Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

BLAKE

T he Range Rover’s engine purrs beneath my feet, smooth and low like a promise I don’t know how to trust. Malachi drives one-handed—of course he does—his fingers curled over the wheel like they expect it to submit. I’m cradling a coffee between my hands, the heat sinking into my palms. It’s not in a to-go cup or a generic white mug, but the ceramic travel mug Charlie gave me a few years ago on Mother’s Day. A little chipped at the top of the handle, white with lilac swirls. The letter B etched faintly on one side.

I didn’t fill it with coffee. I don’t even remember grabbing it last night before leaving our house.

Malachi barely glanced at me when he handed it over, just a quiet “Figured you’d need it” before focusing on the road again . . . but I inhale the scent from the cup like I’m starving for it: dark roast, a pinch of cinnamon, and cream—not milk, because somehow he knows I hate how thin milk tastes in coffee.

I’m too tired to ask him how.

We’d left Charlie in the penthouse under the care of Joséphine—the one vampire even Ambrose listens to, who, to my surprise, looked like someone’s impossibly elegant grandmother. Silver-streaked hair, crisp linen collar, and golden eyes that saw everything. She’d greeted me with the kind of warmth that felt practiced, but still genuine. Charlie had taken to her instantly, especially when she mentioned baking chocolate chip toffee cookies as part of the day’s plan.

The city slips past the window in silent fragments—Newgate’s glass towers glittering like teeth against the mid-morning sky, everything too bright and modern for my sleep-fogged brain.

When we enter the elevator after parking in the underground garage—my stomach lurches. I hadn’t thought about what it will look like when we walk in together. There’s no way anyone can think we’re together, right? My face heats and I stare at my reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator. I honestly look like I didn’t get much sleep, which is true. I realize, too, that I’m wearing the same cardigan as yesterday.

The elevator doors open, and if the looks I get were a courtroom jury, I’d already be convicted of “slept with the boss” in under thirty seconds.

Perry’s over by the front alcove where the host desk is, talking to Clara, both their expressions telling as their eyes ping toward me—then Malachi—then me again. Clara’s got her clipboard against her chest, her gaze narrowed with curiosity that doesn’t bother pretending to look away in time. A little farther off, inside the restaurant, a cluster of dancers are stretching while chatting. Erin says something, and the others look at us. I couldn’t hear what she says—but the slow twitch of her lips, just this side of smug, says more than words ever could.

I’m more than sure Malachi knows exactly what the ladies are saying, but he doesn’t seem inclined to share.

“Do you want me to say something to them?” Malachi’s voice pulls me out of the fog like a stone dropped in water—cutting straight through the unease stirring under my skin and sending ripples I can’t ignore.

He says it low, soft, but there’s razor wire threaded through every syllable. That same restrained violence I’d seen when he told those shifters on Blood Street to get the fuck out of his sight. It’s not just that he’s more powerful than everyone in the room. It’s the way he walks like he’s already counted the exits—and the bodies. But not even the general of the Nightshade vampires can stop a rumor once it’s given life.

“God, no,” I immediately refuse in a harsh whisper. Like that helps the picture we must make. I pick up my pace, glad when he doesn’t press. I’m relieved when he splits off to check something with Perry. I’m not entirely sure I can handle even one more raised eyebrow or speculative glance without snapping. And I really don’t have time for it.

“Dress rehearsal starts in twenty minutes,” I announce as I pass the dancers watching me. I absolutely ignore the fact that I know my face is still red. Most of my life may feel out of control right now, but this show—this job—is the thing I still control.

Backstage, I breathe a little easier. The second-floor office windows don’t have a direct line of sight here, and for the first time this morning, I don’t feel like Malachi’s gaze is scorching the back of my neck. I know he’s probably watching from the shadows of that tinted glass, but at least I can pretend he’s not.

My office is a small, windowless room tucked just off the main dressing area—technically a glorified storage nook with a desk and a locking drawer, but it’s mine. I nudge the door shut with my hip and drop my bag onto the chair, ready to swap it for my clipboard when I pull open the desk drawer—and freeze.

The gift box is gone.

The lingerie. The tissue paper. The dress. All of it.

My breath catches as I stare down into the empty drawer, my hand still hovering over it like maybe I’ll blink and it’ll all come rushing back. But there’s nothing. No note. No mess. Just pristine emptiness, as if it had never been there in the first place.

I’d left it here, locking it away to deal with later. I hadn’t hidden it. That was the point.

I slowly slide the drawer shut again, fingers tight on the handle. I want to feel relieved—maybe the sender got the message. Maybe it’s over. But unease crawls up my spine instead. Because, regardless, it means someone was rifling through my desk and technically stole from me. A quick look through the rest of my drawers confirms the gift is the only thing missing.

