Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

“I swear to God, if one more person shows up at the door, I’m going to barricade the house and prop a shotgun out the window,” Malachim grumbled as he settled on the couch in his living room. His ribs muttered a slight protest, but he breathed deep and shoved the dull ache aside. Considering he’d been jumped twenty-four hours earlier, the damage hadn’t been as bad as he—or the doctors—would’ve anticipated. Thank God Chay had decided to work a little later than usual, or the situation might have been much worse. His ribs were bruised, and his chest, back, and shoulders looked like he’d been splattered by blue, purple, and black paint balls. And to top it all off, he now sported the most adorable bald patch at the back of his head where they’d stitched his wound. Thank God for the miracle of pain medication.

But even the strongest dose couldn’t compare to waking up to Danielle snuggled against him. Due to his absolute refusal to let her go, the hospital staff had agreed to allow her to remain with him the previous evening. And every time they nudged him awake for a neurological check, her warm presence kept him from snapping in irritation. She settled him; something deep inside him shifted, calmed, and sighed.

Like now.

Danielle chuckled as she lowered to the chair beside the couch, and the sound squeezed his heart. Danielle… Even after she’d confessed her real name, Malachim couldn’t think of her as “Elena.” She was Danielle—a dichotomy of strong and gentle, passionate and reserved, a stranger and confidante.

She was his.

But not his.

Staring into her lovely dark eyes, he glimpsed the shadows of sadness she tried to conceal behind a smile. For his benefit. Yet her attempt was an epic failure. They’d only known each other for a couple of weeks, but it seemed as if he should have a Bachelor’s degree in Danielle instead of political science.

She was leaving.

He read her intention in the slight downward curve around her sensual mouth, the hint of forced joviality, and of course, the telltale twist of her fingers. Even now, she placed distance between them as if preparing him—and herself—for the separation soon to come. She planned on disappearing again.

After her horrifying story of all she’d suffered under her ex-husband’s hands—a swell of fury surged from Malachim’s gut to radiate in his chest at just the thought of the bastard—he couldn’t blame her for wanting to leave. But damn it, he wanted—
needed
—to protect her, battle and conquer the monsters like that knight in shining armor he’d scoffed at days ago. He longed to be her fairy tale ending. But they didn’t exist in a world of princes, princesses, and castles in the sky. Here, the princes were imperfect, the princesses didn’t always have happily-ever-afters, and the castles came with top-of-the-line security systems that could still be bypassed if the dragon was clever enough.

Still, he would lay down his life for her.

He loved her.

Like a crafty thief, she’d stolen his heart piece by piece. She’d pilfered the first bit when she’d refused to judge him after he’d revealed the secret of his paternity, instead calling him
worthy
. The next chunk had found its way into her delicate hands when she’d braved her fears and committed her body into his care, believing he wouldn’t betray or take advantage of her. And the remaining portion had been hers when she’d trusted him with her secret, her truth.

Days, weeks, years—he could’ve known her hours instead of days. Or years instead of weeks. How could he not admire her strength? Desire her beauty? Long for her heart? Even when he’d mistrusted her, he’d wanted her. She’d called to the loneliness inside him; she’d tugged at the shriveled, atrophied part of his soul that yearned to love, to be known…to be accepted.

He brushed the back of his fingers down her soft cheek. “Danielle—”

The doorbell pealed.

“Damn it,” he muttered. With another curse, he pushed off the couch and stalked down the hall. He punched in the security code and glanced out the beveled glass next to the door. His anger dissolved like a fine mist, replaced by the cold slap of shock.

He pulled the door open. “Mom…Christopher.”
What the hell was he doing here?

“Hi, honey,” his mother greeted, rising on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “We’re not going to stay long. We know you need your rest. But we wanted to come by and check on you.”

“We,” he murmured, his stare trained on Christopher, whose stoic expression revealed nothing. “How nice. And unexpected.”

She glanced over her shoulder at her husband, a small smile curving her lips. “I know, but Chris insisted on coming and seeing how you were doing.”

