“I don’t scare that easily.”
“Good,” I murmur, a reckless streak of honesty surfacing.
“Because apparently I attract dangerous men.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“I wasn’t joking, Bryan.”
The air shifts again. It’s not playful anymore. Something heavier, more primitive, settles between us. His hand lifts slowly, agonizingly, giving me every chance to move, to stop him, to retreat into the safety of my professional distance.
He hovers near my waist. He isn’t touching me yet, but I can feel the heat from his palm through my scrubs.
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, protective register.
“I’m not,” I reply before I can stop myself. My own honesty scares me.
His brow furrows slightly, his eyes searching mine for a meaning I’m not sure I want to give him.
“What’s that supposed to mean, Mali?”
I don’t answer. Mostly because I don’t know. But also because the words feel truer than they have any right to be. I am not alone. I haven’t been since I found that note.
Finally, his fingers make contact. Light. Barely there. Resting at the curve of my hip. Testing. Waiting. My pulse jumps, but not from fear this time. From awareness. From the fact that I’m not moving away. His thumb shifts slightly, tracing a slow arc against my side. Warmer. Closer.
“Mali,” he says softly.
Is it a warning? A question? Or a plea? I don’t know, and at this moment, I don’t care. I tilt my head up just enough to meet his eyes. And I let the tension sit there. Unresolved. Breathing. And dangerously alive.
Somewhere above us, unseen and silent, a camera records everything. And for the first time tonight… I don’t look away.
I stare back.
CHAPTER 5 - Deimos
The first mistake Bryan makes is touching what'smine.
My monitor freezes on the exact moment his hand settles on the edge of Madeline's desk. Too close. Leaning toward her like he belongs there. Like he has the right to occupy the same air as her. My jaw tightens, a slow, rhythmic grinding of bone.
The camera angle isn't perfect, but it's enough. Enough to see the way she tilts her head up to look at him. Enough to see the space between them shrinking until the oxygen itself must be screaming.
She leaned back into him. Not by accident. Not because she had to. She chose not to move. I replay the footage, dragging the slider back a fraction of a second, again and again, until the pixels distort into a jagged mess. His hand is on her waist. His thumb is shifting. Testing.
I sit very still. Most people would think jealousy feels like fire. Loud. Chaotic. Explosive. It doesn't. Not for me. For me, it feels like precision. It feels like a blade being honed to a microscopic edge. My mind begins organizing possibilities the same way it would during an assignment.
Bryan's throat is the easiest target. Thick muscle, but poorly protected. A blade pushed between the sternocleidomastoid and the carotid artery would silence him quickly. Efficient. Minimal mess. But that would be too merciful.
My fingers tap slowly against the armrest of the chair.
The knees. Break them first. Both of them. A hammer would work. Or a metal bar. Something blunt enough to shatter bone without killing him too quickly. He needs to be grounded before he can be unmade.
Then the hands. People underestimate how much pain lives inside them. One finger at a time. I imagine the sound theywould make snapping backward. Nails. Pulled slowly. I want to see the hands that dared to touch her rendered useless.
Bryan laughs at something she says. The sound leaks through the low-quality audio feed like static, grating against my nerves.
No. Not the hands. The tongue. That's the real problem. The way he talks to her. The way his mouth shapes her name. Madeline. Mali. My nails drag slowly over the polished wood of the desk, leaving shallow, angry grooves in the surface. The tongue should come out first.
I lean forward slightly, studying the screen. Bryan shifts closer again. My pulse remains perfectly steady, but something darker coils beneath it.
