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Chapter Twenty-Eight

BLAKE

T he buzz of The Place is quieter than usual, a kind of solemn hum instead of the wild thunderclap it was during opening weekend. I step through the main doors and pull in a breath laced with scent: warm stage lights, soft dust, the faint spice-and-vanilla blend that’s everywhere backstage like an unspoken signature of movement. It’s the fourth weekend of shows now, and though the crowds haven’t lessened, the frenetic energy has sharpened. It no longer vibrates out of control; it thrums—tense, precise, practiced. Like we’ve all become a part of the same living machine, and I’m still surprised that the machine is mine to steer.

The air tingles with the pre-show ritual. Music filters faintly from behind the curtain. Laughter echoes down the corridor from the dressing area. The dancers are effortlessly easing into costumes now, their jokes less brittle with nerves and more rib-poking and warm. My clipboard rests light in my hand instead of clenched between white knuckles.

Joséphine has Charlie tonight, and the knot in my chest pulls a little looser knowing it. They’d already been elbows-deep in cinnamon sugar when I left, the kitchen clouded with warm spice while Charlie rattled off her list of cookie goals like they were blueprints for architectural masterpieces. Joséphine had given me a wink over her glasses and promised me flour would stay off the ceiling, “probably.” It’s not just trust I feel when I leave Charlie with her—it’s relief, sharp and undeniable. There’s something ageless in Joséphine’s presence, something solid. A kind of sanctuary wrapped in linen and lavender, forged over centuries of command. When she says my daughter will be safe, I believe her. And that belief is growing easier, night by night.

I move fluidly through the pre-show checklist: costumes are pressed and hung on the correct racks, fan-feathered bustles accounted for. One of the lighting gels from stage left was swapped too late for last night’s rehearsal, but it’s back now, fixed, and Perry already signed off on the corrected set.

When I pass through the tech corridor into the alcove off-stage, I take a silent moment to glance at the showlights. Every color channel is moving just right, the cross beams not too hot, and there’s something about it all that soothes the part of me that still panics, still waits for it all to fall apart. I tell that part she’s being ridiculous. And for once… she listens.

“Blake.” Perry’s voice draws me out of my thoughts as I swing toward the narrow corridor between the costume racks and his still-open clipboard. “We’re golden for tonight. Minor hiccup with Erin’s mic, but she’s already got the spare.”

“Perfect,” I say, sliding neatly into the spot beside him as he taps through a checklist. “You know, it’s weird not feeling like I’m about to throw up before every show.”

Perry gives a soft chuckle under his breath, the kind that makes his shoulders shift just a little without making him look away from the screen. “That’s because you’ve built us a damn war machine. Its ammunition just happens to be cased in rhinestones and tassels.”

I snort. “We aim to sparkle, not to miss.”

“Exactly.” He tilts his head in my direction, then gestures subtly toward the office between the private boxes above. “You’ve done a decent job keeping things under wraps. Shame the boss stares at you like HR isn’t a thing.”

“ You are HR.”

My laugh is softer this time, quieter, because it stirs something deeper. That sharp, sweet ache that comes from picturing him—Malachi, standing in his suit, golden eyes lifting the color right out of me. I hate seeing him put the colored contact lenses to disguise those eyes of his; how he avoids laughing or smiling too much around everyone to avoid displaying his fangs.

“You’ve seen him?” I ask, glancing upwards toward the darkness hidden by the stage lights. Even with the house lights on, it’s impossible to see through those dark, tinted windows. He’s up there somewhere—I can feel it. Like his presence lives in my bones, tugging gently at the marrow.

Perry’s answer is a grunt laced with mild exasperation. “Only briefly. He’s been distracted today. Something’s bugging him. Might be show stress, might be Nightshade stuff… hard to tell when it comes to him.”

I shoot a considering look in Malachi’s direction. He was fine as we drove in earlier, so something must have happened. Could it be something to do with Kit? Unease drips down the back of my neck, like a cold drop of rain that sneaks past your collar. Thanking Perry, I decide to check in with him even as I tell myself that it probably has nothing to do with Kit.

