Page 5 of Roar Me Like You Mean It
Because when men like him think they can’t be touched, that’s when they’re most likely to bleed.
I gather the files, organize them into a secure folder, and lock them in the desk. The evidence isn’t solid enough to prosecute.
But if I play this right, I won’t need evidence. I’ll get something better: intent.
I grab my phone, scan my messages, and fire off a text to Leah, my stylist-slash-sorceress who’s been waiting for me to finally stop dressing like a funeral procession.
Need your help. I have to make a man choke on his own tongue. And maybe fall in love. Dress for both.
She replies with a skull emoji, then another one with fire.
I smile, then push up from the desk and walk down the narrow hall to the back exit. The street is quieter now, less traffic, more shadows stretching long across the pavement. I slide my sunglasses back on and keep walking, blending into the city like I was born for it.
And in a way, I was.
Raised in this machine, taught to use its gears as weapons, trained to see how power moves not just in policy, but in glances, in favors, in what people wear and where they sit and who doesn’t get invited to the table.
Malek Thorne built his own table.
Now I’m going to walk right up to it.
And flip it.
I hail a cab instead of calling the car, because I need ten minutes of silence to breathe. The city peels away behind us, all clean angles and old money, as we head toward my apartment in Dupont.
Inside, the space is sharp and minimal, steel and stone and white marble, barely lived-in but curated to precision. I toss my blazer onto the kitchen island, toe off my shoes again, and walk to the full-length mirror near the bedroom.
I don’t look tired. That’s a win.
But I look… hard. Edges sharpened by years of courtroom battles, long nights, names I had to prove wrong before they could whisper them behind my back. That’s fine. I don’t want softness tonight.
I want steel in silk.
I pour some wine; not expensive, not cheap. Just enough to take the edge off the buzz in my bones.
Because tomorrow, I will go to war.
And tonight, I start getting ready.
3
MALEK
The walls glitter, and I hate it.
They’ve covered the ballroom in gold leaf and candlelight, like wealth can distract from the fact that half the people here are predators dressed as saints. I’ve walked into more wars than galas, but this kind of event demands a different kind of armor, one that smells like Tom Ford and political posturing. The Vanguard Initiative doesn’t throw parties for charity. They host illusions and call it diplomacy.
I scan the crowd as I move through it, every instinct pricked. This year, the guest list feels bloated with men trying too hard and women pretending not to notice. Behind every smile, there’s a blade tucked into someone’s waistband. Not literal, although I’m sure a few of the private guards stationed along the perimeter would argue otherwise.
One of them nods as I pass: Michaelis, former spec-ops, now head of my shadow security detail. I give a subtle return signal and keep moving, my stride slow, deliberate.
I’ve worn black tonight. Of course I have. Tailored jacket, open collar, no tie. I don’t dress to impress. I dress to remind people I don’t need to play their game to own the board.
The crowd parts when they see me. Not dramatically. Just enough. A tilt of a shoulder here, a step back there. They feel it even if they can’t name it. It’s not just reputation. It’s presence.
I take a champagne flute from a passing tray and don’t drink it. Instead, I watch the room over the rim. I know every player here. Every political puppet, every ex-military contractor, every heir to a forgotten throne.
And still, something is off.
