4. Malachi
MALACHI
Ishould have insisted on my office.
The café was her choice, which means I gave up control before the conversation even started. I don’t make that mistake twice. By the time she finishes her coffee, I’m already adjusting the plan.
“There’s somewhere quieter,” I tell her.
Her gaze sharpens immediately. “Of course there is.”
“It’s nearby.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” I agree. “It makes it necessary.”
She studies me, weighing options, calculating angles. I can see it happening in real time—the assessment, the risk evaluation, the decision forming behind her eyes.
She doesn’t trust me. That’s expected. What I don’t expect is how much that bothers me.
“Public,” she says finally. “Visible. And if I don’t like where this is going, I leave.”
“You can leave whenever you want.”
Her mouth curves slightly. “Good answer.”
It’s not reassurance. It’s acknowledgment. I nod once and turn toward the door without checking if she follows. She does. Of course she does.
The office sits above a restaurant on the edge of town. Close enough to the center to stay within the flow of daily life, far enough removed to allow for privacy when it’s needed.
I unlock the door and step inside, holding it open just long enough for her to enter before closing it behind us.
She takes two steps into the room and stops. Not uncertain. Assessing.
Her gaze sweeps the space—the desk, the windows, the single exit, the distance between us. Calculating.
Good.
I move past her and take a position near the desk, giving her space without offering distance. Close enough to hold control. Far enough that she doesn’t feel cornered.
“Comfortable?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “But manageable.”
Honest. I respect that.
“Good.”
She folds her arms, shifting her weight slightly. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”
Direct. I expected nothing less.
“You’re investigating something in my territory,” I say.
“I’m working,” she corrects.
“On what?”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “That depends on how this conversation goes.”
I watch her for a moment, measuring tone, posture, intent. She’s not bluffing. She’s deciding how much I’m worth telling. That’s new.
Most people in this town don’t negotiate with me.
“You walked into Ironwood Ridge this morning,” I say. “Within hours, you’re mapping magical disturbances and digging through restricted records.”
Her brows lift slightly. “You’ve been busy.”
“I make it a point to know what’s happening here.”
“Clearly.”
There’s a challenge in it. Intentional. I don’t rise to it.
“What did you find?” I ask.
She tilts her head, considering me again.
“Layered spellwork,” she says finally. “Structured. Maintained. Not recent.”
That lines up with what I’ve been sensing—but hearing it confirmed sharpens the concern.
“How extensive?”
“More than it should be,” she replies. “Less than it will be if no one stops it.”
My jaw tightens slightly.
“And you think you can stop it.”
“I think someone should,” she says. “Do you?”
There it is. She’s not just answering questions. She’s testing me.
“I don’t allow threats to develop in my territory,” I say.
“And yet this one did,” she counters.
The words land clean. No hesitation. No attempt to soften them. I let the silence stretch for a moment—not as a tactic, just long enough to decide how much truth to give her.
She’s right.
The thought is unwelcome. But accurate.
“Which is why you’re going to tell me everything you know,” I say.
“No,” she says.
Just like that. Flat. Certain.
I hold her gaze. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then you understand the situation.”
“I understand that you’re used to being in charge,” she replies. “What I don’t understand is why you think that applies to me.”
My lion stirs at that—interest, not aggression.
Mine.
I ignore it.
“This isn’t about authority,” I say.
“It sounds a lot like authority.”
“It’s about protection.”
“Yours?” she asks. “Or mine?”
“Both.”
She lets out a quiet breath, something between a laugh and disbelief.
“I didn’t ask for protection.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is here.”
Her eyes narrow slightly.
“There it is,” she says. “The territorial speech.”
“You’re in my territory.”
“And you’re very attached to that fact.”
“It matters.”
“Not to me.”
The words hit harder than they should. I don’t react to that either.
“You felt it,” I say instead.
Her expression stills. She doesn’t answer immediately. Good.
“So did you,” she says finally.
Not a question. A confirmation.
“Yes.”
Her arms tighten slightly where they’re crossed. “Then explain it.”
