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Chapter Eighteen

MALACHI

S he moves like a force of nature.

I watch Blake from my office window as she commands the stage below, her voice carrying clear and confident despite her obvious exhaustion. The dancers respond to her direction instantly—a testament to how quickly she’s earned their respect. Even from this height, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips that clipboard like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

The final rehearsal was flawless. Better than I’d dared hope when I first conceived of transforming this space into something between a burlesque club and a high-end theater. Every transition smooth, every gesture precise, the music and lighting perfectly orchestrated. And at the center of it all—Blake. My Blake.

Except she’s not mine. Not really.

The thought sears. An echo of heat flares in my jaw, sharp enough that my fangs threaten to descend. I force them back, grinding down the urge with a slow breath and a flick of my tongue across my back teeth. Below, she shifts, brushing hair off her cheek with the back of her hand. Her blouse flutters with the movement—violet, like her hair, like defiance spun into fabric. She is calm chaos, all control and cracks just beneath the surface. And I need?—

No. Need isn’t the right word.

I ache for her.

Not just her skin. Her fire. Her stubborn spine and the way she smiles sideways when she’s trying not to let anyone see she’s proud. Her daughter’s smile, inherited, worn like armor. I remember the way Charlie reached for Joséphine’s hand that morning, confident and unafraid. Trusting. Like Blake had passed down her fire with the same casual grace she passes off her coffee order.

I would die for either of them. And I would kill for both.

When Perry steps forward to speak to her, I see her posture shift. She’s on alert. Not afraid, but preparing. And when she turns for the stairs without glancing up—I know she’s bracing herself for me.

Good.

She should.

I move to my desk, rolling my sleeves and adjusting my cuffs—a habit I haven’t broken since my breathing days. The gesture calms me. Reminds me that I still have control. That I am not an animal pacing a cage while someone stalks the child I never had but already claim in my mind.

The gift box is in the drawer. Untouched since I retrieved it. Kit’s scent still clings to it—masked, diluted, but present. That synthetic orange blossom he always favored layered over the base notes of wolf musk and rot. I lift it onto the desk, the weight of it setting something loose and dangerous in my chest.

Kasar reported last night that Kit slipped his tail. Again. He’s tracking him personally now, staying closer, closer than we’ve dared before.

Too late, apparently.

A knock. Three soft taps at my open door.

Her heartbeat is steady, but I can smell her hesitation through the door.

She steps through, guarded. Careful.

“You wanted to see me?”

The scent of her fills my office, drowning out the lingering trace of Kit. Lavender. Vanilla. The faint salt of dried sweat from a long day of rehearsal. And underneath it all, that intoxicating hint of arousal that spikes whenever she’s near me, no matter how hard she tries to suppress it.

“The show looks incredible, Blake,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. Professional. “You’ve done exceptional work. I hope you know that.”

Surprise flickers in her expression before it settles into something softer. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

“It should. We’re sold out for the next three nights.” I let the corner of my mouth curve faintly, watching her process that. Her eyes widen with something like relief. Then pride.

“Wow. That’s... incredible.” There’s sincerity in her voice. But she still lingers closer to the open door. Ready to flee. “I still have a lot to do before I’m done for the day. There are still some costume adjustments?—“

“Close the door and have a seat, Blake.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. Not a request.

She hesitates, then closes the office door with a quiet snick. She crosses to sink into the leather seat; her heartbeat picking up its pace. Her scent grows stronger, mixed now with the sharp tang of anxiety. She knows something’s wrong. She’s too smart not to have noticed how I’ve been watching her since last night.

I open the drawer and lift out the gift box, setting it between us like a loaded gun.

“Want to tell me about this?”

She stills, every muscle in her body going taut, like a wire pulled too tight. I watch the flicker of tension lock her jaw as her gaze drops to the gift box, the color draining from her cheeks in real time. Her heartbeat falters, then picks up speed—quick and uneven, like the rhythm of someone who knows exactly what they’re looking at and dreads it.

Her voice is low. Controlled. But I hear the strain beneath it. “You went through my desk.”

“I didn’t.” I push the box slightly closer to her, watching the way her eyes track it like it’s something that might bite. “I found it on your coffee table last night. At your house. After the break-in.”

I pause, narrowing my eyes slightly. “I assumed it had been delivered there. But if you left it in your desk drawer...”

My voice trails off. That changes everything.

The air sharpens, like static before a storm. It means somehow he got into this building—past our guards, past the cameras, past every subtle, invisible net I laid after the bracelet was delivered. I’d made sure the security wouldn’t feel intrusive, wouldn’t alarm Blake or the staff. And yet, someone walked through all of it. Unseen. Unchallenged.

