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Chapter Twenty-Two

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T he silence in the elevator squeezes the air from my lungs—a plush, sound-swallowing luxury lift that erases the world the instant its doors seal. I hadn’t noticed it the first time, too busy clutching Charlie’s hand and drowning in panic after the break-in. But now, with Malachi beside me, I can’t not notice. The black-gloss walls, the brushed steel, the gentle, apologetic lighting, and every molecule of stillness pressing in. All of it turns too confining, too close, and every nerve ending I have is tuned to him.

Malachi stands so near I can feel the boundaries of his body without being touched—his presence a pressure field, electric and steady, radiating off him in slow, relentless waves. My pulse flickers at my wrists and races in my throat, the tension winding through my muscles so tight it’s a wonder I’m still standing.

I can feel myself unraveling, strand by desperate strand.

His energy suffuses the elevator, not loud or showy but solid, resolute—like a storm about to break. His scent invades the sterile air: dark woods, clean spice, and something earthy and biting beneath. My skin prickles. My stomach tightens with a hungry, twisting need.

He hasn’t met my eyes since we stepped in, jaw set, one hand buried in his pocket as if it’s anchoring him to restraint.

Then he moves.

My back hits the cold wall before I think to move. My gasp is swallowed by his mouth as he crashes into me—rough, unrestrained, like he’s been damming this back for a century and the flood’s finally here. There’s no warning, no gentle prelude. Just sheer heat and want.

I make a startled sound—half shock, half relief—as his hands seize my hips, pinning me with sure, urgent force. He traps me in place, my spine pressed hard to the steel, every inch of me bracketed by him.

This isn’t coy or careful. It’s frantic and jagged, as if we’re both frayed down to the threads and finally have permission to fall apart.

He breaks the kiss, breath painting my cheek, hot and ragged. “I can’t fucking wait anymore.”

“Don’t.” The word escapes me, a confession sharper than prayer, and my voice cracks under the weight of what I’ve tried so hard to bury. “Don’t wait.”

Because waiting is all I’ve done. Waited for logic or responsibility, trying to smother this hunger under layers of practicality—because he’s my boss, because it’s reckless, because wanting something for myself has always been a luxury I’ve never let myself take.

But this? Him?

This is the want I’ve choked down under years of discipline. That night after the interview, I told myself it was nothing. I shoved him behind the glass with every other near-miss—a want I never let myself grasp because timing was wrong, because I had to be careful, because I’ve taught myself never to let my longing show.

But no one has ever looked at me the way he does. Like I’m not broken or borrowed, not just surviving. No one has ever made me feel like I could want something unapologetically.

So for once—just this once—I’m choosing need. Nothing safe, nothing practical. Only heat, and whatever blaze it starts.

His palm slides up along my jaw—rough-skinned, careful, intent. His thumb brushes my lower lip, neither teasing nor commanding. Just memorizing me, mapping the truth of me like something fragile and sacred.

“I’m going to devour you,” he whispers against my mouth, voice low and intent, darkness curled at every word. “And you’re going to love every fucking second of it.”

A tremor races through me, sharp and bright—not fear, not even close. I’ve known real fear: crouched beneath blankets beside my twin, keys clutched between my knuckles, shushing Charlie in shadows that felt too loud. This isn’t that. This is electricity pulling our breath into one rhythm—longing and anticipation coiling inside my lungs, whispering finally at every brush of skin.

The elevator dings. I barely register it.

Malachi moves before the doors are fully open—his hands gripping the backs of my thighs as he sweeps me up. I gasp, legs snaking around his waist and arms thrown tight around his neck, pure instinct.

Then, we’re moving.

Not walking, running.

The world blurs into a rush of motion and breath. Cool air tugs at my hair even inside the apartment; only then do I realize—we aren’t just strolling through the penthouse, we’re racing. The thuds of his steps are muffled by layered rugs, the scenery blurs past: city lights spilling through glass, black marble shifting underfoot, tall curtains billowing as we pass.

A heartbeat later, he lays me onto something lush and soft—the thick bedding of his bed beneath me.

Malachi stands above, chest heaving, eyes burning down at me. Hunger still sings there, but beneath it—something steadier, more terrifying in its gentleness, a carefulness threaded through the violence of his want.

And I want it all. Every wild, worshipful edge of him.

We don’t speak. The quiet lands thick and electric around us, heavy with everything unsaid. Only our breathing remains—his slow, control fraying at the edges; mine fast, nerves and want snaring every breath. The room feels too hot, the air drawn tight as skin. I push up on my elbows, gripping the bedding, needing the grounding.

Malachi waits, gaze drinking me in as if memorizing all the space I take up in this world. He doesn’t rush. His hand lifts, light and certain, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear before trailing along my jaw. His thumb traces gently, not possessive, not coaxing, just quiet reverence.

No one’s ever looked at me like this. When I was a dancer, men’s gazes were hungry, transactional—a way to barter for my body, my time, my skin. I’d been immune to it; it was only the job. I’ve seen every variation of selfish want.

