Chapter 7
Olivia
The shock of seeing my father alive jolted me to my feet. My legs wobbled beneath me, but I barely noticed.
I was so focused on the vision in the dagger that everything around me—Malik’s bedroom, where I had been sleeping moments ago—seemed to dissolve.
The four-poster bed, draped in luxurious fabric, faded. The sturdy, polished wood of the armoire and dresser ceased to exist. The thick, elaborately woven rugs vanished beneath my feet. Even the gilded wallpaper, opulent and rich, slipped away.
The only thing left was Papa.
I had watched Tristan kill him. I had seen him slump to the ground, lifeless. I had mourned him, grieved his loss as deeply as I grieved every other piece of myself that had been ripped away.
And yet—
“He’s alive,” I whispered, my grip tightening on the glowing blade. “Papa’s alive!”
My vision locked onto Roman and my father, talking amicably, oblivious to my presence.
A choked laugh escaped my lips, tangled with a sob. I pressed a hand to my mouth, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
I could watch this forever.
The dagger quivered in my grip, the magic still strong, holding me within this sliver of time. This vision before me was absolution—an elixir to the loss of my unborn child, to the deaths I had witnessed, to the relentless agony I had endured.
Roman. Papa. Alive and well in the future.
The terror Balthazar had inflicted upon me faded. The rage eased.
For the first time in so long, I breathed.
“Olivia…”
An urgent voice nudged at the edges of my awareness.
I frowned. No. Not now.
“Olivia…”
I gritted my teeth, fighting to hold on, to keep my father and husband with me.
“Olivia!”
A large, warm hand wrapped around my wrist.
I gasped but refused to look away. I needed more time.
“Look at me!”
The voice snapped me from my trance.
I turned—Malik.
His gaze bore into mine, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“What do you want?” I snarled, frantic, desperate not to lose sight of Roman and Papa.
“Your hand,” he said.
Confused, I followed his gaze downward.
Blood.
Dark. Sticky. Dripping.
A deep crimson stain spread across the thick wool rug beneath me.
I blinked. This wasn’t my blood.
This was someone else’s.
I yanked my arm, trying to wrench it from Malik’s grip, but it was like pulling free from solid stone.
“Let me go!” I hissed.
“No, Olivia,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, unyielding as steel.
I whipped my head back toward the dagger’s vision—
Gone.
The image of Roman and my father had vanished, swallowed by the darkness.
“What did you do?” A sob wrenched from my throat as I lashed out, pounding against Malik’s chest with my free hand.
He caught my wrist effortlessly, raising both my arms above my head.
The air between us crackled. Thick, electric.
My lips parted. My chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.
I was clad only in a flimsy nightgown, the thin fabric useless against the heat rolling off his bare skin. His muscles flexed beneath the moonlight, every ridge and plane of his body moving with effortless power.
“I need to heal your palm,” he explained. “You cut too deep.”
My gaze dropped downward to where the dripping blood bound our hands. It ran down my wrist, across his hand, trailing along his arm, twining us together.
A shudder racked through me. I wrenched away, stumbling backward until my legs hit the bed.
Remember Roman, your husband.
This is a trick. Malik’s trying to seduce me with his power.
Malik moved—swift, fluid, unstoppable.
One moment, he was several steps away.
The next, he was in front of me, his hands firm on my shoulders.
Heat curled through my body, melting me from the inside out.
I clenched my fists, desperate to resist the way his emerald eyes shimmered, pulling me in.
“You don’t need to fear me,” Malik said softly. “I won’t hurt you.”
But his presence alone was too much. Too close. Too intoxicating.
I tilted my head back, fighting against his allure. “I don’t know anything about you—except that you’re a demon.” My voice wavered, my pulse thrumming in my throat. “John James told me you’re just like Balthazar. A darkness that can torture and maim me.”
Malik’s lips quirked into something between amusement and challenge. “Then why did you come to me if I’m so dangerous?”
His words slithered around my resolve, tightening, coaxing, demanding.
“I didn’t come to you,” I whispered, my mind scrambling for logic, for control.
But when I tried to pull away, his grip held firm—not cruel, not painful, but commanding.
I had no answer.
I couldn’t answer.
Malik ran the edge of his finger down my cheek.
I shuddered.
He leaned in, his voice a whisper against my skin.
“I’ll tell you why you came.” His breath fanned over my jaw, his lips dangerously close.
“You need my help.”
I blinked, my thoughts snapping back to reality. The reason I came here.
“You have to help me kill Balthazar!”
Malik tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Do I?”
