His hands. Big, rough and scarred.

Goddess, what the fuck is wrong with me?

“Someone’s flustered,” Celeste, the only human bartender at The Gin Room, teases, leaning beside me behind the bar as she tosses napkins into their dispenser. Her blonde hair is pinned in two space buns, and she grins like she knows too much.

I shoot her a glare. “It’s just hot.”

She snorts. “Right. Definitely nothing to do with the 6’5” nightmare in Armani who only flirts with one person in this entire place.”

“He flirts with everyone,” I mutter.

“Not like he does with you,” she counters.

I don’t respond because she’s not wrong. And that’s the problem.

Malichai Veythronn doesn’t flirt like a man trying to get laid. He flirts like a man waiting for you to remember something you’ve forgotten. Like he knows a secret I haven’t caught onto yet. Like he’s been playing the long game, and I’m just now realizing I was the prize.

It’s maddening.

Even worse, I’m starting to feel something. I don’t know what it is, but lately, when he touches me, even just a brush of his hand, my body reacts like it’s been lit on fire from the inside. And not just in the good way. It’s like my soul’s being yanked forward, like it’s trying to leap out of my chest to get to him.

And tonight, it’s worse.

Tonight, the weight of his gaze on me feels like a brand.

****

I should’ve said no when he offered to walk me home. But I didn’t. Because I’m a fucking idiot.

Now we’re walking the few blocks from The Gin Room back to the apartment building where all the single staff live, and every step feels like another inch closer to disaster.

“Do you ever take a night off?” I ask as he holds the door for me, watching me like he’s memorizing every step.

“Off?” he echoes.

“Yeah. Like … normal. Casual. Not broody and intimidating and in my space. Not wearing a suit and that damn smirk.”

He grins. Not just the smirk he uses when he’s toying with me, but a real, full grin that shows sharp teeth. Fucking predator.

I blink. “Are those…”

“Fangs,” he confirms smoothly, as if it’s no big deal. “They come out when I’m … hungry.”

I stop at the elevator. “You’re not going to feed on me, are you?”

His smile fades, but the heat in his eyes intensifies. “No, little fae. You’ll have to beg me before I taste you.” He winks arrogantly and I shove at his chest.

But my heart betrays me, stuttering in my chest. A vivid image forms in my mind of me on my knees begging this beast of a man to ruin me. I rub my thighs together and shake my head to dismiss the fantasy.

Why do his words sound more like a promise instead of a threat?

The elevator arrives with a ding, and we step inside. The moment the doors close, the air shifts again. Heavy. Tense. Charged. Like the magic before a storm.

“You’re too close,” I mutter.

“I haven’t moved.”

Exactly. He doesn’t have to.

He’s always there just barely outside my defenses, like he’s waiting for the walls to fall.

The elevator hums quietly between floors, and I realize this is the first time I’ve ever been alone with him. Truly alone. No bar between us. No people. No noise.

Just Malichai. And me. And this pulsing silence that feels too thick to swallow.

“Why do you always look at me like that?” I ask.

He lifts a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, too softly, he says, “Because I am.”

I turn to face him fully. “Waiting for what?”

His gaze drops to my lips, then to my throat, then back to my eyes. There’s something dangerous behind his stare, something primal. Something that makes my knees weak and my pulse trip over itself.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he says.

“Try me.”

For a moment, he just studies me. His expression unreadable. Then he takes a step forward, just one, but it’s enough to make the elevator feel suffocating.

“I’m waiting for you to fall in love with me,” he says, voice like velvet over glass. “Before I take what’s already mine.”

My brain short-circuits, my heart races, and my pussy flutters.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I whisper.

But before he can answer, the elevator dings. We’ve reached my floor. The doors open, but neither of us moves.

“You’re insane,” I say, stepping out of the elevator.

“You’re starting to feel it, aren’t you?” he asks, not angry, just calm. Certain. “The pull. The fire.”

I shake my head. “There’s no fire.”

Liar. My body knows the truth even if my brain won’t admit it.

His fingers lift, hovering just an inch from my cheek. But he doesn’t touch me. Not this time and I swear I don’t want to cry at the lack of contact.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Arinaghwyndrelle,” he says, stepping back into the elevator.

“Stop calling me that.” The words hold no heat.

He smiles but not like before. This one seems sad, and I have no idea what the hell is going on.

The metal doors slide closed, and he disappears, leaving me alone in the hallway with my jumbled thoughts and a heat low in my belly that I hate almost as much as I crave it.

There’s something happening here. Something bigger than just attraction. Bigger than lust. It’s in my blood, my bones, my fucking soul.

And I’m starting to wonder if this thing between us isn’t something new … but something that’s always been there.