But Malachi looks at me, and it’s different. Not just my body—he sees all of me: the woman who survived, who hungered and hid and kept moving anyway. There’s a tempered ferocity in his gaze that matches the ache between my thighs, and I have never ached so fiercely to be truly seen, to be truly wanted.

“Fucking beautiful,” he rasps.

My cheeks flame at his words. His voice is raw, ragged—a sacred roughness, like the word fought its way up from somewhere near his ribs. Being called beautiful never meant much before. I’ve had it wielded at me by men who wanted to buy it, to buy a slice of me in exchange for something temporary. But his words strike deeper, splitting right through all my layers of caution and survival, rooting straight into the softer parts I’ve kept hidden and safe.

“I’m glad no other man has made it into your bed,” he says, fangs catching the low light, and another rush of heat surges through me. “They wouldn’t have been worthy of you. Shit, I’m not worthy, but I’m too damned selfish to care.”

My next breath shudders out of me. I try to summon levity but my voice lands earnest. “It’s not like I was saving myself, Malachi.” I savor saying his name, watching his eyes hood in response. “I just never liked someone enough. I took care of it myself a long time ago.”

His eyes flare, gold sparking with fire. He gazes at me like I’ve handed him some secret, still warm and throbbing. “You did, huh?” His voice dips, a low velvet scrape. “That’s a fucking crime I didn’t get to watch.”

My mouth quirks, embarrassment and want tangling sweetly. Heat pulses low in my belly, so sharp it makes me squirm. “Why am I not surprised that’s what you focused on?”

His smirk twists his lips, his amusement nothing but hunger, the air between us growing thick. “Because the thought of you—on this bed, hand between those gorgeous thighs, claiming your own pleasure—that’s not an image a man forgets.”

His voice alone could split me open. He leans in, lips skimming my ear—each word a benediction.

“One day,” he breathes, voice dark and sure, “you’ll show me exactly how you unraveled yourself…”

His hand glides down my thigh, slipping just beneath the hem of my dress, a slow, possessive caress.

“…so I can do it better.”

The heat in his touch is gasoline to my skin.

I shift, tension making the fabric pull taut across me, already soaked—aware of every flicker of air, every heartbeat, as if my body answers only to him.

My mouth opens—maybe to deflect, maybe to tease back, I don’t know. But then I meet his gaze, bright gold rimmed in crimson, and the breath leaves me. Words fail.

He watches my lips as if every unsaid thing is written there.

“You don’t have to be anyone here but you,” he murmurs, voice frayed and rough, as if my name is etched into his tongue. “No performance. No pretending. Just feel.”

Both his hands slide under the hem of my dress, drawing it higher with a patience that’s agony. His touch drags across my skin, hot as embers. I gasp when his fingers ghost up my thigh—barely there, achingly cruel. My chest rises, trembling. I can’t sit still.

I lean forward, fingers curling into the bedding, because if I don’t touch or move, I’ll combust from nothing but want.

“Lay back,” he says, quiet but final. A promise disguised as a command. “Let me take care of you.”

I obey because I want to.

The mattress dips as he kneels between my thighs, spreading them with deliberate care. Air chills the spots where I burn hottest, a whip of contrast that makes me shiver. He strokes my skin like a benediction, as if reacquainting himself with holy ground—slow, deliberate. When his fingers slip beneath my lace, the intimacy of it makes me ache.

“You’re soaked,” he growls, hunger raw in his voice. “You smell so fucking delicious.”

I writhe under his gaze, the honesty of his want burning through me. When his fingers brush over the damp lace, I turn my head, burying a gasp in the crook of my arm. My thighs tremble, every muscle tight with need.

“Malachi,” I whisper as a plea. My body remembers, draws the last time up from somewhere so deep and vulnerable it almost hurts.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says, worship and raggedness blending in the sound. “Soft and messy and ready to fall apart for me.”

And I do fall apart—carefully, ritual-sharp, every movement significant.

He peels the lace down, his mouth following—tongue and lips blazing a path like scripture. He kisses along my inner thigh, pausing to nip just enough to make my hips stutter. He laughs low, then drags his tongue up, claiming and patient, until his mouth finds me.

I moan, loud and uninhibited, giving myself up to the sensation, the pleasure that’s finally mine. He groans in response, the rumble sinking straight into my skin. His hands keep me open, his mouth worships—thorough, measured, undoing me with slow, calculated devotion. He traces every secret place, fangs grazing but never hurting—reminding me where I am, who I’m with, how little pretense I have left.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t force. He just takes his time, letting me drown inch by inch, until I’m gasping his name—Malachi, God, Malachi—over and over, prayer tangled with gratitude, desperate and grateful and so, so alive.

When I break, it’s not delicate. I shatter—loud, shaking, and wild.

I cry out, head falling back against the pillows. Stars shatter behind my eyes, limbs boneless, breathless. Malachi gentles me down, licking softly through every aftershock, his hands anchoring my shaking legs. Pleasure echoes in my bones, spreading warmth through the hollow behind my ribs.

For a rare, impossible moment, I am both shattered and whole. I’m more myself than I’ve ever dared to be. And as the world falls back into place, all I know is: I’ve never needed anything like I need this man before me.