Page 41 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
The shifters notice first. At the Berlin refuge, rebuilt and raw, I speak to the survivors, and though they watch Malek with awe, they listen to me with something else. Hope, maybe. Trust. They tell me stories, not him. They bring me tokens—rings, bracelets, photographs half-burned—and ask me to carry their words into the world.
And when I stand before the cameras again, the humans listen too. They argue less. They doubt less. They write headlines not of hysteria, but of resolve.
Malek watches from the edge of every room, his body still as stone, his gaze steady. He doesn’t interfere. He doesn’t command. He lets me speak, and in the silence that follows, I see the truth in his eyes.
He doesn’t see me as someone he has to protect anymore. He sees me as someone who stands beside him.
One night, long after the city has gone quiet and the lights of the estate have dimmed, I find him on the balcony. He stands with his hands braced against the railing, the moon painting his face in silver, the lake below restless and black.
“You’ve been watching me,” I say softly, stepping close enough that my shoulder brushes his.
“I watch everything,” he replies, his voice low, but there’s no edge to it.
I lean against the railing, the cold biting through my sleeves. “You don’t like it. Me stepping forward, speaking out.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it. “It’s not dislike. It’s…” He stops, searching for words. “It’s knowing the world will try to burn you for it.”
I reach for his hand, curling my fingers through his, grounding him as much as myself. “Let it try. I’m not afraid. Not anymore.”
He turns to me then, really turns, and the look in his eyes is something I’ve never seen before. Not the brooding alpha, not the calculating strategist, but a man stripped bare of armor. His thumb grazes my cheek, slow, reverent.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs, but then he shakes his head. “No—that’s not enough. I’m yours too. Whether I admit it or not.”
The words catch in my throat. I press closer, my forehead against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart pounding into me. “Then we do this together. Equal.”
His arms close around me, fierce, certain, and the lion inside him roars so loud I swear I can hear it.
And I know, without question, that the world will never see me as just Malek’s lover again.
I am his equal. His partner. His mate.
And the Syndicate should be afraid of both of us.
29
MALEK
The call comes at midnight, the hour when even a city like Geneva dares to sleep.
I’m in the library, a fire burning low, glass of whiskey in hand but untouched, staring at maps that are more scars than plans. The phone buzzes once, twice, before Michaelis bursts through the door, face carved from stone, voice clipped sharp.
“They hit Prague.”
The words slam into me harder than any blade. I rise, the glass left on the table, forgotten. “Which one?”
“The safehouse.” He hesitates. “The old one.”
My chest tightens. I don’t need him to say more. That house isn’t just brick and stone—it’s the first sanctuary I built when I left the Pact, carved into the bones of an abandoned fortress, a place meant to outlast centuries. Its walls hold relics, records, blood-oaths scratched into the wood by men who trusted me before I betrayed their loyalty by leaving. Roman has never touched it. Until now.
“How many?” I ask, my voice low, steady, though rage claws at the inside of my ribs.
“Three dead. Two taken. The rest scattered.” His jaw flexes. “They left a mark on the gate.”
I don’t need to see it to know. Roman’s seal, burned into the stone, a challenge as much as a warning.
The lion in me roars, demanding blood. My hands curl into fists, my nails biting into my palms until the skin breaks. For a moment, I let myself imagine tearing through his goons, ripping their throats out with my teeth, painting the walls red with their arrogance. Revenge whispers like a lover in my ear, sweet and hot and tempting.
But then I think of her.