“Did he?” He struggled to keep the cynicism out of his voice. Especially when he detected the delight in his mother’s. “Come on in.” He shifted back, allowing his parents room to enter. His mother headed straight for the living room, but Christopher followed at a slightly slower pace as he scanned the elegant foyer. Malachim clenched his teeth, and a faint ache pulsed in his jaw. This was the first time Christopher had deigned to enter his home in the years Malachim had owned it. And if his father expected him to believe concern over his welfare had finally brought him running to his side…

There must be a ton of demons freezing in hell.

“Hi, Danielle.” Pam crossed the living room and, when Danielle stood, pulled her close in a hug. “You know the only reason I’m not nervous about Malachim is you’re here making him behave and obey the doctor’s order of rest.” She flicked a shrewd look at him, and he shrugged. “That’s what I thought.” She brushed a caress over Danielle’s hand before returning to him and cupping his face between her palms. She studied him, and he caught the worry in her eyes, the relief in her smile.

“I’m fine, Mom.” He whispered the assurance, kissed her cheek, and inhaled the perfume that carried him back to childhood. “I promise.”

“Ms. Warren.” Christopher moved into the room. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

Malachim jerked his head up and met the gleam in Christopher’s gaze. The suspicion that had never fully extinguished flared from a simmer to a flame. He released his mother and slid closer to Danielle.

Surprise flashed across Pam’s face. “You know each other?”

“Yes,” Christopher said smoothly. “Did I forget to mention it? We met at Malachim’s office last week. Although,” he tipped his head to the side, “for some reason, I thought she’d left town.”

“So”—Malachim crossed his arms—“is that why you’re here? To gloat?”

A smile as cold and sharp as a scalpel slashed across his mouth. “That’s harsh. And here I thought the truth might help ease your pain.” His attention shifted to Danielle once more. “I hate it when I’ve been misunderstood…lied to.”

Rage twisted in his chest and gut and the smug smile and gleaming satisfaction his father wore were like bellows blowing the fire higher, hotter.

“You’re a bitter, twisted old man,” Malachim ground out, advancing on the man who’d made his life a living hell with his cruelties.

To the casual eye, Christopher appeared to be a handsome, distinguished, successful man. But if the same judicious observer peered closer, they’d notice the tiny lines pinching the skin around his mouth and between his brow, the jaded wintriness in his blue eyes. Those details aged him, revealed the resentment and anger that festered beneath the affable mask he presented to the world. Only his family glimpsed the real Christopher Jerrod. The man who’d never forgiven his wife for her infidelity and tortured his youngest son for being a living, breathing reminder of that unpardonable sin.

“Malachim,” Pam gasped at the same time a palm gently rested on his back. But his attention didn’t budge from Christopher. Red mottled his father’s cheekbones, and his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“You dare talk to me this way?” Christopher hissed. “You?” he sneered.

“Yes,
me
,” Malachim countered. This confrontation had been a long time in coming—over twenty years. And now the moment had arrived, and the floodgate on his hurt, disillusionment, and fury couldn’t be lowered. The vitriol poured out of him, and Malachim didn’t try to stem it. “The bastard under your roof. The roof you always made damn sure I understood I wasn’t worthy enough to live under.”

“And you should’ve been grateful I didn’t turn you out.” Christopher’s lip curled, distaste in the gesture and the glare he leveled on Malachim. “It’s what I should’ve done the moment you were born.”

“Grateful?” Malachim’s bleak bark of laughter echoed in the room. “For what, exactly? The verbal abuse? The manipulations? The backstabbings? The attempts at ruining my life and career?”

“You’re not worthy of my loyalty.”

“And you never did a damn thing to earn mine. And now I don’t want it or anything to do with you. After today, I don’t care if we ever lay eyes on each other again. But before you leave this house, you’re going to hear me loud and clear.” He was moving before he realized his feet had erased the short distance between, and his hands shot out, seized Christopher’s jacket lapels, and yanked the man forward. Christopher’s eyes widened, his lips parted on an outraged drag of breath. “Your spiteful games end here. No more fucking with my life or the people I care about.”

“Malachim, no,” Danielle whispered as Pam softly gasped.

