Chapter 5 Safe and Lonely

SERA

I fell asleep on Malrik's couch, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like him: smoke and that dark, spicy scent that made my head spin.  

I shouldn't have been able to sleep. I should have been terrified, lying awake in a demon's apartment, wondering if I'd made a terrible mistake.  

But I felt safe. For the first time in months, I felt safe.  

When I woke, pale morning light was filtering through the windows, and Malrik was sitting in the chair across from me, watching me sleep.  

"That's not creepy at all," I said, my voice rough with sleep.  

"I don't sleep much," he said. "And I wanted to make sure you were okay."  

I sat up, the blanket falling to my waist. "I'm okay. Better than okay, actually. That's the best sleep I've had in weeks."  

"Good."  

We looked at each other for a long moment. In the daylight, I could see him more clearly. Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, a mouth that looked like it rarely smiled. His eyes were back to almost-human: a warm brown with just a hint of that amber glow. He was beautiful in a dangerous, otherworldly way.  

"I made coffee," he said, breaking the silence. "If you want some."  

"God, yes."  

I followed him into the kitchen, which stood in stark contrast to the rest of the penthouse. The sleek, modern appliances gleamed in the dim light, but the space felt sterile and rarely used.  It was a space designed for show rather than warmth.

He poured me a cup of coffee, black, and I wrapped my hands around it gratefully.  

"So," I said. "You're really going to go after him?"  

"I said I'd protect you. I keep my word."  

"And then what? I'm still in debt. Even if Volkov's gone, someone else will take over his operation. They'll still come after me."  

"Not if the debt is erased."  

"How do you erase a debt like that?"  

He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "You make sure there's no one left to collect it."  

A shiver crept down my spine. It wasn’t fear, not really. It was something else—something that felt uncomfortably close to excitement.

"You're talking about killing them all," I said.  

"I'm talking about eliminating a threat."  

"That's the same thing."  

"Does it bother you?"  

I thought about Galk's hand on my arm, bruising. About Dmitri's gun pressed against my ribs. About the van and what would have happened if Malrik hadn't come back.  

"No," I said quietly. "It doesn't bother me."  

He studied me for a long moment. "You're not what I expected."  

"What did you expect?"  

"Someone more fragile. More afraid."  

"I am afraid. I'm terrified. But I'm also angry. And tired. And so fucking done with being a victim."  

Something flickered in his eyes—perhaps approval or respect.

"Excellent," he said. "Fear will keep you alive. Anger will keep you fighting."  

"Is that demon wisdom?"  

"That's survival wisdom. Applies to every species."  

I finished my coffee, set the cup down. "So what's the plan?"  

"The plan is you stay here while I do reconnaissance."  

"No."  

He raised an eyebrow. "No?"  

"I'm not staying here while you risk your life for me. I'm coming with you."  

"Absolutely not."  

"It's not up for debate."  

"You're human. Fragile. You'll get hurt."  

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Frowning.

"We'll discuss this later, but first, you need to eat. And rest. You look like you haven't had a decent meal in weeks."  

He wasn't wrong. I'd been living on ramen and coffee, stretching every dollar as far as it would go.  

"I don't want to impose-"  

"You're not imposing. You're..." He stopped. Looked away. "You're under my protection now. That means I take care of you."  

The way he said it-my protection-made something warm unfurl in my chest.  

"Thank you," I said softly.  

He just nodded and turned away, but not before I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.  

Like he was fighting something.  

Like I affected him as much as he affected me.   

MALRIK

She was going to be the death of me.  

Not literally-I was immortal, after all-but figuratively. Metaphorically. In every way that mattered.  

Because every time she looked at me with those storm-grey eyes, every time she smiled, every time she said my name, my demon stirred and I felt my carefully constructed control slipping.  

I'd spent decades avoiding humans, maintaining my isolation. And now I had one living in my apartment, wearing my clothes, drinking my coffee, looking at me like I was something other than a monster.  

It was intoxicating, terrifying, and bound to end badly. But I couldn't make myself care.  

I made her breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, and watched her eat like she was starving. Which she probably was.  

"This is amazing," she said around a mouthful of eggs. "Thank you."  

"It's just eggs."  

"It's the first real meal I've had in weeks. So it's amazing."  

I felt that twist in my chest again—guilt, anger, and something protective and possessive that I didn't want to examine too closely.

"You should have asked for help," I said.  

"From who? I don't have anyone. My parents are dead. My brother's dead. I have no other family, I've been on my own for a long time."  

"How long?"  

"Since I was eighteen. Ten years."  

She was twenty-eight. Young, by human standards. A child, by mine. But she didn't look like a child. She looked like a woman who'd been through hell and come out the other side harder, sharper, stronger.   

"What about you?" she asked. "Do you have family?"  

"No."  

"Friends?"  

"Not really."  

She frowned. "That is quite lonely."  

"It's safe."  

"Safe and lonely aren't mutually exclusive."  

"They are when you're what I am."  

She set down her fork, looked at me with those eyes that saw too much. "What happened to you? To make you so isolated?"  

I could have lied. Should have lied. But something about her made me want to tell the truth. Not everything, but enough.  

"I helped some humans once," I said. "Saved them from a bad situation. They thanked me. Smiled at me. Called me their hero."  

"And?"  

"And two days later they tried selling me to people who wanted to study me."  

Her face went pale. "Oh my God."  

"After that, I swore I'd never help a human again."  

"But you helped me."  

"Yes."  

"Why?"  

I looked at her, and tried to put into words something I didn't fully understand myself.  

"Because when you looked at me, I saw something in your eyes. Something that reminded me of who I used to be, before Prague. Before I learned to stop caring."  

"What did you see?"  

"Hope."  

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and took my hand. Her skin was warm, soft.  

"I'm sorry that happened to you," she said. "And I'm sorry that humans hurt you. But not all of us are like that. Some of us are worth saving."  

"I'm starting to realize that."  

She smiled, and the darkness softened. I was so fucked.  

I gave her a tour of the apartment, showed her where everything was, made sure she knew how to work the locks.  

As the day wore on, I found myself watching her. She moved through my space, touching things with light curiosity. She curled up on the couch with a collection of Rumi’s poetry from my shelf, biting her lower lip in concentration. 

Her scent seemed to permeate every corner of my apartment, sinking into the furniture, the walls, and my skin. 

I wanted to touch her. The urge was almost overwhelming: to cross the room, pull her into my arms, bury my face in her hair, and breathe her in.

My demon was getting louder, more insistent. I clenched my fists and forced myself to stay in the chair.  She looked up from her book, caught me staring.  

"What?" she asked.  

"Nothing."  

"You're looking at me like... I don't know. Like I'm something you want to devour."  

She wasn't wrong.  

"Sorry," I said, looking away. "I'll try to be less creepy."  

"I didn't say it was creepy."  

I looked back at her. She was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Curiosity? Interest?

Desire?