both men one final look—Lan already scrolling through the underworld’s social media and Kasar tucking the card into an inner pocket—and turn to leave the way I came in.

The hum of the steel door slides home behind me, but already the rest of the house feels off. Like the air doesn’t fit right in my lungs anymore.

This isn’t over.

It’s not going to stop at the bracelet. The wolf wants her. Worse, he thinks he already has a chance.

And Blake?

She doesn’t know yet that she was targeted. That the gift wasn’t romantic, but reconnaissance. That whatever part of her past involves that bracelet—the pain, the joy, the unspoken longing—is now a vulnerability someone else is puppeteering beneath her skin.

Rage simmers through me again, deeper and colder this time. Next time I see Kit, I won’t just offer a warning.

I’ll make sure it’s the last claim he ever attempts.