Chapter Six
Malichai
Guarding What’s Mine
I can’t sleep. Not that I do much of that anyway. Dragons don’t rest easily, especially not when their hoard is unguarded. And she is my hoard.
Not gold. Not jewels. Not power or relics or the things men and dragons spill blood over.
No, my most treasured thing in this world lives in an apartment with beautiful wooden floors and big picture windows, but two locks on the door that wouldn't stop a determined squirrel, let alone someone who wants to hurt her.
I want to bring her back to my home where I can keep her safe ...tied to my bed.
Because danger lurks around every corner and she is vulnerable even if she doesn’t know it. Something, someone might be coming for her and until our bond is set and she is beside me, she won’t be protected.
I heard rumors earlier tonight. Whispers in the underbelly about movement on the west side. Ravik’s name was mentioned. And when Ravik Morgrave surfaces, blood tends to follow.
He’s not making direct threats. Yet.
But I know how he works—coils like a viper, waits until your back is turned, then strikes low. Cowardly and cruel but effective.
And I’ve seen what happens to the people I care about when I let my guard down.
So tonight, I sit on the rooftop across from her building, crouched on the edge of the ledge, silent and still as stone, watching the dim light glow behind her curtain.
She’s there. Probably curled up with that ridiculous turquoise fuzzy blanket and a second bowl of rice because she “forgets to eat like a whole person” unless someone reminds her.
I picture her mismatched eyes flicking between book pages, her socked feet tucked under her, hair a new shade, maybe purple tonight.
Or teal. She changes it like armor. Like maybe if she glows bright enough, people won’t notice the cracks underneath.
But I see them. I always have. Except they aren’t fissures showing her weakness but weathered spots that let her light shine through.
She’s trying so damn hard to survive in a world that never made room for her. Half-fae. Half-human. All heart. And not a single person in her life has ever made her feel like enough.
She is. More than enough. Too much, sometimes. And still, never enough for herself.
A rustle to my right breaks my thoughts but I don't turn.
“I brought coffee,” Serephine murmurs, appearing beside me like the creeper she is. She passes me a cup without asking if I want one. She knows better—I love coffee.
I take the offering and sip at the robust drink.
“You’re spiraling,” she says, sipping hers. “Watching her from rooftops. Showing up with food. You’re three steps away from full stalker behavior.”
I don’t deny it. “I’ve done worse,” I say instead.
“You’ve done worse to her,” she points out.
That lands like a knife to the gut and I close my eyes. “For her,” I counter.
“She’s waking up, Malichai,” she says quietly like I didn’t speak. “The bond is clawing its way through. I won’t stop it again. You know that, right?”
“I don’t want you to.”
Her voice softens. “Then tell her.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“Is she not ready?”
“I’m not ready.” The words fall from my mouth like confession. “She deserves the truth. But she also deserves a man who isn’t broken.”
“You’re not broken, Mal, just a little bent,” she says softly. “Your father is gone. Claim your damn mate and let the bond heal both of you. You both deserve it. Need it.”
We sit in silence for a long time. Across the street, a light flickers out. Her bedroom window. My heart slows when I see it. Not from calm, from longing.
“Do you know what it feels like,” I murmur, “to need someone who doesn’t know they’re yours?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “But I let him go.”
I look over. For the first time, her expression cracks, just a fraction. Just enough.
“I’m not letting her go,” I say, making sure she understands.
“Then don’t waste time pretending you’re not already hers.”
****
The next night, I arrive at The Gin Room early. Earlier than I should. Just to watch.
I post up in the shadows near the back, where the lighting is low and most people can’t see me well. Her shift starts at 8:00. She walks in at 8:02, muttering to herself, cheeks flushed, scarf half-unraveled around her neck.
I smell the arousal clinging to her and I know the bond is driving her. She has finally started to dream of me. I’ve been dreaming of her for three long years.
My cock is leaden in my slacks as her gaze scans the room and when she sees me her pulse jumps. My own arousal is riding me hard, my dragon fighting to be allowed out to kidnap and claim our mate.
The spell is almost completely unraveled.
I smile at her, and she flips me off. I smile wider as she walks toward me. Her hips sway with every step, enticing me to bend her over the damn bar and fuck her from behind like a beast. But I remain seated, hiding my obscene erection beneath the wooden table.
“Nice tie,” she says, sarcasm sharp as she walks past me.
It’s forest green. For restraint. Control.
Because if I wore the color of what I actually feel right now, if I let my feelings and my magic choose, this entire fucking room would be bathed in black and silver flame.
But I hold back because I have to.
I watch her laugh with a customer as she finds her spot behind the bar. I watch her tuck her hair behind her ear and scold the new bartender for stacking the wrong glassware. I watch her shove a stool under a drunk vampire’s ass before he faceplants, as if it’s no big deal.
Like she isn’t kindness wrapped in thorns.
And then it happens. She’s walking past me, arms full of bottles, and she stumbles. I’m there in an instant, catching her before she hits the ground. Glass shatters as my arms wrap around her waist and her palms press against my chest.
And she gasps. Not because she’s surprised. Because her body feels it. The magic. The bond.
She jerks back like she’s been burned, blinking up at me with wide eyes. “What the fuck was...?”
“Nothing,” I lie smoothly. “You tripped.”
“I ... no, I...” She stops. Her breathing’s shallow. Her pupils are blown. I can smell her pussy and my mouth waters, but I need to remain levelheaded.
“Ari.” My voice drops low, just enough to be felt, not heard. “Do you feel it?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. She shakes her head as if that will clear it. But her skin flushes and her throat bobs with a swallow.
“Don’t lie,” I murmur.
“I don’t know what it is,” she whispers.
I smile, cupping her face. “You will.”
Soon. Because the bond is fully free now and there will be no turning back.