Christopher jerked free of Malachim’s grasp. Scoffing, he tugged on the end of his jacket, straightening it.

“Blaming me for your terrible taste in friends and women?” he sneered.

“Christopher.” His mother appeared beside them. The shock in her voice blanked her dark blue eyes, bled the color from her face. “What are you talking about?”

He scowled, switched his focus from Malachim to his wife. “This is none of your business, Pam.”

“Anything concerning Malachim is my business. Now what is he talking about?” she demanded.

Christopher’s scowl darkened. “Your son can’t seem to inspire a woman’s loyalty. And he must have a thing for liars and con artists. Just like the one he’s taken up with now.”

Malachim shook his head and huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “Still trying to get your digs in, to inflict as much damage as possible. Too late, Christopher. I already know everything about Danielle. She told me.”

“Danielle.” Christopher scoffed, the rude sound scathing, mocking. “I asked your receptionist, and when she told me a Danielle Warren worked for you, I laughed. Once again so fooled by a pretty face you didn’t even know who you had working for you. That you had Elena Rainier working for you.”

Pam’s head whipped toward Malachim. “Elena?” she asked. “Who is Elena?”

“It’s a long story…and it’s Danielle’s to tell, Mom,” he said, sparing a glance for his mother, even now hating to hurt her. But maybe his mistake had been in not telling her about the depth of Christopher’s deceit before now. She had a right to know the true character of the man she’d remained married to all these years out of some antiquated sense of duty or loyalty. “But as for Christopher, he tried to pay Danielle to spy on me and my business for him. But it’s not the first time. A year ago, he paid Tara to supply him with information about my clients and firm. That’s why I ended the engagement. Because she was his puppet.”

She paled as she transferred her wide gaze to her husband. “Is this true?” When he didn’t respond, just firmed his lips into a thin, angry line, she stumbled back a step, her fingers circling her throat. “How could you?” Pam whispered, staring at her husband as if she’d never seen him before this moment. “How could you?”

“Please, Pam,” he spat. “If he’s not man enough to hold onto his company and face healthy competition, then he shouldn’t have it.”

“Let’s be honest for once, Christopher,” she interrupted. “This isn’t about rival law firms or business schemes. This has everything to do with your continued, baseless grudge against Malachim and your resentment of me.”

Christopher sliced a hand through the air as if he could cut through her words. “Don’t be silly.”

“I loved you. God knows I loved you.” She lifted a hand, fingers trembling. But after a moment, she lowered her arm back to her side. “I know my affair hurt you. No matter my reasons, I was wrong, and I’ve tried to atone for it, make you forgive me. I’ve even witnessed your cruelties to an innocent boy, helplessly watched as you ignored him, belittled him, hurt him. Out of guilt, I’ve stayed, hoping you would forgive and change. Hoping my penance would melt the ice surrounding your heart. Hoping one day the man I fell in love with would reappear. But”—she shook her head—“that’s not going to happen. And I’m through waiting. Through hoping. I won’t just stand by and allow you to hurt my son again.”

“Pam, you don’t know what you’re saying.” For the first time, his arrogance wavered, dipped, and uncertainty peeped through the cracks.

“No, Christopher. You’ve hurt him—and me—for the last time.” She gently twisted her wrist, loosening his hold. And stepping away. To align herself next to Malachim.

She trembled next to him, and he slipped an arm around her waist, offering what little comfort he could. Behind him, he heard the quiet
shush
of feet over carpet before Danielle’s hand settled on his hip.

“Pam, you don’t know what you’re saying.” For the first time his arrogance wavered, dipped, and uncertainty peeped through the cracks. He held his out toward her. “Pamela.”

But she shook her head, remained at his side even as her shivering increased.

Pain spasmed across Christopher’s face as he lowered his arm. Without another word, he turned and left the room. Seconds later, the door clicked shut.

Pam sagged.

And Malachim caught her.

Chapter Twenty-five

Malachim stood in the open doorway of his home, one hand on the knob of the front door, the other cupping the jamb. He stared at the taillights of the cab as it disappeared down the street, his mother tucked safely inside.

