I had been in my room for what felt like forever, but in reality, it had probably only been a little over an hour.
Long enough for my thoughts to become unbearable.
Long enough for every possible outcome of After the meeting, we need to talk to play itself out in my head at least twenty different ways.
I had tried sitting on the bed.
Tried reading.
Tried scrolling through my phone.
Tried pretending my stomach wasn't tied into a nervous knot.
None of it worked.
So when there was finally a knock on my door, my heart jumped so hard it almost hurt.
I looked up immediately.
"Come in."
The door opened, and one of the maids stepped in politely, hands clasped in front of her apron.
"Miss Kiera," she said gently, "Mr. Blackwood wants to see you in his room."
His room.
Not his office.
That alone made something in me shift.
"Oh," I said, standing up almost too quickly. "Okay. Thank you."
She nodded once and stepped back out.
The second the door shut behind her, I just stood there for a moment.
His room.
Not his office.
That meant something, didn't it?
Or maybe I was overthinking it because I was nervous and tired and still trying not to replay the image of a dead man at Malakai's feet every time my mind got too quiet.
I smoothed my palms over the sides of my clothes, took one steadying breath, and left my room.
The hallway was dimmer now, evening settled heavily through the house, turning the long corridors softer and darker at the same time. The closer I got to his door, the more aware I became of my own footsteps.
By the time I stood outside his room, I could hear my pulse in my ears.
I knocked.
His voice came from inside, low and even as always.
"Come in."
I pushed the door open.
And immediately wished I had been given five more seconds to prepare myself.
He was shirtless.
Just like that.
Standing near the edge of the bed in nothing but his suit trousers, his body still faintly damp like he had either showered not long ago or run water over himself to chase off the day. The tattoos along his chest and arms were completely visible now, dark ink winding over skin and muscle in patterns that somehow made him look even more dangerous instead of less. His shoulders were broad, his frame lean and hard, and for one very embarrassing second my brain forgot every single intelligent thought I had ever had.
I stopped just inside the room.
He looked up.
"You wanted to see me?"
His gaze stayed on me for a moment, steady and unreadable, before he gave a slight nod.
"Yes. Come in."
I stepped further into the room and closed the door behind me.
The room felt different at night.
Darker. Richer. More private somehow. Everything in black and ash tones, the wide bed, the low lighting, the glass doors leading out to the balcony where only traces of night pressed against the windows. It smelled faintly of him — clean, sharp, masculine, with that same dark expensive scent that always seemed to linger around him.
And there I was. Standing in the middle of it. Trying very hard not to look at his chest again.
He moved first, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.
"I wanted to thank you for today."
I blinked. "Thank me?"
"Yes."
His voice was calm, but there was something under it. Something quieter. More serious.
"It wasn't a problem," I said softly. "I was just helping."
He studied me for a second longer than necessary.
Then he said, "That's exactly what confuses me."
I frowned slightly.
He walked a little closer, not too much, just enough for his presence to start filling the space between us.
"Twice now," he said, "you've helped me in situations most people would have used against me."
I stayed quiet.
"The first night," he continued, "I was bleeding badly enough that another person could've watched me die and called it freedom." His eyes stayed locked on mine. "Today, you could've used what you saw as blackmail. As leverage. As an escape route. Instead, you stayed."
I swallowed.
He tilted his head slightly, studying my face like he was trying to find the answer written somewhere there.
"Why?"
The question sat between us.
I looked at him for a moment, then looked away.
Because the truth felt too big to say cleanly.
But I said it anyway.
"Maybe," I started quietly, "because being brought here... even if it was as collateral or whatever..." I paused, then forced myself to continue. "It's the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time."
His expression didn't change, but something in the room did.
I let out a slow breath.
"Escaping that house," I said, voice softer now, "escaping those people... it was better for me than staying there." I looked back up at him. "So if anything, maybe I should be the one thanking you."
That seemed to catch him off guard.
I gave the smallest shrug, though my chest felt tight.
"I'm serious. I don't know if I would've survived there much longer."
For the first time since I had known him, silence from Malakai didn't feel cold.
It felt... careful.
He came closer then.
