Page 27 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
17
MALEK
The rain comes down hard against the windows of the Geneva tower, streaking long lines across the glass until the city below looks blurred, like a painting someone left out in the storm. I’ve been standing at this window for too long, hands braced against the steel frame, whiskey glass abandoned behind me on the desk, the fire in my chest refusing to settle. I tell myself it’s work that keeps me rooted here, that the empire I’ve built demands my constant vigilance. But the truth presses in from every direction.
Jennifer.
Her scent still lingers on my skin though I’ve bathed three times since leaving her. Her voice still cuts through the quiet when my eyes close. The lion has not forgiven me for walking away, and every time I bury its roar, I feel the cost in my bones.
The elevator dings behind me. At this hour, no one should be coming up unannounced. My head turns just enough to catch Michaelis stepping in, and behind him, a figure I haven’t seen in decades.
Korrin.
The wolf looks older, though time doesn’t lay itself on us the way it does on mortals. His hair is longer, streaked gray at the temples, his face harder from years scraping survival out of the underground. He carries the city’s stink on him, oil and damp stone, but underneath it his scent hasn’t changed. He’s still a predator, even if the world above has forgotten him.
“Malek,” he says, his voice low, edged with caution. “You’ve grown lazy on steel and glass.”
I let a growl rumble, not because I’m insulted, but because he needs to remember whose territory he just stepped into. “And you’ve grown bold if you think you can walk into my tower unannounced.”
Michaelis clears his throat, stiff as ever. “He came through channels I didn’t know existed. If I tried to turn him away, half my team would be dead already.”
Korrin smirks faintly, showing teeth. He hasn’t lost his touch.
I wave Michaelis out, eyes never leaving the wolf. When the door seals shut, I move back to the desk, pour another glass of whiskey, and gesture for Korrin to sit. He doesn’t. He leans against the wall instead, arms crossed, gaze sharp.
“You didn’t crawl out of the underground to insult me,” I say finally. “Why are you here?”
His smirk fades. “Because the Syndicate is moving in ways that don’t make sense. Roman is taking more than territory. He’s taking women.”
I tilt my head, letting the words settle, tasting them the way I taste blood on the air. “Human women?”
“Yes,” Korrin answers. “But not just any. Women with ancestry. Witches.”
The word drops heavy between us.
My jaw tightens. “Impossible. The bloodlines burned out a century ago.”
“That’s what we were told. That’s what you believed when shifters turned on them. But I’ve seen it. Roman’s men are rounding up women across Eastern Europe, across the Balkans. They’re not just stockpiling mercenaries anymore. They’re stockpiling bloodlines.”
The whiskey burns my throat when I drink it down, though it does nothing to kill the fire curling in my gut. Witches. The last time I saw one, the world was still lit by torchlight, and the Pact was whole. They were dangerous, yes, but fragile, their kind dwindling even before we put our blades to their throats. To think that Roman would find them now, that he would gather them, is a truth I do not want to accept.
“And what does he want with them?” I ask, though the answer coils in the back of my mind.
Korrin shakes his head. “That I don’t know. Some say he’s trying to breed power into his shifters. Some say he’s binding them, using their blood to fuel old rites. Whatever it is, it isn’t small. He’s building something.”
I pace the length of the room, every step heavy against the floor. The rain hammers louder against the glass, as if the city itself wants to hear what I’ll say.
“I should let Darius deal with it,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “This is the kind of madness he thrives on. But Roman has always been mine to handle.”
Korrin’s eyes flicker. “Then handle him. Because if you don’t, he’ll burn more than Syndicate rivals. He’ll burn us all.”
His words dig under my skin, but worse than the words is the thought that rises, unbidden. Jennifer. The stubborn set of her mouth, the steel in her eyes, the dreams that haunt her. I’ve seen her wake shaking, breathless, as if the fire still clung to her skin. The lion snarls at the thought, restless, because it knows something I will not let myself name.
I shake it off with another drink. “You’ve given me enough for tonight. You’ll take what you know to Lysa. She’ll set you up with protection. But if you bring me lies, Korrin, I’ll tear your throat out myself.”
He dips his head, not quite a bow, more a recognition of what still separates us. “No lies. Just the storm that’s already coming.”
When he leaves, the silence feels heavier than before. I sit, pour another glass, and spread the old maps across the desk.
