Chapter 16 Malachi
MALACHI
Elijah was already in my office when I looked up, coat buttoned, posture restrained. My office smelled like leather, ink, and the quiet violence of decisions. Meridian’s tower thrummed beneath us, alive with men and money and the hunger that never slept.
The building was still humming from Nyx’s challenge earlier, the kind that didn’t raise voices but shifted gravity. Even behind closed doors, I could feel the change in Meridian’s air.
“We got it,” he said. “NorthStar’s logs. Places and a schedule.”
“Talk,” I replied, and my pen stopped moving. I listened with my whole body because leadership meant catching what a man tried to hide between words.
“Tomorrow,” Elijah said. “Pickup window. Gary, then Detroit.”
My jaw tightened once, then settled. Nothing in my world could wobble, not routes, not loyalty, not the thin border between control and chaos. “Bring her back to the tower,” I said. “We move at dawn.”
There was a pause, just long enough to carry weight. Elijah didn’t look away. “She’s climbing,” he added. “Suppression’s holding, but barely. We can manage it, but you need to know.”
“I already know,” I said because I did. Meridian had been restless all day, alphas pacing. Rut did that. Heat couldn’t be kept private.
Elijah cleared his throat. “She laid it out before we left. She set terms.”
“Explain,” I said. I kept my voice even so he wouldn’t mistake curiosity for softness.
“She said dates stay public,” Elijah continued, voice tight. “No private rooms. No closed doors. No touching without permission, and no assuming heat means consent.”
He exhaled through his nose. “She said we don’t escalate the bond. We don’t test limits. We wait to be invited.”
A pause. Then, quieter, “And she said if anyone breaks those rules, she walks.”
I leaned back and stared at the city through the glass, watching headlights crawl over wet streets. Nyx Brooks had walked into my house and demanded discipline from men trained to take, and she had done it without flinching. She had drawn her line clean and expected us to meet it.
If Meridian accepted her terms, it would force restraint on men who preferred appetite. If we rejected them, we would teach her we only knew how to take.
“Bring her home,” I said. “I’ll handle the rest.”
Elijah nodded once and left without ceremony, already shifting back into motion.
I didn’t go to the war room. I didn’t go to the armory.
I went to the part of myself that remembered being raised by people who believed dignity wasn’t decoration.
Old school didn’t mean soft, and it didn’t mean slow.
It meant intention. It meant you showed a woman who you were with your actions before you ever asked for her body.
A prime could buy anything. A man gave time.
I left the tower with two men at my back and drove west, away from the shine and into a neighborhood that never pretended it didn’t see Meridian.
The streetlights were tired, the storefronts small, the sidewalks worn smooth by people who lived their lives out in the open.
Honest places made honest choices easier.
The skate shop sat between a barber shop and a beauty supply store, its sign modest, its presence steady. The bell chimed when I walked in, and the air hit me with rubber, leather, bearing oil, and incense worked so deep into the walls it felt permanent.
A couple teenagers glanced up from a rack, then looked away fast when they clocked me. The owner didn’t flinch, and that mattered.
“Evening, Mr. Cross,” he said. His tone was respectful but unafraid. “You good?”
“I’m good,” I replied, my eyes sweeping the room once. Habit. “I need skates.”
His brows lifted a fraction. “For you?”
“For her,” I said. “Same setup as mine.”
Something in my chest eased at the thought before I could stop it. Matching skates. Same lines, same balance, same ground. Not ownership. Alignment.
“Built for an omega who hasn’t skated in years,” I added.
His gaze flicked to my boots, then back to my face. “Matching,” he said, not asking.
I nodded. The idea settled in me, quiet and right. It told her I would meet her where she stood, and it told my pack I wasn’t asking for obedience. I was setting a standard.
“Yes,” I said. “Black leather. Solid ankle support. She’s a nine, wide.”
He moved, pulling boxes, laying them out with care. Watching him, I thought about Nyx on the rink, the way she would look when she realized I had chosen to step beside her instead of ahead.
That mattered.
“She need pads,” he said, already reaching. “Wrist guards, knees, elbows. Helmet too.”
“She’ll wear them,” I replied, and the certainty in my voice was not arrogance. It was intent.
He tested the wheels with a spin, then adjusted the trucks. “You taking her to an adult night,” he said.
“I am,” I answered.
He made a sound that was half approval, half warning. “Then you keep her close. People get stupid when the music good and the lights low.”
