Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

MALACHI

M y office is quiet.

The kind of quiet that vibrates along the skin. That stretches and blooms just behind the sternum, where anxiety simmers low and volcanic. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, The Place pulses beneath me—soft light pooling like honey over the restaurant’s copper fixtures, staff weaving expertly between velvet booths like threads tightening a pattern only I know exists. Everything looks perfect. Controlled. Elegant. There’s not a single flaw I can see. And yet that itch between my shoulders won’t stop crawling.

I lean against the edge of my desk, watching a steady stream of guests descend through the curtained entrance. Light spills like gold across their silk lapels and sequined gowns as my servers seat them. The best and the worst of Newgate turned out tonight. Politicians. Investors. All human save for my clan. Influence thick in the air, spiced with anticipation and artifice. This—the grand opening of The Place—isn’t just a show. It’s a move. A claim on Topside real estate made with aesthetics and elegance instead of fangs and bloodshed.

This is my first official venture as a business leader of the Nightshades. My stake—not Ambrose’s—backed with real coin, real personnel, real sweat. On paper, it’s a Nightshade expansion: a theatrical restaurant. A cultural bridge. A legitimate presence in the clean glass guts of Newgate. But beneath the silk it’s diplomacy, dominance, and danger. A foothold, planted quietly and with class.

Failure is not an option.

I glance at the tablet still in my lap—the guest list glowing in soft blue against my fingers. Every seat sold. Every request processed. Every elder of our clan present, from whispered lineages and age-old power rings.

And still.

The words didn’t wound me.

They branded me.

I hadn’t known. But now that I do?

It changes everything. It doesn’t soften what I feel—it sharpens it. Makes every possessive instinct settle deeper into my bones like ancient law. It doesn’t shame me. It strengthens me. Her body had been untouched until me. Her pleasure, her surrender—mine. Not because I demanded it, but because she gave it. Freely. Fiercely.

She’d never let anyone in before. And I’d been her first.

That knowledge doesn’t cool the fire in my blood. It fuels it. Because no one else will ever know her like that. No one else will ever see her unravel the way I have. Every instinct in me howls at the thought of anyone else trying

Her taste. Her voice. The way she fought not to fall, even as her body begged for more. She is not fragile. She’s not prey.

But she is mine.

And now I want her more than I ever did before—not just in body, but in every shadowed, unguarded corner she still tries to hide.

I scrub a hand down my face. My palm comes back dry. No blood. No sweat. Just tension grinding along my jaw like old gears refusing to shift.

Kasar has two of his best on Kit’s tail. They’ve pushed him into the outskirts of the district. He won’t come near her tonight. Not with five layers of protection woven through this building—cameras recording, entrances manned, my own security team looped into clan surveillance protocols. She’ll be safe.

On my desk to the side, my phone lights up with a ping, Perry’s name on the screen. I slide my arms into my suit jacket, deftly buttoning it and straightening my cuffs. It’s time for me to do my job as the owner of The Place.

The walk from my office to the grand floor feels like stepping into another life—one I built brick by brick, thread by thread, every polished edge a promise I now have to keep. Crystal chandeliers hum overhead like captured stars, casting kaleidoscope prisms across varnished wood and blood-toned velvet. The air is thick with expensive perfume, truffle oil, and anticipation.

The Place glows, and I bask in it—for exactly five seconds before my thoughts are pulled into focus by my manager.

Perry greets me at the base of the stairs, his tux pressed and perfect, a headset tucked discreetly into one ear.

“Stage team’s ready,” he says quietly, nodding toward the shadowed edge of the theater floor. “Sound check’s tight, dancers are prepped. You’ve got the mayor’s deputy in the center circle with half the cultural council. They’re waiting for your welcome.”

I nod once, focused. My eyes sweep the floor—cataloging every detail with the precision that centuries of warfare taught me. Every table, every guest. The cultural council. The deputy mayor. Familiar faces from curated dossiers. No supernaturals in attendance, as planned. My security is in place, unobtrusive but absolute.

Clapping Perry on the shoulder, I step onto the edge of the floor, offering a polished, practiced tilt of my head as the room registers my presence. There are moments for power. Moments for theater. Tonight, both matter.

A woman to my left leans toward her companion, voice hushed with the kind of intrigue Topside elites save for men who exude danger dressed in elegance.

“That’s him,” she whispers. “Malachi Casadecappa. He owns the place.”