Close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his body.
Close enough that my breath stalled for a second.
He looked down at me in that same unreadable way of his, but this time there was something darker beneath it. Not cruel. Not angry. Just intense enough that it made the air feel heavier.
Then he said, very quietly,
"You say things like that too easily for someone who doesn't understand what they do to a man like me."
My heart stumbled.
I didn't answer.
I wasn't sure I could.
Because there was something about the way he said it — low, controlled, almost like a warning to both of us — that settled under my skin immediately and refused to move.
He looked at me one moment longer, then finally stepped back.
The room breathed again.
"Sit," he said.
I obeyed before I could think better of it, lowering myself carefully into the chair near the small table by the side of the room. He sat across from me this time, one arm resting over the back of the other chair, posture easy in appearance only.
Then he asked, "Why forensic pathology?"
That surprised me.
I blinked once. "What?"
"You said that's what you want to study."
"Oh."
I looked down at my hands for a moment, trying to figure out where to start.
"When I was younger," I said slowly, "I used to sneak downstairs late at night when everyone was asleep just to watch television."
One corner of his mouth moved very slightly, not quite a smile.
"And?"
"I saw a program one night," I continued. "They were explaining how a body could tell a story after death. Not in a horror way. In a... scientific way. They were showing injuries, organs, evidence, the reasons certain things happen inside the body. I didn't really understand all the words back then, but I was fascinated."
He said nothing, so I kept going.
"After that, I started watching every similar thing I could find. Biology programs. Medical documentaries. Crime reconstructions. Anything about the human body." I gave a small breath of laughter. "I was obsessed."
His gaze didn't leave my face.
"Then my stepmother found out," I said. "And she beat the living shit out of me for it."
The words came out more casually than they should have.
But I noticed it immediately — the change in his jaw.
It tightened.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that I saw it.
I looked at him. "I think I've told you that before, haven't I?"
He was still looking at me in that sharp, fixed way.
"Honestly," he said after a second, "I can't remember. Go on."
So I did.
I told him how I started reading biology books in secret. How I memorized body systems just because I liked understanding how things worked. How I loved the idea that science could speak for people when they no longer could speak for themselves. How thrilling it felt to realize that even in death, the body still told the truth.
He listened.
Actually listened.
Not like someone being polite.
Not like someone waiting for his turn to speak.
He listened in that still, intense way of his that made it feel like every word mattered more than it usually would.
And when I looked at him while I was talking, I noticed something on his face that I wasn't used to seeing there.
Fascination.
It was quiet.
Subtle.
But unmistakable.
Like he wasn't just hearing me. He was studying me again. Not coldly this time. More like he was trying to piece together all the parts of me that didn't seem to fit the image he had first built in his mind.
We spoke longer than I realized after that.
About little things at first. About school. About how I preferred biology over almost every other subject. About how I liked tech too, even if it had started from boredom and old laptops and curiosity that should've been less dangerous than it turned out to be.
He asked fewer questions than most people would have, but the ones he did ask were precise.
And for once, being looked at so carefully didn't make me want to hide.
It made me want to keep talking.
Eventually, though, the room changed again. The weight of time returned. The quiet reminder that this was still his world, his night, his responsibilities waiting just outside the door.
He stood first.
"I have to go."
I nodded and got to my feet too. "Okay. No problem."
For a second, we just stood there.
Close enough for the silence to start feeling dangerous again.
Then I said, "I guess I'll see you soon."
His eyes held mine.
And then, for the very first time since I had known him, he said it.
"Goodbye, Kiera."
Something in me went still.
Not because the word itself was special.
Because it came from him.
Because he almost never gave endings softness.
And somehow, hearing that simple goodbye in his voice felt more intimate than it should have.
I swallowed, suddenly too aware of my own heartbeat again.
"Goodbye," I said softly.
Then I turned and walked to the door.
I didn't look back.
But I felt his eyes on me all the way until I stepped out of the room and shut the door behind me.
And even then, as I walked back down the dim hallway to my own room, one thought kept repeating itself inside my head like something dangerous I should not have enjoyed nearly as much as I did—
He said goodbye.