With a tired sigh, he closed the door and set the alarm. Scrubbing a palm over his head, he returned to the living room. God, it wouldn’t shock him if he glanced in the mirror and glimpsed a gray-haired, stooped man staring back at him. At least then his outside would match his insides.

He dropped to the couch beside Danielle and immediately regretted the abrupt action when his bruises loudly objected. He swallowed a groan.

“Your mother get off okay?” Danielle murmured.

“Yes.” He absently rubbed the left side of his torso. “She’s going to stay with Aunt Ana for a couple of days while she decides what to do next.”

“Do you think she’s going to go back to Christopher?”

Malachim shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s…” He sighed, shaking his head. “Hurt. All I can do is be there for her.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, grazing her fingertips along her jaw.

“For?”

“All of this you’ve had to suffer. The face-off with Christopher, your mother in pain. And all this after getting out of the hospital. I’m—” She shook her head, enfolded his hand in hers and offered him a smile.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he murmured.

Her smile dimmed. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to break down in tears but are sucking it up for my sake.” When she didn’t reply, he sighed. “This isn’t your fault,” he said softly. “That confrontation was long overdue, and being jumped? I repeat, not. Your. Fault.”

Her head snapped up, met his gaze. Several long moments passed, the silence fraught with her denials. “We both know that’s not true,” she finally replied, her voice just as low. Just as adamant.

“You didn’t crack my head open. Or plant a foot in my side.”

Her flinch was almost imperceptible, but he noted the reaction and the guilt that flashed in her eyes. “But I’m the reason behind the attack.” Her fingers weaved together. “And the description of one of the men who hurt you matches the intruder in my apartment. The slimmer one with the hood.”

“Wrong. You’re the
excuse
behind the attack, not the reason. Rule number two, right?” he growled. “The fucker is breaking his own statutes.” He inhaled a breath, ordering himself to calm. She didn’t need his anger—but she did need his honesty. The time for deception between them had passed. “We don’t know that for a certainty, but I believe you’re right.” He’d surprised her with his capitulation; she’d expected an argument, not agreement. “Last night, the smaller one said ‘she’s mine.’ Since you’re the only woman I’ve been involved with in a year, and it was my ass being kicked, I figured out pretty quickly who the guy was referring to.”

Her eyes widened. Then she shot off the chair, nearly ran across the room to the window, dragging her hands through her hair. A ragged sound caught somewhere between a sob and a groan echoed in the room.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she demanded, whirling around. “You should have told me.”

“Why?” he asked quietly. “So you could run sooner?” He slowly pushed to his feet, paying little attention to the ache in his torso. “You think I don’t know what you’re considering?”

She gripped her midnight curls before dropping her arms. Eyes closed, sorrow and pain flattened her full lips into a grim line. She lifted her lashes, and his palms itched to cradle her face, pull her close, and erase the despair in the chocolate depths.

“Alex’s found me,” she whispered. “Before going to jail, he promised he would. He threatened that the police couldn’t protect or keep me from him. I thought Boston was far enough, but it wasn’t.” Her voice lowered, fear weaving through the tone like the threads of a spider’s web. “Rainier’s Rule #1.” She paused. “
You’re mine
.”

The fury nearly overwhelmed him as he stalked across the room, jerking to a stop in front of her. She didn’t shy away from him, and grim satisfaction glowed and pulsed within him, combating the anger.

“Fuck his rules,” he growled. “Let me…”
Stand watch over you. Shield you. Love you.
“…help you.”

Her mouth softened, her eyes glittered. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “You already have. You have no idea what you’ve given me. But I won’t let you give your life, like you almost did last night. Like Pat did.”

Dread crawled over skin, sank deep, and burrowed into his heart. “The break-in.”

She nodded. “What he said. Spending time together. The intruder wasn’t Alex, but that was his favorite phrase to describe his punishments—”

“And that’s what he said. Pat’s murderer. ‘We didn’t get to spend time together.’” Horror congealed into a nauseous lump that traveled from his throat and sank into his stomach. “A message only you would understand. What else?” he asked through numb lips.

