Page 43 of Vampire Soldier

The way he doesn’t ask for permission to help me. He just does.

The way he sees me—really sees me—even when I wish he wouldn’t.

I tell myself it’s gratitude. Relief. Trauma responses tangled with adrenaline and exhaustion. Logical things.

But deep down, I know better.

It’s him.

It’s the way my heartbeat changes when he’s near. The way my body remembers every place he’s ever touched me. The way the space between us hums, thick and heavy, even when nothing is said at all.

I feel something for him. I have since we first kissed as strangers in his car.

Something that isn’t safe. Something that won’t be easy to shove into a box and bury. Something that terrifies me almost as much as the thought of losing what little normalcy Charlie and I have managed to build.

I can’t keep up this lie to myself much longer.

Not with the way his voice wraps around my name.

Not with the way my soul feels like it’s leaning toward him, even when I try to keep my distance.

There are things that I should tell him. I just don’t know if I could handle it if the truth pushes him away completely.

ChapterSeventeen

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The Range Rover’s engine purrs beneath my feet, smooth and low like a promise I don’t know how to trust. Malachi drives one-handed—of course he does—his fingers curled over the wheel like they expect it to submit. I’m cradling a coffee between my hands, the heat sinking into my palms. It’s not in a to-go cup or a generic white mug, but the ceramic travel mug Charlie gave me a few years ago on Mother’s Day. A little chipped at the top of the handle, white with lilac swirls. The letter B etched faintly on one side.

I didn’t fill it with coffee. I don’t even remember grabbing it last night before leaving our house.

Malachi barely glanced at me when he handed it over, just a quiet “Figured you’d need it” before focusing on the road again . . . but I inhale the scent from the cup like I’m starving for it: dark roast, a pinch of cinnamon, and cream—not milk, because somehow he knows I hate how thin milk tastes in coffee.

I’m too tired to ask him how.

We’d left Charlie in the penthouse under the care of Joséphine—the one vampire even Ambrose listens to, who, to my surprise, looked like someone’s impossibly elegant grandmother. Silver-streaked hair, crisp linen collar, and golden eyes that saw everything. She’d greeted me with the kind of warmth that felt practiced, but still genuine. Charlie had taken to her instantly, especially when she mentioned baking chocolate chip toffee cookies as part of the day’s plan.

The city slips past the window in silent fragments—Newgate’s glass towers glittering like teeth against the mid-morning sky, everything too bright and modern for my sleep-fogged brain.

When we enter the elevator after parking in the underground garage—my stomach lurches. I hadn’t thought about what it will look like when we walk in together. There’s no way anyone can think we’re together, right? My face heats and I stare at my reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator. I honestly look like I didn’t get much sleep, which is true. I realize, too, that I’m wearing the same cardigan as yesterday.

The elevator doors open, and if the looks I get were a courtroom jury, I’d already be convicted of “slept with the boss” in under thirty seconds.

Perry’s over by the front alcove where the host desk is, talking to Clara, both their expressions telling as their eyes ping toward me—then Malachi—then me again. Clara’s got her clipboard against her chest, her gaze narrowed with curiosity that doesn’t bother pretending to look away in time. A little farther off, inside the restaurant, a cluster of dancers are stretching while chatting. Erin says something, and the others look at us. I couldn’t hear what she says—but the slow twitch of her lips, just this side of smug, says more than words ever could.

I’m more than sure Malachi knows exactly what the ladies are saying, but he doesn’t seem inclined to share.

“Do you want me to say something to them?” Malachi’s voice pulls me out of the fog like a stone dropped in water—cutting straight through the unease stirring under my skin and sending ripples I can’t ignore.

He says it low, soft, but there’s razor wire threaded through every syllable. That same restrained violence I’d seen when he told those shifters on Blood Street to get the fuck out of his sight. It’s not just that he’s more powerful than everyone in the room. It’s the way he walks like he’s already counted the exits—and the bodies. But not even the general of the Nightshade vampires can stop a rumor once it’s given life.

“God, no,” I immediately refuse in a harsh whisper. Like that helps the picture we must make. I pick up my pace, glad when he doesn’t press. I’m relieved when he splits off to check something with Perry. I’m not entirely sure I can handle even one more raised eyebrow or speculative glance without snapping. And I really don’t have time for it.

“Dress rehearsal starts in twenty minutes,” I announce as I pass the dancers watching me. I absolutely ignore the fact that I know my face is still red. Most of my life may feel out of control right now, but this show—this job—is the thing I still control.

Backstage, I breathe a little easier. The second-floor office windows don’t have a direct line of sight here, and for the first time this morning, I don’t feel like Malachi’s gaze is scorching the back of my neck. I know he’s probably watching from the shadows of that tinted glass, but at least I can pretend he’s not.

My office is a small, windowless room tucked just off the main dressing area—technically a glorified storage nook with a desk and a locking drawer, but it’s mine. I nudge the door shut with my hip and drop my bag onto the chair, ready to swap it for my clipboard when I pull open the desk drawer—and freeze.

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