I gave myself five minutes before I went back after I was done.
Five whole minutes of standing in my room, pretending I wasn't thinking about him.
Pretending I wasn't still carrying the feel of his hand at my wrist, his palm at my jaw, the way his voice had gone low and dangerous when he told me not to punish him for making me feel safe.
Pretending I wasn't still hearing it.
You are safe here.
I freshened up like he told me to. Changed into something softer, more comfortable — dark sleep shorts and a thin tank top that clung lightly to my skin. Something I would never have worn in front of him if I had actually planned this properly. My hair was loose now, brushed out and falling around my shoulders in soft waves, and I had just enough time to realize that maybe I should change again before I had already left my room.
Too late.
I went back to his study first.
The door was open.
The room was empty.
I paused in the doorway, frowning.
The low lamps were still on, casting that same dim, amber glow over the shelves and desk and heavy curtains, but there was no sign of him. No movement. No voice. Just the hush of a room that looked full even when no one was in it.
"Malakai?"
Nothing.
I stood there for a second longer, then turned and headed toward his room instead.
Maybe he had gone there.
But when I pushed that door open gently, it was empty too.
The bed had been straightened. The curtains pulled partly shut. The faint scent of him still hung in the room, dark and clean and impossible to mistake, but he wasn't there either.
Now I was just confused.
I stepped back into the hallway, looking down one end, then the other, half wondering if he'd changed his mind and gone off somewhere again.
For a second I considered just going back to my room and pretending none of this had happened. Maybe he'd gotten distracted. Maybe work had pulled him away again. Maybe I had misunderstood.
I had just turned to leave when I heard a voice behind me.
"Miss Kiera?"
I looked back.
One of the maids stood a few feet away, hands clasped politely in front of her.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Blackwood requests your presence in the theater room."
I blinked. "The theater room?"
She nodded.
We had a theater room?
"Sorry," I said, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I probably sounded. "Where is that?"
A soft smile touched her mouth. "Downstairs, miss. End of the hall to the left. He'll be waiting for you."
I stared at her for half a second.
Then nodded. "Okay. Thank you."
She dipped her head politely and left me to it.
I stood there for one more second trying to process the fact that somewhere in this enormous, beautiful, dangerous house there was apparently an entire theater room I had not known existed.
Then I made my way downstairs.
The hallway she had described was darker than the others.
Longer too.
By the time I reached the end and turned left, the rest of the house already felt far away — distant behind walls and soft light and expensive silence.
I saw the door immediately. Wide. Matte black. Closed.
I pushed it open.
And stopped.
The room was almost completely dark.
Not pitch black — just dim enough that it took my eyes a second to adjust. A massive screen stretched across the far wall, not yet playing anything, only reflecting a low blue cast over the room. Rows of deep leather seats stepped downward in neat levels, all dark and sleek and absurdly comfortable-looking. The air smelled faintly of buttery popcorn, clean leather, and that same quiet luxury the entire house seemed built out of.
Malakai was sitting in one of the front-row seats.
Of course he was.
Not slouched. Not restless. Just there, one arm draped lazily over the side of the chair, dressed now in dark clothes softened only by the low light. When I stepped in, he turned his head toward me.
And then his eyes moved over me.
Slowly.
Not rushed. Not crude.
Worse.
Deliberate.
From my bare legs to the hem of my shorts, to the thin straps at my shoulders, to my hair loose around my face, and finally to my eyes.
I felt the look everywhere.
He smiled then.
Not fully.
Just that same rare kind of smile I had seen in the morning — only this one was a little wider, a little more visible in the dark.
He lifted a hand and tapped the chair beside him.
An invitation.
No words.
Just that.
I walked down slowly and took the seat next to him.
Only when I sat did I notice the snacks arranged between us — bowls, drinks, candy, popcorn, things I didn't even know he liked, which somehow made the whole situation feel even more unreal.
I looked at the food, then at him.
"What is this?"
His gaze stayed on me for a second before shifting to the screen.
"Today," he said, voice calm and low, "I decided was a day off."
I blinked.
He continued, "I wanted to watch a movie."
A tiny pause.
"With you."
The words shouldn't have sounded as warm as they did coming from him.
But they did.
Or maybe not warm.
Just... deliberate.
Like everything else he gave.
My chest tightened in that dangerous way again.
Before I could say anything, the screen came to life.
The movie started.
At first, we just watched.
That in itself should have been ordinary. Two people sitting in a dark room, facing a screen, sharing snacks and silence.
It wasn't ordinary.
Not with him.
Every shift of his body felt noticeable. Every time our arms came close on the shared armrest, I felt it. Every time he reached for something, I was aware of the exact space his hand moved through. The air between us seemed unusually alive, as if the room itself knew there was something changing and was waiting to see who would be brave enough to move first.
The movie was good, dark enough to hold my attention and tense enough to keep us both quiet most of the time.
But at one point, one of the characters said something so unexpectedly dry that I laughed.
A real laugh. Soft, surprised, escaping before I could stop it.
And beside me, Malakai let out a low sound that was almost a laugh too.
I turned to him instinctively, smiling.
That was when I felt it.
His hand.
Resting on top of my lap.