Crossing her arms, Danielle confided about the gifts that had mysteriously appeared on her doorstep, the mugging that wasn’t a mugging, Carmen’s disappearance and death. His heart thudded, slow and heavy. The moisture fled his mouth.

“The police think it was a drug deal gone bad, but the last time I spoke with Carmen, she swore she was clean. She wouldn’t have been involved in a drug deal.” She stared out the window. “And Alex was just released from jail. And he always promised if I left him, he’d harm her.”

“Send her to jail, sweetheart. Not kill her,” he gently reminded her.

“No,” she objected softly. “Alex was a man of his word. And Carmen always saw right through him. She hated Alex. And in her own way, loved me.”

The dots were circumstantial as hell, but damn if they didn’t connect.

“He’s hurt the people I care about most.” She shook her head. “I have to leave. How selfish would I be if I stayed and allowed more people—
you
—to be in danger? I can’t, Mal. Don’t ask me to.”

Mal
. A wry smile twisted his lips. The first time she called him by the shortened version of his name only used by those closest to him, and it came when she pleaded with him to understand why she had to disappear from his life.

“And don’t ask me to just let you go.”

She turned to him, and he braced himself for her scoff or brush-off. Hell, if Rafe or Chay uttered those words about a woman they’d met a mere fourteen days earlier, he would’ve slapped them upside the head and ordered them to find their balls. But this was Danielle and his heart he saw edging out the door.

“He won’t stop, Mal,” she said. And the gentle note of resignation and—worse—resolve clawed at him. She shouldn’t be on the lam, running for her life, hiding like a rabbit in its hole, terrified to poke its head out lest the hunter spot it and blow it off. She deserved more than that empty, frightening existence. Never able to enjoy the simple things like comfort, security, and companionship. And all because of an obsessed, crazy asshole. “At least if I leave, it’ll draw him away from here, and if I’m careful enough, he won’t locate me again. But if I stay…” Again, she shook her head. “He won’t stop,” she repeated. Her sigh tore at his heart—then she placed a palm over the cavity. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me.”

Shit
. He closed his eyes. Just…shit.

“You’re like this life raft steadily drifting farther and farther away from me even as I’m swimming after you,” he murmured, palming the side of her head and covering the hand over his heart. “But I need you to listen to me and to understand.” He cupped her chin, tilted it back until her eyes stared into his. “I’m going to keep swimming. And keep protecting you. And keep fighting for you. I’m not Alex. I won’t jail you. I’ll never use selfish-ass excuses to justify hurting you. But what I won’t do is leave you. I’m going to stand for you like no one else has done.” He brushed a kiss across her mouth. Once. Twice. “And sweetheart, I’m a man of my word, too. Tell me you’ll stay...” She closed her eyes, and he didn’t demand she reopen them. Even if she ended up resenting him for his interference…he refused to watch her walk away from him. “Lie to me,” he whispered. After he held her…touched her…then he’d figure out a way to make the lie turn into truth. “Just lie to me and say
yes
.”

She leaned forward, rested her forehead on his collarbone, and her moist breath heated the skin under his T-shirt.

“Yes,” came her soft, muffled reply.

He wrapped her in his arms, clasping her to him. Her palms slid up his back, careful of his ribs, his bruises. Murmuring her name, he grazed the crown of her head with his lips. Her curls tickled his chin, caressed his mouth. He lifted his hands to the unruly mass of black silk. Scrunched the strands between his fingers, tangled all ten digits into the dark mane.

“I love your hair.” He tilted her head back, peered down into her brown eyes, studied her Madonna face—no, not Madonna. He’d never seen a rendition of the sainted mother with such passion and need painted on her face. “The first time I saw you, I remember thinking how beautiful, how free it was. Even before I admitted how much I wanted you, your hair touched this place in my soul I hadn’t visited in so long I forgot it existed. Freedom, peace, joy. I almost resented you for making me taste something I couldn’t have. Didn’t realize I wanted.”

He lowered his head, sipped at her lips. Savored her clean, fresh-air-and-rain scent. She opened to him without the smallest prodding. Before he could slip all the way inside the moist cavern of her mouth, she met him, tangling her tongue with his. Rising on tiptoe to give even as she took.