Malachi’s office is dim when I enter—not dark necessarily, but like he’d forgotten that normal humans need more light to see. The only light comes from the desk lamp. In its warm pool of illumination are scattered sheets of thick white paper. Dossiers, maybe? At least four open folders. Maps and large sections of text and details I can’t parse from this angle. He’s standing behind the desk, sleeves rolled, jacket missing, the collars of his dress shirt slightly askew. His eyes flick up—but not fast, which tells me he probably heard me before I even started climbing the stairs.

“Am I interrupting?” I ask softly, careful.

“No.” He doesn’t offer more right away, just closes the topmost folder and extends one hand toward me in a quiet invitation.

I cross the room without hesitation, slipping beside him. The moment I’m close enough, his arm wraps around my waist, drawing me to his side. Holding me like I’m the thing keeping him grounded.

“Something to do with the restaurant?” I murmur.

He hums but shakes his head. He flips a folder closed. “Ambrose needs me to look over some things. Border updates. Rapture distribution numbers. Nothing dire, just volume.”

I glance down at the papers and scrunch my face. “That sounds like a whole lot of fun.”

He huffs out a silent laugh. “It’s a pain in the ass is what it is.” His hand at my waist tightens slightly, and he leans in, pressing his mouth to the top of my head. “You make it better just by being here.”

I slide my hand across the desk, over a folded corner of one map, then look up at him.

“Then maybe you should take a break from it, since you said it’s not urgent,” I say, tapping one of the closed folders.

His gaze turns sharper, but there’s warmth beneath it. He guides me gently toward the leather chair behind his desk and sinks into it, pulling me down onto his lap with practiced ease.

I laugh and shake my head. “This wasn’t what I meant!”

“No?” He’s smirking and it goes right between my legs. I shouldn’t find his cocky arrogance so hot, but I really, really do. “I think you’re exactly what I need right now.”

His hand grips the back of my neck and I don’t bother resisting because why would I? His hungry, hot mouth crashing onto mine with a desperation that cracks open something endless in my chest. My gasp is swallowed into his tongue, into the heat of him, lips crashing, dragging. There’s no hesitation this time. No carefully measured distance. His hands are in my hair, at the curve of my jaw, down the length of my back.

“Anyone could walk in,” I whisper, threading my fingers into his hair, heart pounding with the thrill of it.

“I’ll hear them before they can,” he says, voice thick with possessive promise, then presses his mouth to my belly like a man who already knows he won’t stop.

Between our bodies, the heat blooms between us. Ever since we decided to give in to this, need has been a constant simmer. I totally understand why it’s called the “honeymoon phase” now. I have to hold myself back, burying my sheer horniness while Charlie is around or we’re here at work.

His hands glide down, gripping the backs of my thighs, lifting me effortlessly. He deposits me on the desk, right on top of the files and papers that he had been pouring over.

Pages crumple beneath me, corners folding under my thighs.

He doesn’t seem to care. Neither do I.

He drags my leggings down slowly, almost like he’s taunting me, but there’s nothing patient in the way he touches me after that. He pulls my panties to the side and then his lips are on me.

Every press of his mouth lights a fuse under my skin. I tremble under his hands, under his tongue, biting my lower lip to muffle my moan as he buries himself between my thighs like a man starved. My fingers clench in his hair, legs tightening around him as he licks and groans. The fact that he’s getting pleasure from this makes me hotter.

I peak hard on his tongue, the intensity ripping through me like a shockwave. My fingers claw at the edge of the desk, the other pressed to my mouth to muffle the sharp sound that threatens to escape. I’m still unraveling when he flips me face-down, hands rough with need but steady, bending me over the desk and kicking my legs apart before I can catch my breath—like he’s claiming what’s his.

I cry out and he groans behind me, low and guttural, as his body slams into mine.