Her companion hums, gaze trailing after me.

I don’t stop, but I do glance her way—just enough to meet her eyes and offer a faint, practiced smile. The kind I’ve used for centuries. Arrogant. Knowing. The kind that promises sin in the shadows and never makes apologies.

She flushes instantly, looking down with a flustered laugh.

I keep walking. The smile stays etched on my face like a mask carved from charm and calculation—hollow, effortless, and meant for everyone and no one.

A table of financiers rises slightly, before I wave, urging them to remain seated. One offers a hand for a shake. The other offers his wife’s elbow. She smiles too long, too wide. Her fingers brush my sleeve as she takes her seat again, and I do not miss the way her pulse skips.

But I barely feel it. Barely hear the words we exchange before I move on to the next.

The scent of her slides over me on currents of motion—honeysuckle and the faintest trace of warm skin, still sharp with the tang of adrenaline. A faint trace drifting on the air currents stirred by the crowd. I make my excuses and finally push through the door leading away from the restaurant floor.

Backstage is flooded with layered voices—techs calling cues, dancers stretching in full regalia beneath overhead stage bulbs, velvet curtains fluttering beneath warm gusts from the old HVAC system. The air is thick with powder and anticipation.

I find her near stage right, clipboard in hand, her posture razor-line alert as she adjusts Tara’s notes beside the costume table.

Blake looks exquisite.

Her body moves with brisk efficiency, but I see the flush in her cheeks, the bite of her lip. Her lilac hair is pulled up, curled to frame her cheeks, and she wears a dress I haven’t seen before—a sweetheart neckline, black as ink, tight enough to show the strength she keeps hidden in those short dancer’s legs.

Every inch of her demands attention.

Mine most of all.

She turns, and our eyes lock.

My blood sings.

But she stiffens.

Her spine straightens with professional precision, expression shuttered faster than a drawn curtain. It’s like a blow to the sternum.

Focused. Controlled. Calm through sheer intense will.

I know the cracks beneath it now. Know what it costs to hold everything in place this close to a breakdown. She doesn’t flinch when I step to her side, but the muscle in her jaw tics once—just enough for me to clock the effort it costs her not to react.

Still angry, then.

I deserve worse.

I step close but not in her space. My voice is low enough not to be heard by anyone else. “I want you to join us upstairs for the show.”

She stiffens, hesitates just long enough to make me feel it. Blake doesn’t look at me. “There’s too much to be done.”

Her refusal is smooth. Dignified. It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

I exhale through my nose, letting the pause stretch just a second too long.

Blake finally looks up. Briefly. Just enough for our eyes to meet and for something hot and unfinished to flicker between us. Then it’s gone, shuttered like everything else she won’t let me near. “Mr. Casadecappa, with all due respect, I’m where I belong. I need to be here.”

The way she says my name—formal, detached—slams harder than any insult.

I nod once. Slow. Measured. Fighting the instinct to press.

“Understood.”

I turn away. Not because I want to.

Because she asked me to.

And because if I stay, I’ll say something that will either wreck the night or set us both on fire.

* * *

The hallway outside the private balcony suite is lined with shadows and quiet reverence, the kind that only the old ever truly understand. Velvet-wrapped walls, golden sconces burning low like candlelight—not flickering, but steady in a way that promises patience . . . and punishment.

I brace a hand against the door, checking the tightness of my chest as I school every sense into decorum. That Blake refused my invitation shouldn’t unnerve me. Shouldn’t draw blood. But it does.

I gesture at the silent attendant standing beside the door and it swings in without sound, revealing the high-vaulted space that overlooks The Place’s stage like a throne room above a battlefield.

A wash of hushed voices and low laughter precedes me.

Lan sprawls beside Wren, his legs long and loose, one arm slung across the back of her box seat like a bored king deigning to attend a lesser court. Wren—years too young to carry as much power as she wields—appears sculpted from marble and verdicts. She doesn’t smile when she clocks me but gives the smallest incline of her chin before returning to her wine. I’m fairly certain she hasn’t forgiven me for the last time I stole Lan’s Count Chocula.

Deidre and Kasar are sequestered in the far corner, their heads bent close. His raven-black hair gleams under the low amber lighting, broad shoulders angled toward her protectively. And Deidre—sharp-smiled, wolf-slick Deidre—wears danger like a dress, sipping an iced whiskey with surprising civility as she studies the curve of the performance space.