It makes my skin crawl.

“When did you get it?”

Her breath hitches and the sound is like a serrated blade to my heart. “Yesterday. It was on my desk at the end of the day. I didn’t want to deal with it, so I left it in the drawer at my desk. Locked.”

The last word lands like a blade dulled by doubt. I can see it in her eyes. She’s questioning everything now. Herself. The locks. Her own sense of safety. Twice, then. Twice this mangy mutt has come into my territory, under my very nose. First, to deliver the gift and then again, to retrieve it when she didn’t take it.

Her fear makes me want to turn feral, to unleash my fangs and paint the Barrows red with his blood.

The pressure in my chest builds as I watch her stare at the box, her throat working. Every instinct screams to put myself between her and that threat, but I force myself to stay seated. To keep my voice level. “Did you read the note inside?”

She lifts her chin, a tell I’m starting to recognize. Defiance masking fear. “Yes.”

One word. But it’s enough to snap the last thread of my control.

“And were you planning to tell anyone?” My voice drops lower, rougher. The beast inside me clawing at my ribcage. “Or were you going to follow his instructions and keep quiet?”

Her eyes flash. “I hadn’t decided yet.” She sits forward, fingers curling into fists on her thighs. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a little busy trying to make sure your show opens without a hitch. I locked it away to deal with later.”

“Later?” The word comes out as a growl. I rise from my chair, unable to stay still. Energy crackles under my skin, demanding action. Release. Blood. “Someone breaks into your workplace, leaves you gifts, threatens you—and you decide to deal with it later?”

“Why do you care?” She stands too, matching my intensity if not my height. The scent of her anger fills the space between us, sharp and bright. “You made it very clear that night was just sex. That we’re nothing more than employer and employee. So why are you suddenly acting like?—“

“Like what?” I prowl closer around the desk, drawn by the flush in her cheeks, the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat. “Like I give a damn what happens to you? Like the thought of someone stalking you, threatening you, makes me want to tear this city apart?”

She takes a step back. Then another. Until her spine meets the wall beside my office door. I follow, unable to stop myself from caging her with my arms.

“Why were you at my house last night?” she whispers. Her breath fans across my chin, sweet and warm. “How did you know?”

The question hits like a physical blow. How do I tell her I’ve been watching her house? That I’ve had Kasar tracking the shifter who’s been following her? That every cell in my body screams to claim her, to mark her, to make it clear to everyone—especially that mangy wolf—that she’s mine?

“I’ve been... concerned,” I say finally, the words inadequate. “After the bracelet?—”

She crosses her arms. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Concern? Because when I brought it to you, you acted like it was nothing.”

“I never said it was nothing,” I bite out, the memory of that moment burning behind my teeth. “I said it wasn’t from me.”

Her eyes narrow. “You didn’t seem particularly alarmed either.”

“I was furious.” My fists curl against the wall. “It wasn’t a warning, Blake. It was a claim. Someone trying to mark you. Intimately. Obsessively. And yes—I knew exactly what it meant. I’ve been watching ever since. Especially when it involves you.”

“Why?”

One word. Three letters. And it undoes me completely.

I lean closer, letting her see the crimson bleeding into my eyes. Letting her feel the full weight of what she does to me. “Because you’re mine.”

Her breath catches. “I’m not?—“

“You are.” I drop my head, my lips a breath from her ear. “You have been since that night. Since I tasted you. Since I heard the sounds you make when you come apart beneath me. Since I saw how fiercely you protect your daughter. You. Are. Mine.”

She shivers, but her voice stays steady. “You don’t get to claim me just because you took my virginity.”

The words hang between us, scorching the air.

Blake freezes. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her pulse stutters, a sharp flutter against the tension that’s pulled her body taut. I can hear it—feel it—like the aftershock of a detonation neither of us meant to trigger.

Her expression shifts—shock, then something softer, more fragile, almost vulnerable. But it’s gone just as quickly, buried beneath a mask I know too well by now. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks next, voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t mean to tell you that.”

I don’t know what to say. The burn behind my sternum has nothing to do with rage now. Just that awful, raw truth of wanting someone too much and knowing you’ve just bared something you can’t take back.

Before I can speak—before I can offer a word, a tether, a lie or the truth—she moves.

Not fast. Just decisive.

She steps sideways, out from under my arm, and opens the door without another glance in my direction.

And then she’s gone.