Malachi bends low over my back, one arm banding tight around my waist as he ruts into me with brutal precision, his breath hot against my ear. His fangs drag along the curve of my neck—not piercing, just threatening—and when my cry rips loose, he covers my mouth with his hand, muffling the sound as my body tightens and shatters around him. He follows with a guttural growl, hips jerking as he spills into me, his face buried in my hair, every inch of him trembling against me.

Afterward, he draws a shaky breath and eases back just enough to press his lips between my shoulders. I tremble, spent, as he gently helps me upright and pulls my leggings back into place.

He sinks into his office chair and pulls me into his lap, arms locking around me like a cage. But if it is, it’s one that makes me feel the most freedom I’ve ever had. His breath fans over the side of my face, still a touch ragged, still warm despite the chill soaking through my underused limbs. My back’s to his chest, legs curled sideways over one solid thigh, our heartbeats mismatched but slowly steadying together.

“Are you alright?” Malachi finally asks, voice low, lips brushing the side of my temple.

I lean my head back against his shoulder, still trying to catch my breath. “More than alright,” I murmur. “I think you broke my spine in at least three good ways.”

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, vibrates where our bodies meet, makes my toes curl all over again.

He presses his lips to the top of my head. “Good.”

We sit there like that for a while, curled together in a messy tangle of limbs and satisfaction, the warm hush of the office wrapping around us like a shield. I bury my face against his neck, breathing in his scent—smoke and citrus and something uniquely Malachi. It smells like home.

Anxiety strikes without warning. When did I start thinking Malachi felt like home? My heart picks up speed again as I realize I’m not falling for Malachi. I’ve already fallen and deeper than I’ve been willing to admit to myself.

“What’s wrong?”

I should have guessed Malachi would notice the beginnings of a freak-out. It only makes it worse. Do I tell him? We haven’t talked about what we really are yet. But we basically live together and he’s told me that I’m his. Taking a deep breath, I pull on the same courage I needed when I was standing in my living room holding a six-month-old baby for the first time.

I’m still enough of a coward that I can’t look at him as I whisper, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Is it possible to throw up and suffocate at the same time? Because that’s absolutely what I’m feeling like.

“I want to mark you,” he says, so softly I almost miss it from the wheezing in my ears. Then my brain actually processes his words.

I pull back just enough to look up at him.

“What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself right away; instead, his fingers trace slow, tender lines down the front of my throat to my chest, he taps two fingers above my heart. “Right here. I want to mark you as mine. For real.”

Something sharp and hot twists low in my stomach. “You mean... like, officially? As your mate?”

His eyes burn into mine and I’ve never hated those colored contacts more. He nods once, slowly, as if facing a wild animal who might startle and run at any moment.

“I’ve fought against the idea my whole life,” Malachi says, voice raw now, stripped of its usual charismatic edge. “Told myself I wasn’t meant for it. That vampires like me—violent men with blood on our hands—we don’t get mates. We’re not supposed to need anyone.”

He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand, and the trembling there… it isn’t just his.

“But then you walked into my life with your lilac hair and lion’s heart, and some stupid part of me—the old part, the quiet part I’ve buried under centuries of war—started to hope. And now I can’t remember the last time I breathed without thinking of you.”

My heart stumbles. I press my palm against his chest, grounding myself in the steady beat beneath. “You know I come as a package deal, right? It’s not just me. It’s Charlie, too.”

His arms tighten around me, no hesitation. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s a brilliant, brave kid. I’d be proud to be part of her life—and yours. I’d do anything for both of you.”

The emotion hits me like a crashing wave. It’s not just the culmination of everything we’ve survived, It’s the feeling that for the first time, someone truly sees all of me and has decided to stay. My fear. My strength. My daughter. My past. And somehow, he still chooses me.

I nod, throat too tight to speak, overwhelmed by the enormity of it.

Malachi kisses me again—slower this time. Perfect. A promise sealed in silence.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

We both freeze.

Before either of us can answer, Ashe strides in with a grim expression on his face.

The moment shatters. I know, just know, that whatever he says next is going to be horrible.

“We have a problem,” he says.