“They won’t get stupid around her,” I said.
He looked at me for a second. “All right,” he said. “Tell her to keep her knees bent. She gonna try to stand tall because she proud.”
“She is proud,” I replied.
“Let her be,” he said, sliding the box across the counter. “Just keep her safe while she is doing it.”
I paid, took the box, and left with the weight of the night settling in my hands. This was not a gift to impress her. It was a promise I could keep.
By the time I got back to Meridian’s private bay, Kairo’s SUV was rolling in. My son stepped out first. Nyx came last.
She stepped down, curls full, shoulders squared under a borrowed coat. She clocked the space, the cameras, the exits, and then her gaze landed on me. She did not smile, and she did not look away.
“Mr. Cross,” she said.
“Nyx,” I replied. Titles were not respected. Attention was.
I took one step closer, not into her space, but close enough that she knew I was present with her, not over her. “I heard you set terms,” I said.
Her chin tipped up. “And I don’t repeat myself.”
“Good,” I said. “A woman who knows what she wants is safer than a woman who thinks she has no choices.”
Kairo shifted beside me, restless. Elijah watched.
I lifted my hand once, and both of them stilled because I trained my pack to listen the first time. “Kairo, get the war room set,” I ordered. “Routes to Gary and Detroit. Two options, and the one you like least.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and he moved.
“Elijah, you’re on comms,” I said. “You do not leave the floor tonight unless I say so. I want eyes on every corridor and ears on every channel.”
His jaw flexed, but he nodded. “Understood.”
That left Nyx and me in the bay, my security at a respectful distance and my power deliberately leashed. I lifted the box in my hand so she could see the shape of it without being handed the answer. The cardboard was clean, sealed, and heavy enough to promise something real.
“What is that,” she asked, eyes narrowing. Her gaze stayed on the box.
“Courtship,” I said. “My first move.”
Her expression shifted, quick as a blink. “You think buying me something counts as courting.”
“It counts as preparation,” I replied. “The date is the effort.”
Her gaze held mine, testing the edges for hidden hooks. “A date,” she repeated.
“Yes,” I said. “And you can say no.”
She blinked again, thrown by the simplicity. Her shoulders loosened by a hair. “Where,” she asked, and the question carried more curiosity than she meant to show.
“Skating,” I answered. “Somewhere with music. Somewhere that feels like a date night.”
Nyx stared at the box, then at me. “I haven’t skated since I was a kid,” she admitted, and the honesty in it was quiet but real. The words landed with the sound of a memory she had not touched in years.
“Then you’re overdue,” I said. “Come with me.”
I held out my hand, palm up, and I made it an offer instead of a command. A woman like Nyx would taste force and turn it into a weapon, and I respected weapons. I respected her more for having one.
After a moment, she set her hand in mine. Her grip was firm, her fingers warm, and the bond reacted. She did not squeeze like she was seeking comfort, but she did not pull away either, and I counted that as progress.
We went up to the penthouse to change because I wasn’t bringing her into a public space smelling. The elevator ride was silent, but I watched her shoulders and the way she measured the walls, the way she kept her breathing controlled.
When the doors opened, warm light spilled over us and the river cut through the night outside the glass. She stepped in and looked around.
“You live like you expect war,” she said, eyes moving over the clean lines and the security features hidden in the design.
“I live like I’ve survived it,” I replied. I set the pads and helmet on the bench, and she stared at the helmet.
“I’m not wearing that,” she said.
“Yes, you are,” I answered. “I’m not courting you into a concussion, and I’m not letting pride put you in the hospital.”
Her lips pressed tight, then she let out a sharp laugh. It was quick, but it was real, and it warmed the air more than the heat she was trying to suppress.
“That was almost sweet,” she said.
“It was responsible,” I said. “Sweet comes later.”
She rolled her eyes, but she picked up the helmet and tucked it under her arm anyway. That small compliance mattered more than flirtation.
I pointed at the box. “Open it.”
Nyx’s gaze cut back to me. “You really are bossy.”
“I’m consistent,” I corrected. “Open it.”
She slid a finger under the tape and pulled it back, slow. When the lid lifted, the scent of new leather and clean metal rose into the room, crisp and expensive. The skates sat nestled in black tissue paper, sharp and pretty, made to be used, not displayed.
They were not generic. They were not a rushed purchase meant to prove a point. They were grown-up skates, built for ankles that needed support and wheels that wanted speed, the kind you chose because you expected someone to stay upright.