Letting out a breath, I shake my head. Nope, not dealing with this right now. Not when there’s a dress rehearsal about to start. I force myself to breathe and let it go. I’ll deal with it later. Who knows, maybe this means my mysterious admirer reclaimed it. I’ll do the mental gymnastics to assure myself that’s a good thing and not creepy at all.

By midday, I’ve checked my phone at least a dozen times for messages from Charlie. Most are updates that she’s “still alive” and that Joséphine has let her try raw cookie dough because “rules don’t apply to vampires.” The last one is a photo—Charlie with a cookie the size of a small plate, half-eaten, her smile crumb-dusted and proud.

My heart squeezes. She’s okay. Happy, even. It’s the only reason I’ve managed to keep it together today.

I meet Perry near the dressing rooms and we start ticking through last-minute details: lights, cues, rigging, microphone battery checks. We’re halfway through the checklist when Amber jogs up with her corset half-laced and panic on her face.

“I think the clasp tore—I heard it pop right before we finished the warmup.”

“Let me see,” I say, gesturing her behind the curtain that leads to quick-change alley. Tara is already kneeling by one of the mannequins nearby, fabric pinned between her fingers like a surgeon mid-procedure.

“Tara!” I call. “We’ve got a wardrobe emergency. Can you?—”

“I heard it.” She rises in a smooth, practiced motion and crosses to us, inspecting Amber’s costume with a precision that makes my heart rate start to slow. Tara, the waif-like seamstress who looks as if almost all color has been sapped from her, works with the Nightshades as one of their personal tailors and designers. Perry had been the one to introduce us when she’d arrived, giving us both a not-so-subtle reminder that no one else knows Malachi’s true nature.

“I’ll need five minutes,” she says. “Don’t touch anything.”

Amber nods, then glances at me. “Thank you. I swear it wasn’t like this yesterday.”

“You’re fine. This is why we rehearse and do final checks,” I reply, managing a smile.

The rest of the dress rehearsal rolls forward on adrenaline and stubborn pride, a strange mix of chaos and control that leaves my skin buzzing. Dancers leap, pivot, stretch like living works of art under the wash of stage lights that warm the floor like melted butter. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, hairspray, and faint cinnamon from someone’s perfume. My clipboard becomes an extension of my hand, practically fused to my palm from the way I’m clenching it.

Calls come fast—lighting cues, prop resets, curtain transitions. The backstage crew flows like a well-oiled machine, Tara barking minor adjustments from the wings like a field general while Perry handles a last-second soundboard correction with calm, practiced fingers. There are hiccups, of course—one of the feather fans briefly catches on a rigging line, and a heel nearly goes flying during the tap segment—but everyone recovers like pros.

I pace the aisle that bisects the restaurant seating down the middle, muttering cues under my breath, my heartbeat matching the beat of the bassline pouring through the floorboards. Every muscle in my body feels like it’s coiled tight with nerves, but somewhere under that tension is something else—pride. Real, biting, breath-catching pride.

By the final number, I’m vibrating from head to toe. My vision swims slightly from the strain of staying hyper-focused, but I don’t dare blink.

The music swells. Dancers surge into their closing formation. The final lift hits dead center, spotlight slicing down like a blade of glory.

They nailed it.

Applause breaks out, loud and genuine. A few dancers bow dramatically, someone lets out a war whoop that echoes into the rafters. There’s laughter, a flurry of clapping, and for a precious handful of seconds, all the pressure I’ve carried for the last three weeks fades like mist under stage lights.

I let myself laugh too. My chest expands for the first time today without feeling like it might crack open.

“You all crushed it,” I say, clapping my hands together. “This is the energy I want tomorrow night. Bring that, and we open with a bang.”

Erin throws an arm around Amber, both breathless and glowing, and looks at me. “It’s all thanks to our fearless leader!”

“Shut up,” I say, but I’m smiling wider now. Maybe a little too wide. Maybe enough that it makes the tension behind my ribs sting again—but for once, it’s a good kind of sting.

Perry jogs over from the wings, waving slightly, a glint of amusement barely hidden behind his usual professionalism.

“Blake—Malachi wants to see you upstairs.”

My stomach tightens. Not in the good way.

I wipe my palms down the sides of my jeans and force a nod. “Tell him I’m on my way.”

The moment Perry turns, a ripple runs through the room. Erin lets out a low whistle. Someone else murmurs, “That good, huh?”

“She’s getting summoned,” another voice says, teasing but not unkind.

They think it’s about the show. That he’s calling me up to compliment me, maybe offer some quiet, boss-level praise before opening night. And I let them think that, because the truth is—I have no idea what this is about. And that not knowing gnaws at me far more than any whispered joke.

I roll my eyes for show, throw them a lopsided smirk, and turn toward the stairs.

But the second my back is to them, the smile drops. My nerves spike.

Malachi doesn’t summon people lightly.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, I brace myself.

Whatever he wants, it can’t be worse than the thousand thoughts clawing around in my chest.

Right?