I study her for a moment, weighing the options. I could avoid it. Delay. Redirect. That’s the smarter move.
It’s also the wrong one.
Because whatever this is, it’s already influencing both of us—and pretending otherwise won’t change that.
“My lion recognized you the moment you entered the territory,” I say.
Her gaze sharpens. “Recognized me how?”
I hold her eyes.
“Instinctively.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s the only one that matters.”
She pushes off the wall slightly, stepping closer without seeming to realize she’s doing it. The bond reacts instantly. Stronger now. Pulling. Demanding.
Mine.
I feel it like a physical force this time, threading through my chest, tightening with every step she takes closer. Her breath catches—just slightly—but I see it. She feels it too.
“What is this?” she asks, quieter now.
I don’t look away.
“Mate bond,” I say.
The words settle between us. Heavy. Unavoidable. For a second, she just stares at me.
Then—
“No.”
The response is immediate. Sharp. Absolute. I expected resistance. Not that.
“Yes.”
“No,” she repeats, stepping back this time, putting distance between us like she can break it by force of will alone. “That’s not—no.”
“It is.”
“I don’t believe in that.”
“That doesn’t change it.”
Her expression shifts—frustration, disbelief, something deeper underneath it that she’s not letting surface.
“Of course it does,” she snaps. “You don’t just get to decide something like that.”
“I didn’t decide it.”
“Your lion did,” she shoots back. “That’s not better.”
My jaw tightens.
“You felt it,” I say again.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything.”
“It means something is happening,” she corrects. “It doesn’t mean I belong to you.”
The last word lands hard. Something in me reacts to it—sharp, immediate, instinctive.
Mine.
I push it down. Hard.
“You don’t belong to anyone,” I say, voice steady.
Her gaze flickers slightly, like she didn’t expect that answer.
“Good,” she says. “Because that’s not up for debate.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Silence settles again. This time it’s different. Charged. Unstable.
The bond hasn’t eased. If anything, it’s worse now that it’s been named, like acknowledging it gave it more room to exist.
“I’m not doing this,” she says finally.
“Doing what?”
“This,” she gestures between us, frustration bleeding through now. “Whatever this is. I have work to do. Real work. I don’t have time for—” she cuts herself off, shaking her head. “No.”
She turns toward the door. I don’t move to stop her. Not physically.
“That doesn’t make it go away,” I say.
She pauses with her hand on the handle but doesn’t turn back.
“Watch me,” she says.
Then she opens the door and walks out.
I stand there for a moment after she leaves, listening to her footsteps fade down the stairs.
The room feels different now. Quieter. But not empty. The connection is still there. Stretched. Unresolved.
My lion shifts restlessly beneath my skin, pacing with renewed intensity.
Mine.
“Yes,” I mutter.
That part isn’t in question.
What is?—
Is everything else.
Juniper Ashcroft is not like anyone I’ve dealt with before. She doesn’t defer. Doesn’t yield. Doesn’t accept anything she hasn’t chosen herself. And she just rejected something most people would spend their lives waiting for.
A humorless smile pulls at my mouth.
“This is going to be complicated.”
More complicated than any territorial dispute. More complicated than any external threat.
Because territory can be defended. Enemies can be dealt with.
This?
This requires something else entirely. Trust. And that’s not something I can take. Not from her.
I move to the window, looking out over the town below as the light starts to fade. Ironwood Ridge stretches out beneath me exactly as it’s supposed to be.
For now.
My grip tightens slightly against the frame.
“She’s right about one thing,” I say quietly.
Something is happening here. Something I didn’t see soon enough. And now?—
Now it’s tied to her.
I exhale slowly.
“Find the source,” I murmur. “Handle the threat.”
Simple. Clear. Manageable.
Winning her trust?
I glance toward the door she walked out of.
Not simple. Not clear. And definitely not manageable.
My lion doesn’t care.
Mine.
I shake my head once, already turning back toward the desk.
“We’ll see,” I say.
Because one way or another?—
She’s not leaving this town without me understanding exactly what she is to me. And why.