Malakai's POV
Pride was a dangerous thing.
In my world, it got men killed. It made them sloppy, reckless, deaf to warning signs and blind to the knife coming for their throat.
But as I stood in my office watching lines of data glow across the monitors, listening to Raphael mutter over access logs and schedules and camera blind spots, pride moved through me anyway—cold and unfamiliar, but real.
Not pride in myself.
In her.
Kiera had sat in my chair less than twenty minutes ago, one leg tucked beneath her, her fingers moving over the keyboard with quiet certainty while both of us watched. No panic. No performance. No need to prove herself. She had simply looked at the problem, seen what everyone else had missed, and spoken like she belonged in the middle of it.
A cleaning badge used off-shift. Duplicate classifications on the same plate. A service route that should have been empty.
Small things.
The kind of things men trained for years overlooked because they were too busy chasing bigger shadows.
She had seen them in minutes.
Raphael tossed a file onto the desk and leaned back against the edge of it, crossing his arms. "You're doing it again."
I didn't look at him. "Doing what?"
"That thing with your face."
I finally lifted my eyes. "What thing?"
He grinned, infuriatingly at ease. "The one where you pretend not to be affected by something while very obviously being affected by something."
"I'm not affected."
"That girl walks in here, takes one look at our mess, untangles it in front of you, and suddenly you're brooding like a widower in a war film."
I went back to the screen. "Shut up, Raphael."
He laughed under his breath. "So that's a yes."
A muscle in my jaw tightened.
The office was dim now, most of the evening light gone from the tall windows. The glow from the monitors cast cold blue shadows across the desk, over scattered files, glasses, and open folders. Everything smelled like paper, expensive liquor, and the faint metallic trace of the day's stress still clinging to my skin.
Raphael watched me for a moment too long.
Then his expression shifted—not losing the teasing entirely, but settling into something quieter. Sharper.
"She's good," he said.
I said nothing.
"She's well-behaved. Smarter than half the men who work for you. Probably more careful too." He tilted his head, studying me. "And before you bite my head off, no, I'm not saying that because I enjoy the look on your face when her name comes up."
I glanced at him then. "Then why are you saying it?"
"Because you need to hear it from someone who isn't you."
I leaned back slowly in my chair. "Get to the point."
Raphael pushed off the desk and began gathering his things—phone, keys, a thin stack of printouts, the half-finished coffee he'd forgotten he was drinking. "My point," he said, "is that if she's that useful, you should keep her as far away from this as possible."
My gaze hardened. "I can protect her."
He gave me a look—long, unimpressed, almost tired.
"Not always."
The room went still.
I felt the words like a strike to the ribs, not because they were cruel, but because they were true enough to irritate me.
Raphael saw it land. Of course he did.
"That's not me insulting you," he said, quieter now. "That's me reminding you what this life does. People like us don't get to promise safety as if it means anything." He shoved the files under his arm. "She's good, Mal. That's exactly why she needs distance. Smart people become useful. Useful people become targets."
I held his gaze. "She won't be touched."
Raphael's mouth curved, but there was no real humor in it now. "You sound like a man with feelings."
"I sound like a man with a brain."
He barked out a laugh. "Sure."
Then he headed for the door, pausing just before he stepped out.
"For the record," he said over his shoulder, "if you don't have feelings for her, you're getting very theatrical about proving it."
"Leave."
"Already doing that." He opened the door. "Try not to stare at her like she hung the moon. It's embarrassing for your reputation."
"Raphael."
He grinned. "Good night, boss."
Then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Silence returned, but it didn't settle.
It stretched.
I sat there for a while, staring at the screen without seeing any of it.
He was wrong.
About the feelings.
About the moon.
About all of it.
And yet—
My mind betrayed me anyway.
The sound of her voice when she said she was just checking on me. The way she had leaned over the keyboard with complete focus, unaware of how close I was to forgetting every reason I had for restraint. The bracelet at her wrist. The quiet confidence. The softness she carried and the steel hidden beneath it.
Useful.
That was what I should have been thinking.
Instead, I was thinking about the shape of her mouth when she tried not to smile.
"Fuck," I muttered.
I stood abruptly.
By the time I reached her room, I had already told myself I was only going to check on her. Nothing more. A brief look. A few words. Enough to settle the restlessness in my chest and leave before I made it worse.
I knocked once and, getting no answer, pushed the door open.
She was inside.
The room was lit by warm lamplight, soft and golden against the dusky blue of evening beyond the balcony doors. Kiera stood near the mirror in fitted clothes that made my thoughts go violently still—a simple top close enough to her body to make every line feel deliberate, soft fabric tracing her shape, her hair falling loose around her shoulders.
She turned at the sound of the door.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
My gaze moved over her before I could stop it.
Not carelessly.
Not politely either.
Slowly. Fully. Taking in the curve of her waist, the bare softness of her arms, the quiet way she straightened when she realized I was looking. Her expression flickered—surprise first, then something smaller, more dangerous.
Awareness.
I should have said something.
Should have asked if she was resting. If she needed anything. If she had eaten.
Instead I stood there like a man who had spent too long trying not to want something that was already under his skin.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
"Malakai?" she asked softly.
There was no fear in her voice.
That made it worse.
