Chapter Fourteen. Malachi #3
Love isn’t some saving grace or lofty aspiration.
It’s a virus, a threat more dangerous than any weapon of mass destruction.
People have killed in the name of it, and empires have fallen for its sake.
And here she stands, throwing that word at my feet like I’m supposed to … what? Be thankful? Embrace it? Want it?
No. Hell no.
If I allowed it, she would be my fucking kill shot.
And I have no intentions of allowing that.
I need her to get the fuck out before she leaves me.
Get the fuck out before I beg her to stay.
Her scent of cedarwood and musk reaches me before she does, but I keep my gaze trained on the task of getting my boots on.
Looking at her clothed in just my T-shirt with all that beautiful brown skin and her thick, gorgeous thighs on display might dent my resolve.
And right now, I can’t afford to be shaken.
I’m fighting for my survival, and it’s every man for themselves.
As it’s always been.
“Malachi…”
“Since your bike is still where you left it, use one of mine or borrow a car. I have trackers on all my shit, so I’ll know where to pick it up.
” I finish tying my boots, stand, and stride back to the dresser and grab a long-sleeved shirt.
“That should also give you some padded time with Poison. She’ll be looking for your vehicles, not mine, unless Abena has already passed on the information that I was with you in the compound.
In case she has, you need to have your head on a swivel while you get to wherever you’re going.
And make sure your people know that, too.
Don’t trust anyone they don’t personally know, because no one has seen Poison’s face and can identify her. ”
“I’m leaving to protect you.”
I briefly pause midmotion, eyes closing and jaw clenching.
My hands fist the shirt so tight, I’m faintly surprised the material doesn’t rip.
But after a moment, I jerk the shirt down over my head.
Not bothering to reply, I sharply pivot on my heel and stalk for my closet.
Shoving aside clothes, I press my palm to a spot on the back wall, and a second later, the panel flickers green.
The wall slides open, and I step inside a room that holds an arsenal of weapons.
The door closes behind me, and I scan the walls mounted with various guns, knives, and throwing stars.
I quickly grab two duffel bags and store Glocks, SIGs, an AXSR rifle, daggers, and ammo in both bags.
Exiting, I move back into my bedroom and find a fully dressed Eshe standing next to the bed. I toss the duffel bags on the bed.
“One is for you.”
I need away from her, but no way am I letting her go out there unarmed other than what she had from her “raid” on the Mwuaji compound.
I don’t trust her now that she made that bullshit declaration of love, but the thought of her not being on this side of the veil?
A shiver treads down my spine, and I curl and flex my fingers.
“Take it,” I order, pointing to the bag.
“Malachi, look at me.” She doesn’t wait for me to comply but moves into my space and grips my chin, forcing it down so I meet her gold-and-green gaze.
The knowledge that if I didn’t want her touch, I could easily remove it—and her—swishes in my stomach like sour swill.
That means … that means I still haven’t fully learned my lesson and am a fucking stupid-ass glutton for punishment.
“Thanks to me, whatever anonymity or neutrality you enjoyed is gone. Once Abena saw you in her bedroom with me, you became as much her enemy as I am. And not because you failed a job. It’s personal.
All this”—she shakes her head—“it’s on me.
So it’s on me to protect you in the only way I know how.
And that’s to put as much distance between us as possible so you’re not collateral damage in this war between me and her. I don’t know what else to do.”
I listen; I hear her. But all I can see is me and Miriam riding in the backseat of my mother’s car as she glances at us over and over again in the rearview window, tears glistening in her brown eyes.
Can see me and Miriam sitting outside the CPS worker’s office as the first of several worthless-ass foster parents walk up to us with smiles that don’t come anywhere near their cold eyes.
Can only see Miriam’s limp, broken, impossibly still body as the paramedics carry her out on a stretcher. Leaving me alone. Without anyone to protect, to love. Without anyone to love me.
With those images moving like a morbid carousel through my head, Eshe’s voice might as well be Charlie Brown’s muthafuckin’ teacher in my ear.
I step back, giving her no choice but to drop her hand from my face.
