Page 70 of Avidian
I toy with a loose thread on my sleeve, the action grounding me as I search for the right thing to say. “He’s dead.” I keep mytone light even though the truth weighs heavy. “So don’t worry—you don’t have any competition.”
The joke doesn’t land as easily as I’d hoped. Malachi’s shoulders tense. “What happened?”
I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees. “He was in the car,” I say, letting the words settle between us, “the day of the accident I told you about. We were kids, but he was my best friend growing up—until one day, he was more than that. I’ll always love him in some way, but he’s gone.”
The room feels impossibly still. The fire crackles, its warmth contrasting the ache in my chest. Malachi doesn’t look away, his eyes darker now, unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and the way he says it feels different—like he’s not sorry for my loss but sorry for everything I’ve endured.
I nod, pressing my lips together and looking away. “Me too.”
We sit there in the glow of the fire, the unspoken weight of the conversation wrapping around us. His hand shifts closer to mine, resting on the rug between us, as if offering comfort without saying a word.
“Can I ask you an...uncomfortable question?” Malachi leans forward slightly, his hands fidgeting in his lap.
I cringe, uneasy about what he might ask. “You can ask me anything, but I don’t guarantee an answer,” I say, trying to keep the mood light.
He pauses, his jaw shifting like he’s trying to figure out the right way to phrase it. “How have you never been with a man?” he says cautiously. “I mean, you were in love...you were young, but not too young. Teenagers have sex all the time. And then, after everything—” He takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling. “I can’t imagine what things were like for you once you were taken.”
I take a deep breath, and he continues, “I know what men in those trafficking rings are like, Kat. I know what the men who work for my father are like. And you’re—” He pauses, his voice dipping lower. “You’re gorgeous. So, how?”
I’m not sure if I should feel insulted or validated. I straighten my back and hold his gaze. “I would have slept with Cade eventually,” I say, my tone measured. “Cade—that was his name. But I wasn’t in a rush to have sex at fifteen years old. You can love someone without sex being involved, Malachi.”
He leans back slightly, his expression softening. “I know,” he says quickly. “Don’t take offense. I... I had to ask.”
I shift my gaze to the fire, as if the flames could somehow burn away the sting of old memories. “As for the men who captured me and kept me until Marco bought me at that underground auction...” I pause, letting the weight of it settle between us. “Those men were disgusting. And, yeah, they tried. They tied me up, kept me filthy, unkempt. But nothing ever happened.”
Malachi sits up straighter, his entire body going rigid. His fists clench in his lap, and I know he’s picturing it all too clearly.
“Honestly,” I continue, “I think most of them were too afraid of us. They knew we were different, gifted. And they didn’t know what all of us could do. That fear kept them in check to an extent.”
He exhales through his nose, his eyes locked on mine, sharp and unreadable.
“And Marco’s men would never risk it. They’re so terrified of him and wouldn’t dare. I’m his most precious possession, his...pet. Marco would kill them himself without hesitation if they tried anything.”
Malachi’s lips thin, and a muscle jumps in his jaw as if he’s barely holding himself back. His voice is low, rough around theedges. “Yeah, I believe that. After seeing how he reacted when I told him about Eduard the morning after the party.”
“Yeah, and clearly you inherited the Volkov temper, because you slit his throat without even assessing the situation. For all you knew, maybe I liked that guy,” I tease, though the memory of that night makes my stomach churn.
Malachi scoffs, “I knew you were drunk, and after watching Orin force you to keep drinking at the bar, I could barely fucking contain myself. Then, when I couldn’t find you...” He pauses, running a hand through his hair like the memory still burns in him. “I started to worry. And then seeing you with him, that’s when I knew you were trouble. I mean, I knew it in the park, but seeing you then, with him? I realized I had feelings for you. No matter how intolerable you were acting up until that point, I might add.”
I half-smile, nudging his arm. “You have feelings for me,” I say, teasing.
“I think that’s obvious now,” he replies. I like hearing him say it anyway.
I take a close look at his brown eyes and the contours of his cheekbones. “How many people have you killed?” The question comes out suddenly, but it’s been weighing on me ever since I saw how easily he took Eduard’s life.
His eyes darken, but he doesn’t flinch. “Too many to count,” he admits. “But all of them deserved it. I only kill bad men who do bad things.”
There’s no hesitation, no trace of guilt, and I don’t push further. I believe him.
Maybe I’m desensitized to a lot after living with Marco all these years, but I’m more turned on by the fact that Malachi will kill to protect—kill those who have harmed women and children, those who deserve punishment—than I am afraid of it.
If this is a red flag, it’s one I accept openly.
As if sensing the dark turn our conversation has taken, Mischka appears, circling the room in her usual graceful way before curling up at our feet in front of the fire.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Malachi asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.