Toe the line, and she looks like elegance. Cross her, and you’ll be bones in a ditch courtesy of her mate.

Ambrose leans into his seat like he was built for it. One arm rests over the crest of the sofa behind Eloise, who lounges beside him in a dress the color of sin before dawn. She’s beautiful here under these chandeliers, all thick hair and unapologetic thighs, the steel in her gaze softening just enough for Ambrose to look at home beside her. Her attention flicks to me, half amused and wholly aware. It’s in part thanks to her that we’re sold out—she’s responsible for all of the graphic design we needed.

Ashe cuts a quieter figure, standing sentinel just behind Cassandra—who, of all those present, is the most genuinely welcoming. She meets my gaze with a warm smile, her wine goblet held loosely in one hand, posture relaxed but elegant. There’s no artifice in her expression, only curiosity and calm, the kind of grace that’s always made her feel more like an anchor than an enigma. Gods, I do not miss Eris.

My boots hit the thick carpet without echo, the door shut and sealed behind me.

Cassandra speaks first. “I’ve heard impressive things about your stage producer,” she says, voice rich and sweet, like poisoned wine meant to taste like the heavens. “I’m excited to see the show.”

“Me too,” Wren adds, her interest keen, bordering on clinical. “You found her close to opening, didn’t you?”

Deidre arches one brow with approval, her polished indifference lifting just enough that I see the predator beneath. “If so, she’s a miracle worker. I’ve seen some of the rehearsals. Seamless.”

Beside Ambrose, Eloise leans into her goblet with a familiar smile. “I’d love to meet her,” she says, this time with genuine warmth. “I stopped by earlier this week, but she looked too focused to interrupt. You weren’t exaggerating—she moves like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.”

“She exceeded every expectation,” I answer. My voice comes out too flat. Too smooth. But I can’t let it slow, lest it crack. I move to the empty chair placed dead center between Lan and Kasar, silently claiming it with every inch of the posture Ambrose has spent a millennium perfecting.

Cassandra nods, turning back toward the stage beyond the two-way glass. The hush settles again. But I’m drowning in it.

The seats hum faintly beneath us with the pulse of the floor—lighting circuits warming, music ready to bloom. My name sat on every investor’s lips in the past hour. Every handshake left a stain of what they assumed was flattery but reeked of calculation. But here—here among the Nightshades—I am not just an owner in white gold cufflinks. I am a General. I am a monster. I am a brother.

And yet the only one I hunger to see isn’t beside me.

She should be here.

Not buried in black velvet and pre-show chaos beneath the stage. Not pretending tonight is anything but what it is—a triumph milked from panic, rehearsed on shattered nerves and sleepless nights and stolen hours while raising her daughter with the kind of ferocity I’ve seen in wolf mothers facing down hellhounds. Not while a worthless cur sniffs around her heels as if he owns her.

The lights below dim.

Conversation dies. Glasses still. Our world tightens to a singular rhythm—the soft cue from the tech booth, the ripple running along the red velvet curtain as it stirs.

Silence.

And then?—

The swell of brass. The decadence of strings. A whisper of percussion that promises tease before climax.

The curtain peels apart like a breath just before the reveal of a secret.

A spotlight bleeds forward.

A single dancer appears—a burnished gold reflection of my dreams of success, sewn together by Tara and directed by Blake.

And then more.

They emerge from the dark like masks, faceless perfection born from the mangled choreography of ambition and brilliance.

And Blake’s fingerprints are everywhere.

The transitions slip like silk. The music surges in perfect tandem with the lighting—a cascade of color designed to make human hearts leap and supernatural ones pulse with need.

Ambrose watches like he’s dissecting prey. Deciding if its secrets are worth keeping.

Eloise sips wine precisely when the spotlight fades to half intensity, then leans into Ambrose’s side, murmuring something I don’t bother to hear. Everything about her bleeds contentment, like she’s watching a favorite performance.

Deidre’s whipcord posture never falters. Her gaze tags each transition with the merciless efficiency of someone who knows how to find fault and file it away until blood matters. No doubt she is already crafting headlines for the article I know she plans to publish in the Newgate Times.

Wren tilts her head slightly, nodding. “The lighting transitions are clean. Layered. That’s harder to achieve than most think.”