He lifted my bleeding hand with unnerving gentleness, holding it close to his lips. Then, he exhaled, his warm breath ghosting over my skin.
A strange sensation bloomed in my palm—like electric heat spreading through my veins.
“There.” His voice was soft, smooth. “I’ve healed you.”
Then, without hesitation, he pressed his lips to my skin and held them there.
An unexpected shiver rippled down my spine. My body slackened, a pull of warmth making me swoon—
But then, reality slammed back into me.
I jerked my hand away, pulse thundering.
Malik chuckled, his lips curving into something dangerously soft. “A simple thank-you would be nice.”
I rubbed my thumb across my now-healed palm, still feeling the lingering warmth of his touch. “Thank you,” I murmured, then quickly added, “I’ll clean the blood from your rug.”
I sat on the mattress, desperately attempting to put some space between us.
Stupid move, Olivia.
Now, I was face-to-face with Malik’s crotch.
“Thank you,” he said, still watching me with that knowing smirk. “But don’t bother with the rug. I have maids.”
I waved my hands at him, flustered. “Back up. Please. You’re too close. I can’t think straight when you’re this close to me.”
His smirk deepened, but he took a step back. “Better?”
A little? Not at all.
Now, all I could see was the broad expanse of his chest, rising and falling in the dim glow of the room.
Focus, Olivia. Focus.
I sucked in a breath, trying to center myself. “I came to you because I need your help killing Balthazar.”
Malik’s amusement didn’t dissolve. If anything, it deepened.
“And why,” he asked, “should I help you?”
His lips barely twitched as if this conversation was entertaining him.
“John James said you could help.” I pulled my legs onto the mattress, tucking them beneath me. My gaze darted to the bloodstain, the wall behind him, the window—anywhere but at him.
Malik took a step forward.
“What does John James know?”
His presence loomed closer.
I edged back, scooting toward the head of the bed.
But Malik only watched me, his expression unreadable.
And suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I had come here for his help—
Or if I had walked willingly into something far more dangerous.
“Maybe Balthazar and I told John James exactly what to say to you.” Malik’s voice dripped with quiet menace. “Maybe we cast a glamor over him, whispered lies into his ears, and led you exactly where we wanted you.”
He took another step.
My breath hitched.
I was acutely aware of him—the way the dim light carved angles into his sculpted jaw, the way his thick throat worked as he spoke, the shape of his mouth—
Stop it, Olivia. Look away from him.
“What if Balthazar and I are working together?” His voice was silk-wrapped steel. “What if this is all a trap? Maybe we lured you here to kill you.”
His thighs pressed into the edge of the mattress.
I hadn’t even seen him move.
I closed my eyes, my pulse thrumming wildly. God, Olivia, what have you done? Had I walked blindly into my downfall? He’s right. I could have been lured into a death trap.
But then—
My mind caught on a single, undeniable fact.
Why would he risk ushering Roman to safety?
The mattress dipped.
When I opened my eyes, Malik was beside me.
Close enough to touch.
“You’re fucking with me,” I breathed.
He smirked, wicked. “Such language, Olivia.”
Then, with maddening ease, he traced the outline of my lips with his fingertip.
I seized his hand, gripping it tightly. “Stop. Stop messing with me.” My voice trembled, laced with frustration, fear, and something else I didn’t want to name.
I shook my head, pushing past the confusion clawing at my brain.
“You’re not working with Balthazar. That’s impossible.
Balthazar destroyed my life. He’s a psychopath.
He assaulted me, took my child from me, broke me, crushed me.
” My breath came fast, uneven. “The only thing that’s kept me going was the possibility of finding you. ”
Malik stilled.
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “And now that I have found you, it feels like you’re toying with me—messing with my mind, my emotions. Balthazar will kill me if I find the journal and bring it to him. If I don’t, he’ll still kill me.”
My voice broke into an anguished yell. “I’m doomed no matter what I do! But I won’t stop. I’ll never stop. I will find a way to destroy him.”
Silence stretched between us, thick as smoke.
Then—
“Shhh,” Malik whispered.
He smoothed his palm up and down my arm, the fabric barely a barrier between his touch and my skin.
“I won’t let Balthazar hurt you,” he promised. “As long as you’re with me, you’re safe. You. Rosie. Emily.”
Then he pulled me against him, wrapping his arms around me, his grip firm and sure.
And before I could stop myself—
I let him.
Malik rocked me gently, his body warm and solid.
I sobbed into his shoulder, my fingers clutching his bare skin, letting him comfort me.