I had spent weeks controlling myself around her. Weeks pretending proximity wasn't a test of discipline. Weeks telling myself patience was still the smarter choice.
But desire had a breaking point.
And mine had learned her name.
I shut the door behind me.
Her breath caught almost too quietly to hear.
I crossed the room, slow enough to give her time to pull away if she wanted.
She didn't.
That was my undoing.
"Fuck it," I said, more to myself than to her.
Then I reached for her.
My hand closed around her waist, pulling her into me, and my mouth found hers before another thought could interfere. The kiss hit like something starved—deep, immediate, all the restraint I had been forcing into myself breaking open at once. She gasped softly against my lips, but the sound didn't stop her. Her hands rose fast, gripping my shirt, then my shoulders, and when she kissed me back there was hunger in it that nearly wrecked me.
I kissed her again, slower this time only so I could feel it—her breath, the slight tremble that ran through her before she steadied, the way her body leaned into mine as if she had been trying not to do that for just as long.
My hand slid up her back, fingers spreading there, holding her close enough to feel her heartbeat.
Or maybe that was mine.
She tilted her head, and the kiss deepened.
It stopped being about surprise and became something fuller, more dangerous. A quiet, consuming ache finally given permission. My mouth left hers only long enough to trace the line of her jaw, the sensitive place below her ear, the warmth at the side of her neck. She shivered under my hands, and that small reaction dragged something rough and possessive through my chest.
"Kiera," I said against her skin.
Just her name.
But it sounded like confession.
Her fingers tightened at my shoulders.
I left traced of kisses from her neck down to her chest down to her stomach. My left hand placed on her left breast under her clothes. Squeezing it and twirling my finger on her hardened nipple.
Fuck. My dick is painfully hard. Straining in my pants literally begging to be freed in inside her. But I'm not going to rush her. When she's ready, she'll come to me. And I enjoy it like this. Because I know she's comfortable around me and I don't want to ruin that with my own dark, dirty wants. She's still so innocent and fragile.
When I kissed her again, she answered immediately, soft and breathless and no less ruined than I already was. Every careful line I had drawn around us blurred. She was warm in my hands, real beneath them, and for a few reckless minutes I allowed myself to forget everything except the fact that she was here and not turning away.
Eventually the urgency eased.
Not disappeared.
Just softened enough for breath to matter again.
We ended up half-fallen onto the bed, tangled together in the warm disarray of sheets and limbs, the room quiet except for our breathing. Her head rested against me, my arm around her, one of her hands still lightly clutching my shirt like she wasn't ready to let go yet.
Neither was I.
I pressed a kiss to the top of her hair.
It should have ended there.
But the reason I had come to her room in the first place found its way back in.
My hand moved slowly along her back as I spoke. "You were useful tonight."
She went still.
Not frightened.
Alert.
I felt the shift immediately.
I glanced down at her. "And very smart."
She lifted her head just enough to look at me, searching my face. "That doesn't sound like a compliment."
"It is."
"Then why do you sound unhappy?"
Because usefulness came with consequences.
Because Raphael's words were still in my head.
Because I knew exactly what men in my world did with people who could see too much.
I looked at her for a long second before I said, "I don't want you involved in what's going on."
She pulled back a little then, enough to sit up.
The loss of her weight against me was immediate and unwelcome.
Her brows drew together. "Why?"
"For your safety."
Her expression changed in an instant. Not anger, exactly. But close enough to its edge.
"I already am involved."
"No."
"Yes," she said, sharper now. "You don't get to decide I'm involved only when it benefits you and uninvolved when it doesn't."
I sat up too.
The room had gone quieter, heavier. The kind of silence that comes before an argument sharpens.
"Kiera—"
"No, because if this is about me helping and now suddenly you've changed your mind—"
"It's because I don't want anything to happen to you."
That stopped her.
I don't think she expected the bluntness of it any more than I expected myself to say it out loud.
My voice lowered.
"My world is dark," I said. "Darker than you've seen. And it is not merciful. If you step too far into it, it will take from you. It always does."
She didn't answer.
I forced myself to keep going.
"I only want what's best for you. I don't want anything to happen to you. I won't forgive myself. "
The words felt strange in my mouth. Unpracticed. Exposed.
I hated that.
And yet I said the one thing I hated more.
"Please."
Silence.
That word was not built for men like me.
But I had never imagined saying it to anyone, and somehow it was sitting between us now, raw and undeniable.
Kiera looked at me for a long time.
I could see the argument still alive in her eyes. The pride. The intelligence. The instinct to push back. To question. To refuse being handled.
And God, I admired her for it.
Eventually, she let out a small breath.
"Okay," she said quietly.
Not surrender.
Not fully.
But enough.
Something inside me unclenched.
I reached for her again, slower this time, giving her room to resist.
She didn't.
When I pulled her back against me, the kiss I gave her was different from the first—less desperate, more deliberate. Softer. Tender in a way I rarely allowed myself to be. My hand cradled the side of her face, my mouth moving over hers as if I could seal the promise into her skin.
When we settled again, she fit herself back against me with a hesitation so slight it almost hurt.
I held her there.
In the dark.
In the warmth.
In the quiet after the storm of wanting.
And for a moment—just one—I let myself believe that keeping her safe might actually be possible.