Cassandra murmurs something in agreement to Ashe, low enough I can’t make anything out. Ashe doesn’t respond. His golden eyes track a dancer curling around a silks line with calculated interest, his body still and unreadable.

Lan flicks me a glance over his wine glass, bored and curious and always dangerous. “She helped pull this together in under a week, didn’t she?”

I nod once. “She took control of a mess and turned it into this.”

The others take that in. No elaboration. No praise beyond what’s earned.

During the brief intermission, servers enter with silent precision, refreshing glasses and delivering the next course on elegant gold-rimmed trays—saffron risotto bites, seared lamb skewers, champagne flutes catching the low light. Deidre perks up immediately, eyeing the lamb with undisguised interest.

“Oh, finally,” she murmurs, reaching without ceremony. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten we still eat.”

Eloise laughs softly, already swirling a fresh pour of pale gold champagne. “I’ve been looking forward to this ever since I designed the menus.”

The others indulge more subtly, but the warmth between the mates is easy and familiar. Human appetites paired with ancient restraint. For a moment, the box feels more like a family gathering than a court.

I catch myself glancing toward the curtain at the edge of the box—toward the hallway that leads backstage. The instinct to check on her claws through me, sharp and restless. But I don’t move. I can feel Perry’s presence back there, steady and capable, his voice a low thread over the comms keeping the whole operation running clean.

Everything is under control.

She doesn’t need me getting in the way.

My place tonight is here.

The second act begins on time. The tempo shifts. The dancers wear masks of crimson and sin, the rhythm more primal than polished now. The patrons below lean forward like they can smell it—the promise of desire knotted tightly with control. My kind of poetry.

The performance ends with breathtaking intensity—an ensemble number that turns the stage into something mythic. Gold and garnet lighting floods the velvet curtains as dancers spin in synchrony, each movement sharp, sultry, final. The crescendo of music cuts on a dime, and for one perfect breath, the entire room holds still. Then: thunderous applause.

The Place erupts around us—human patrons rising to their feet, clapping, cheering, reaching for one last glimpse of the cast before the lights go out. The show was a risk. A gamble. A debut of something new and raw and elite. But it landed with perfection.

Ambrose leans back in his chair, one hand on Eloise’s knee, a faint, satisfied gleam in his eyes. The highest praise, from him, is his silence—and the fact that he hasn’t left.

Kasar offers a rare nod. Wren lifts her glass in approval. Deidre mutters something to herself, then smiles—sharp, pleased. Cassandra lifts her glass, her gaze following the stage lights as they fade. “They’ll be talking about this for weeks,” she murmurs, voice threaded with approval. “You set a new bar.”

They’re right. And I should be savoring this moment. Instead, I’m still seated with my fists clenched and my pulse jackhammering in my throat. Because she isn’t here.

She should be beside me. She should be basking in the ovation, the acclaim. But she stayed behind the curtain, backstage, beneath my feet—and every instinct in me is screaming to go to her.

I force myself to stand with care, to meet Ambrose’s gaze when he gives me a short nod of approval.

“You did well,” he says, voice low but clear enough for the others to hear.

I incline my head. “Thank you.”

His eyes linger, sharp and unreadable. “You’ve made something lasting here. Something we can build on.”

“I intend to.”

A pause stretches between us—long enough to mean something. Long enough for his gaze to pierce a little deeper, and I know I’m not reacting the way he expected. Hell, I’m not reacting the way I expected. I should be elated, eager to celebrate this critical success. My true first success for the Nightshade vampires outside of a combat situation.

Before he can ask what’s pulling my attention, Eloise leans in, her hand brushing his knee.

“We should head back soon. Wren’s already on the phone with Joséphine about the wine selection.”

Ambrose hums low, turning slightly toward her. “No one opens the ’54 without me.”

Eloise glances back at me, eyes sharp with amusement. “Bring Blake, would you? And that manager of yours, Perry! Anyone who helped pull this off deserves a glass of something that’s older than the district.”

Her tone is easy. Warm. A friend’s request, not a command.

I nod, giving her a faint smile. “I’ll ask. I think the staff might have their own plans tonight—but we’ll see.”

It’s noncommittal enough to pass. It’s enough of a reason to leave the balcony space; still I make my excuses.

Something about post-show security. A final check. A whispered mention of logistics.

They don’t question it.

But this isn’t about logistics or any invitation to celebrate.

It’s about Blake.

And I’m done pretending it isn’t.