Chapter Twenty
Chapter
Twenty
MALACHI
Iwalk into the dining room, and the first thing I see is them.
Elias is leaned in slightly, speaking to her in that calm, patient voice, the one that makes people feel understood, the one that makes them trust him.
And she's responding to it.
She's too comfortable, too at ease. Like she belongs here. Like she belongs with him.
Rage coils deep in my chest, slow-burning, insidious. I don't like it. She's asking him why I spent three million dollars on her.
The answer is simple. Because she's mine. Which is what I tell her.
She looks up at me and I don't hesitate. "Sage. Come with me."
Elias exhales, adjusting his glasses, clearly amused by my interruption. Smug bastard.
"Why?"
I arch a brow. "Because I said so."
Her lips part slightly, stunned by my audacity. Good. Let her be surprised. I don't care.
Elias sighs dramatically. "Malachi, must you always be so charming?"
I don't even look at him. "You're done here."
I see the flicker of irritation in Elias's eyes, but he knows better than to push me right now.
Sage, on the other hand, has no such self-preservation instincts.
"I don't understand why you're doing this," she says quietly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
I lean down, resting my hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. She stiffens immediately, but she doesn't look away. "You will."
A flicker of something flashes in her eyes—confusion, apprehension.
But she doesn't argue when I straighten, offering her my hand.
She doesn't take it, of course.
But she does follow.
My office is exactly as it should be—expensive, sleek, powerful.
The walls are lined with dark, built-in bookshelves, filled with both classic literature and ancient magical tomes.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch behind my desk, overlooking the horizon, the sunlight's rays reflecting off the polished surfaces of my desk.
The air smells of leather, old books, and faint traces of my cologne.
It's a room built for command.
Sage steps inside cautiously, her bare feet soundless against the dark wood floor. I watch as her gaze drifts over the space, taking in the richness of it, the opulence.
I close the door behind us. "Sit."
She turns slowly, arms wrapped protectively around herself. "Why would I do that?"
I arch a brow, stepping toward her. "Because I told you to."
She shakes her head, her voice barely audible. "I need you to understand something. You don't own me."
I tilt my head slightly, watching her. Then, slowly, deliberately, I lean against the edge of my desk, folding my arms. "Oh, but I do."
She tenses visibly. "Excuse me?"
I shrug. "I paid three million dollars for you, Sage. That means I own you."
She stares at me, a mix of disbelief and hurt crossing her face before she finds her voice again.
"That's not how this works," she says, her voice stronger now but still uncertain. "That just means you bought... the ritual. Which was one night that now is over. Nothing else."
I smirk. "Oh? Is that what you think?"
She steps forward, her voice wavering slightly. "I am not a possession."
I catch her wrist before she can pull back, my grip firm but not bruising. Her pulse races beneath my fingertips.
"No," I murmur, voice dropping lower. "You're not a possession, Sage. You're a prize."
Her breath hitches, just slightly.
I tighten my grip slightly, just enough to feel her react. "So tell me, Sage," I murmur, tilting my head, "what exactly should I do with my prize?"
She looks up at me, conflict evident in her eyes. She feels this, too.
She just doesn't want to admit it yet.
That's fine.
Because she will.
Every uncertain word, every hesitant glance, every time she hugs herself like she's trying to disappear—it's all revealing. She wants to see what I'll do next.
It's infuriating.
It's fascinating.
And it makes me want to break through her protective walls piece by piece.
She pulls her hand away, stepping back, arms crossing over her chest defensively. "Nothing. I can handle myself and just want to go home."
I press forward, voice lowering to something deadly. "Whether you want to admit it or not, your life has changed for you now. You can never go back to your home."
She bites her lip, looking down. "I can't accept that."
"You don't have a choice."
"Please don't."
Something inside me snaps.
I move.
In a blink, I'm in front of her, caging her in against the desk, both hands bracing on either side of her. I lean in, voice a rough whisper against her ear. "You need protection. I can provide it."
Her breath hitches.
I feel it.
The way her pulse quickens, the way her body tenses but doesn't pull away. The heat rolling off her in waves.
I want to tear down her walls, to strip her hesitation down to raw, honest submission. I want to show her that every inch of her body, every uncertain word and shaky breath, already belongs to me.
I can see it in her eyes—the way her pulse jumps when I lean in, the way her breath catches just slightly. She's trying to understand, to process what's happening.
But she can't.
She's mine.
And then, just as the tension pulls too tight, the door swings open.
"Alright, I've had enough of this," Asher drawls, strolling in like he owns the place. "If you two aren't going to sort this out already, then just end the conversation right here, because watching this is just painful."
Sage steps back from me immediately, her face flushing. I see the way she hunches slightly, uncomfortable, uncertain, embarrassed.
I clench my jaw so tightly my teeth nearly crack.
I should kill him.
I turn to glare at Asher, who leans lazily against the doorway, smirking like he's just walked in on something delightfully scandalous.
His cocky amusement only fuels my temper.
"Get the fuck out," I growl.
Asher just grins wider. "Now, now. No need to be so tense, Malachi. You look like you're about to combust."
Sage exhales softly, clearly overwhelmed by this entire situation. "I need to leave," she whispers, already heading for the door.
A sharp spike of jealousy stabs through me as she walks away.
And then it gets worse.
Asher follows her.
And I can't do a damn thing about it.
Control is an illusion.
I've spent my life mastering my urges, my instincts, my desires.
I have never lost control.
Until her.
Until the way she looked at me just now—like she was lost, like she was confused, like she wanted to understand but wasn't ready to admit it.
I barely wait until the door clicks shut behind them before I turn, my body thrumming with rage, my cock aching painfully in my slacks.
Fuck.
I palm myself through my pants, biting out a curse. I need relief. Now.
Storming into my private bathroom, I lock the door behind me and lean back against it, shutting my eyes.
She did this to me.
I don't get like this. Ever.
But the moment I touched her, the moment I felt her beneath my fingers, I was ruined.
The first night, when I had her shaking beneath me?—
When she came apart under my hands?—
I groan softly, shoving a hand into my slacks, gripping my rock-hard cock.
She had been so beautiful in that moment.
Her soul.
I saw it.
When she came for me, it unraveled—that flickering light, her essence spilling out, shimmering, warm, untouched. Untainted power.
I stroke myself roughly, the ache too much, too consuming.
I should have taken her that night.
She was soaked for me, trembling, whispering my name.
I groan again, tighter, faster, imagining her beneath me, imagining what it would feel like when I finally sink into her, when I finally make her mine.
She doesn't even know what she is.
She doesn't know that every part of her, every breath, every pulse, will soon be tied to me.
I feel my muscles tighten, my pleasure cresting too fast. My release spills out, my cock pulsing.
Not enough.
This is not enough.
But it has to be.
For now.