I don’t need her explanation. I don’t need anything from her but one thing—to get the fuck out. This time, I’m the one walking away. Leaving. If this is some get her before she gets me shit, well, so be the fuck it. I’m not giving another muthafucka the chance to do that to me.
Especially not in the name of love.
Fuck that and fuck them.
“You can take that bag and pick which bike or car you’re going to take. I’m pretty sure you know where they are.”
That beautiful gaze roams my face, and it’s damn near tactile. I force myself to remain stationary and not recoil from it.
Or lean into it.
Finally, she nods. “Okay, Malachi. Okay.”
The quiet resignation in her tone has my throat squeezing closed, the constriction an almost-primitive instinct against doing something irreversible.
Like begging her to stay. Like handing her something capable of slicing into me deeper than that dagger she wielded the first night we met ever could.
By sheer force of will, I remain quiet.
And a moment later, Eshe turns and leaves the room, disappearing from my sight. And minutes after that, the silent alarm on my bedroom wall signals that she’s exited the loft.
Relief should flood through me. If nothing else, a grim satisfaction should take up residence inside my chest. But there’s nothing. And I do mean nothing.
Just emptiness.
Closing my eyes, I inhale a deep breath. But instantly, I recognize that for the mistake it is when my lungs capture her distinct scent. Even when she’s not here, she’s here.
I gotta get outta here. Now. And I don’t know when I’ll return. Not for a minute. Not until the residue of her has dissipated and no longer coats this place like dust.
But first …
I sit down at my desk and fire up my computer.
For the next two hours, I do a deep dive, trying to find anything I can on Poison.
Which, by the time I power the laptop down and stretch, isn’t much.
She’s like the fucking ghost I called her.
Eshe is a force to be reckoned with, but against this phantom assassin?
She might not live out the next twenty-four hours.
Eshe Diallo may not be mine, but I’m not going to throw her to the wolves either.
While Poison’s focus is on killing Eshe, mine will be on taking her out.
Yeah, she covered our asses back there at the obodo. But she’s still a threat. And one that needs to go.
I stand and make my way over to the bed. Grabbing the duffel bag, I stride out of the room and jog down the steps. I don’t let my gaze sweep the first floor, because in a matter of twenty-four hours, this place has become a shrine to her, and I can’t look any one place and not be reminded of her.
Head down, I pause to set the alarm system and then exit the loft out of a different door than we entered hours earlier.
The one Eshe took. It leads down another set of stairs and to an underground garage with a fleet of motorcycles and cars.
Immediately upon entering, I note the Camaro ZL1 is gone.
I nab the keys to the Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat and, when I reach it, pop its trunk.
Just as I settle the bag inside and round the car to climb into the driver’s side, my cell vibrates in my pocket.
My stomach bottoms out. It’s not Eshe, asshole.
She doesn’t even have your number. Not that that little hindrance would stop her.
Shit. She shouldn’t be calling me anyway. We have nothing to talk about.
Reaching into my pocket, I remove the phone and Jamari’s number fills the screen. It isn’t disappointment that swirls and fills that hole in my gut. It fucking isn’t.
I swipe my thumb across the screen and hold the phone to my ear. “Yeah?”
“H,” Jamari says, and the panicked, worried note in his voice makes him sound like the sixteen-year-old he is. “Check your messages.”
He doesn’t need to clarify which messages.
It can mean only one thing. I go to my dark web server that Jamari created for my Huntsman communications.
Thanks to him, even by dark web standards, the shit is unhackable.
Anyone who tries—and a couple of people have tried—finds themselves on the receiving of a nasty-ass Trojan virus that corrupts and destroys years and years of information on their systems.
He and I are the only two people with access to it, so, in order for someone to send a message to me, they must be a return client with the code to reach out.
A heavy, ugly sense of foreboding steals over me, and my movements are almost clumsy as I tap the speaker button and navigate to the server on my phone.
“You there, H?”
“Yeah,” I say. In seconds, I pull up the email account and immediately recognize the name on the most recent message.
Fuck. That ominous feeling grows, spreading like black ice across my chest.
“Look at the attachment,” Jamari instructs, voice thickening as if he’s about to cry. “Oh shit, H. I can’t … I didn’t mean to see…”
He breaks off, and I swear, my hand trembles a little as I press the clapboard icon.