Chapter Five
Ari
Unraveling
I wake up in a tangle of sheets, lust, and unresolved tension.
Malichai is in my dreams again. Shadowed eyes and a deep voice. Calloused fingers that skim my skin like fire, leaving need in their wake. I don’t remember what he says, only that I wake up aching. Empty. On the edge of something I can’t name.
This isn’t normal.
I’ve always had strange dreams, probably a fae thing, but these are different. Intimate. Raw. Hungry. And lately, they’re starting to feel real.
I drag myself out of bed, splash water on my face, and try to shake off the remnants of the night but it’s no use. My skin still buzzes like a live wire. I swear I can feel something thrumming through my veins.
I strip, jumping into the shower. I let the water sluice down my body, hoping to wash away the lust still burning beneath my skin.
But that doesn’t help either. I slip a hand down my body and between my legs.
My sex is swollen, throbbing, begging for something it has never experienced.
Using my index finger, I find my clit and do the only thing I know how.
I rub in small, quick circles until a less than satisfactory orgasm crashes through me and takes off the edge. A little bit.
“Malichai.” I moan in the small stall, the word ricocheting off the tiles as I blush.
Goddess above, what is happening to me?
I should hate him. Really. He’s smug, arrogant, too charming for his own good. The kind of man who knows what power he holds and wields it like a weapon. And for the last three years, he’s been the worst kind of distraction.
But something’s different now.
It’s not just the fact that he looks at me. It’s how he looks at me. Like he’s not sure if I’ll let him stay or kick him in the balls. To be honest, I don’t know either. Most of the time, I kind of want to do both.
****
The shift at The Gin Room passes in a blur of noise and neon, but I can feel him the second he walks in. He doesn’t approach the bar tonight. He doesn’t smirk or tease or toss out some ridiculous line about my legs or my laugh or how good I’d look beneath him.
No. Tonight he sits at the far end of the room with a glass of something expensive and watches. Not lurking, just ... present.
And for some stupid reason, I find myself glancing over more than I should. Celeste doesn’t miss it. For a human she is extremely observant and not for the first time I wonder if she has some latent, recessive magic.
“You keep looking at him,” she says as she slides into the back storage room behind me.
“I do not,” I deny but it sounds weak to even my ears.
“You do. Like you’re trying to figure out if you want to stab him or sit on his face.”
I nearly choke on air.
“Seriously,” she continues, ignoring my sputtering, “it’s okay if you want him. I mean, he’s Malichai freaking Veythronn. I’d think there was something wrong with you if you didn’t want to climb him like a cursed tree.”
“I don’t want to climb him,” I mutter, grabbing a box of fresh limes and pretending it’s particularly important business.
She gives me a look. “You’re sweating.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m human—partly. We do that.”
She just grins. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s a monster, but he’s also not as smooth as he thinks. If he’s circling you this hard, it means he’s spiraling.”
I snort. “The King of Cool? I fucking doubt it.” But I remember his words from the elevator and a flicker of hope ignites in my chest before I can stop it.
“You’ve never seen him after you walk away,” she says softly. “Most girls would kill to have anyone look at them like that. I know I would.”
That silences me.
She walks out before I can ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean.
I can’t focus for the rest of the night, my thoughts scattered between what Celeste said and what I want.
My gaze continues to seek him out and I watch as he dismisses a flirting woman.
Undeniable, irrational rage pumps through me when she touches his arm but is quickly calmed by the death glare he levels her with.
My shift passes in a blur and when I walk out of the bar after closing, I can admit to myself I am disappointed not to find him waiting to walk me home again. I won’t admit it to him or anyone else, but I enjoyed spending the small amount of time with him no matter how confusing it was.
I find a note under my apartment door when I get home, alone.
Don’t cook.
I’m sending something over.
You forgot to eat during your shift again.
–M.
I stare at it for a long time. I should be irritated. I should crumble it and throw it in the trash, or at the very least pretend it doesn’t make my chest tighten.
But goddess help me, I smile.
Half an hour later, there’s a knock at my door. I expect to find a delivery guy with the food he promised. Instead, I get him.
Malichai stands in front of my door with a paper bag and a crooked smirk.
“No suit?” I ask, eyeing the dark jeans, black t-shirt, and leather jacket he’s wearing. Somehow, the casual look makes him even more dangerous.
He lifts the bag. “Thought I’d try something different.”
“For once.”
“I’m a slow learner.” His voice is softer than usual. “But I do learn.”
I open the door wider, silently inviting him in.
“I got Thai,” he says, setting the bag on the kitchen counter. “From that place you like on 9th. Extra spicy.”
I blink. “How did you...” It’s my absolute favorite and I would eat this every day for the rest of my life.
“I pay attention.” He doesn’t elaborate. Just starts unpacking the containers on my kitchen counter, as if this is normal. As if he does this all the time. But we don’t do this.
I don’t do this. I don’t let people in. I don’t let men feed me. I definitely don’t let rich, dangerous dragon lords stand in my kitchen like they belong there.
And yet ... here he is. He hands me a fork.
“I can’t be bought with food,” I warn.
“I’m not trying to buy you.”
“Then what are you doing?” I want to know. I want him to answer me honestly.
He leans against the counter and meets my eyes with no games in his expression. Just quiet, simmering truth.
“I’m showing you I see you. That I’ve always seen you. And I’m wooing you, or trying at least.”
Something in my chest gives a little lurch.
We eat in near silence. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t touch me. Just sits at my kitchen counter with his long legs awkwardly folded, eating pad Thai like a man who’s spent centuries pretending he doesn’t get lonely.
I watch him because I can’t help it.
And for the first time ... I see it. The cracks in the armor. The softness in the shadows. The loneliness in his laugh. By the time he stands to leave, my hands are sweating and my heart’s beating too fast.
He lingers at the door.
“Thank you,” I say, unsure what else to offer.
His gaze flicks to my lips, then back to my eyes.
“Anytime.” He kisses my forehead and then he’s gone.
And I’m left standing in my apartment, heart racing, with the strange, inescapable feeling that I’ve just stepped off a ledge.