Not roughly.
Not even intentionally at first, maybe.
Just there. Heavy. Warm. Large enough that the whole weight of it seemed to settle straight through the fabric and into my skin.
My body went still for one dangerous second.
He felt it immediately and looked at me.
I didn't move.
I should have.
Instead, after that first startled stiffness, I slowly eased.
His hand remained exactly where it was.
And when neither of us said anything, the movie continued as if the room had not just shifted around that single point of contact.
The first film ended.
Neither of us moved right away.
Then Malakai stood.
"I'm getting more snacks."
I looked up at him. "Okay."
He paused, one hand already reaching for the empty bowls. "Do you want anything specific?"
I shook my head. "Whatever you get is fine."
He gave one short nod and left.
The room felt bigger without him in it.
Too quiet.
I looked at the screen still glowing in the dark and tried not to think about his hand on my lap, or the fact that I had let it stay there, or what that said about me.
The second movie began just as he came back.
More snacks. More drinks. He set them down beside me, then returned to his seat without a word.
This movie was slower. Darker. Less action, more tension. The kind of thing that built itself quietly around your nerves until you realized too late that you'd been holding your breath.
Somewhere in the middle of it, I felt him shift.
At first I thought nothing of it.
Then, before I could process what was happening, his body moved lower in the seat and his head came to rest against my lap.
I froze.
Completely.
For one heartbeat, all I could do was stare down at him.
He was lying there like he belonged there. One arm folded loosely across his stomach, the rest of his body angled comfortably across the large seat while his head rested against my thighs like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be.
I didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Barely breathed.
Then he turned his face slightly and looked up at me.
And God.
The way he looked at me—
There was no coldness in it now.
No distance.
Just something dark and intent and quietly admiring that made my whole chest feel too small for my heart.
"What?" I whispered.
His eyes moved slowly over my face.
Then he said, in that deep, softened voice of his, "Do you know how beautiful you are?"
I went still all over again.
The words hit so directly that for a second I honestly didn't know what to do with them.
I let out the smallest breath of embarrassed laughter, trying to shake it off. "You're being ridiculous."
He smiled.
Actually smiled.
Small. Quiet. Real.
And then he turned his attention back toward the movie without moving from where he was.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because now he had said it.
And meant it.
And left it there between us like something alive.
I swallowed hard and looked back at the screen, though I had no idea what was happening in the movie anymore.
One hand held a snack bowl.
The other was free.
I became painfully aware of that.
Also painfully aware of the dark softness of his hair just inches from my fingers.
I wanted to touch it.
That was the problem.
I wanted to touch it so badly that the wanting became a physical thing.
But what if I misunderstood?
What if this meant nothing to him and everything to me?
What if I touched him and the room changed in the wrong direction?
I looked down.
He looked comfortable. More than comfortable. Looser somehow. Less guarded in my lap than I had ever seen him in any room, at any hour.
Maybe that was answer enough.
Very carefully, like I was testing the edges of something fragile, I let my free hand move.
My fingers touched his hair.
Once.
Lightly.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't even tense.
If anything, it was the opposite.
His whole body seemed to loosen another fraction, as if some hidden line in him had quietly given way.
A go-ahead.
My chest fluttered.
So I did it again.
And again.
My fingers moved slowly through his hair, rumpling it, smoothing it back, tracing small absent patterns against his scalp. Nothing too deliberate. Just soft, careful touches.
He melted under it.
Not dramatically.
But enough that I felt it.
Enough that I knew.
I kept going.
The movie kept playing.
The room stayed dark and warm and impossibly quiet around us.
And somewhere in that silence, with my hand in his hair and his head resting on me like trust had made a home in my lap, something inside me gave way completely.
Without thinking too hard about it, before fear could return and stop me, I bent down.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And pressed the softest kiss to his forehead.
Just a brief touch.
Nothing more.
When I lifted my head again, I found him looking at me.
Not startled.
Not confused.
Just watching.
And before I could even begin to wonder whether I had ruined everything, he pushed himself up slightly from my lap.
Enough to reach me.
Enough to pause just in front of my mouth.
Enough that I had time to go still and wide-eyed and completely lose whatever thought I'd been holding.
Then he kissed me.
Small.
Soft.
Barely more than a brush of his mouth against mine.
But it hit me like the room had tilted.
When he pulled back, I was still staring at him.
He looked almost as surprised as I felt.
Almost.
Then I smiled.
I couldn't help it.
And after a second, he smiled back.
Not wide.
Not carelessly.
But with enough warmth in it that I felt it all the way down.
He laid back down again, this time one hand reaching for mine and lacing our fingers together loosely against my thigh.
And just like that, the movie went on.
So did the silence.
Only now it was different.
Softer.
Heavier.
Full.
I kept playing with his hair.
He kept holding my hand.
And neither of us said another word, because somehow words would only have made it smaller.
So we let the dark hold it.
The quiet.
The warmth.
The first kiss.
My first kiss.
And somewhere deep beneath all the fear and caution and shadows that still lived in both of us, I understood something with terrifying clarity:
Malakai Blackwood had fallen.
And the worst part — or maybe the best — was that I had fallen right with him.