Their mouths melded, the mating a sensual precursor to the more intimate, erotic dance he craved. Damn, he wanted to be deep inside her wet, clinging channel, surrounded and gripped by her slick muscles. There, she couldn’t hide from him, could hold nothing back. There, she was his. He growled, his fingers tightening against her scalp.

“God, I love the taste of you,” he snarled, nipping at her full bottom lip, her chin, the slim column of her throat. He swirled his tongue in the dip where her pulse throbbed beneath thin, golden skin. Impatient to slide his hands over more of her flesh, to feast his eyes on more of her sweet body, he gripped the hem of her sweater.
Wait. Wait
. He paused, his breath heaving in and out of his chest. His fingers flexed then relaxed around the knit.

“Can I?” he breathed.

She nodded, shooting her arms straight up. He dragged the material free and dropped it to the floor. Then he touched her. Cupped her shoulders, trailed his lips across the slim slopes, raked his teeth over them. She didn’t wait for him to ask about removing her bra. Instead, Danielle unsnapped the tiny closure between her breasts and slid the plain white undergarment from her body, and it joined her sweater at their feet.

Jesus, she was beautiful. Fucking breathtaking.

Lowering his head, he breathed in her scent that was headier than the most expensive perfume. She couldn’t be bottled, couldn’t be captured. He pressed his mouth over her heart. Paying homage to her strength, her resilience. Her life. As he whispered a kiss over a full mound, her arms cradled his head, pressing him close. On a moan, he peppered her flesh with kisses before sweeping over her dark brown nipple and drawing it within his mouth. He suckled and pulled. And she arched into him, her small frame quivering.

Delight speared him at her perfect responsiveness, unspoiled by fear or trepidation. He switched his attention to the neglected tip, his tongue circling it and tugging. Damn, he could stay right here all night, feasting on her breasts, her low cries and whimpers stroking over him like a sensual hand. But his cock throbbed in adamant demand, insisting on a deeper caress.

Not yet
. More than his next breath, he hungered gloving his erection in her silken depths, to thrust and rock into the heart of her. But not just yet. He needed more of her—needed to give her more. For too long, she’d known selfishness not sacrifice. Pain not pleasure.

And then there was the Neanderthal part of him that longed to hear her scream his name in ecstasy. Yearned to see her splinter apart and know he’d caused it.

He gently, but firmly, guided her backward several steps until her spine aligned with the wall, then sank to his knees before her. His fingers closed around the button at her waist, pushed it through the opening. In seconds, dark blue denim and the silken scrap of her panties pooled around her ankles. Quickly, he lifted one foot then the other, shoving the material out of his way.

Then he put his mouth on her.

Son of a bitch, she tasted like heaven. Like the strongest proof Scotch and the purest nectar blended together: potent and sweet. He couldn’t get enough of her.

Her fingers gripped the short strands of his hair, pulling, and the tiny stings to his scalp spurred his own desire. He thrust his tongue into her grasping sheath, lapping at her like a man dying of starvation and thirst. Her hips bucked against him, her cries danced around his ears, and still he continued. He withdrew from her channel, slicked a path through her folds and latched onto her clitoris. Scraped his teeth across the sensitive nub, drew on it. Burrowed his fingers deep inside her.

She broke. With a wail, her body seized, convulsed.

He treasured every quiver, every cry, every drop of moisture. Took every bit she had to give, and then demanded more.

“Malachim,” she pleaded in that sexy, husky voice, weakly pushing at his head. He caught one of her hands, pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the palm. Need rode him hard, ripping at him, and he shook with desire as he yanked his T-shirt over his head. The protest of his ribs and sore back were smothered under the overwhelming power of pain meds and hunger. He switched positions with her, and with his back to the wall, drew her down and over his thighs. Deftly, he released his jeans and cock. He lifted his hips and removed his wallet with the condom tucked in its folds from his back pocket. In seconds, he ripped open the protection and covered himself. And though his cock pulsed hard and aching between them, his hands were gentle when he encircled her wrists and placed her hands on his shoulders.