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I can’t even work out why I like him, let alone tolerate him in my life. And now I dare say he’s come out here into the real world again to taunt me and bait me into something. I scowl at his smile, annoyed that he’s amusing himself with my torment, and head back the way I’ve come, towards the tunnel. I just wanted a little peace, air, not peace. I don’t know, but him being here is causing none of the above. In fact, it’s escalating the opposite.
Grumbling, I listen to him coming up beside me again, whistling a tune to himself. Phantom of the opera. Not helpful. Wasn’t last time either. But the sound resonates just like it did before, forcing my mind back to dark corners and soft sheets. Thankfully, the sound also brings with it a waltz.
His waltz.
“What do you want from me, Malachi?” The whistling continues. “None of this is feasible past what happened. And that shouldn’t have.” He interrupts his whistling for a chuckle, and then goes back to whistling. “I can’t. You know that.”
I try listening to Jackson’s footfalls just behind me rather than acknowledge the continued sound of torment. It doesn’t work. All I can hear and smell and see is her in my head. Lilted words, sharp words. Hips that sway and flashes of skin. Her damned skin rising from that water and her eyes looking at me through slits. “It’s done, Malachi. Over and finished. She should find someone else, or move on without anyone.” Probably best.
My head nods as if I’m writing some fucking data correlation regarding sequencing rather than considering the fundamentals of her skin near me. “She should leave here. Find somewhere else and forget this chapter of her life. And me along with it. Start a new life.”
“An interesting summary for your excruciatingly logical brain to surmise,” he drawls.
My feet stop, head swinging to look at him. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Nothing. As you say, she should leave. After the party.”
He puts his hands in his pockets and starts walking again, his body rolling through steps one after the other until he’s in the tunnel and disappearing from view. “And I expect she will, unless you stop her,” he calls back.
I’m not stopping her. If she comes for me, I’ll help her go.
Chapter 4
Hannah
It’s odd being back here in New York.
The plane journey was odd, albeit luxurious, and the sweep through the hangers having departed the plane was odd, too. Having only seen Malachi with his normal devil may care attitude in his home, suddenly noticing body guards flanked around him felt weirdly provocative, as if he’s someone I never knew existed.
And now this.
I take off one of Faith’s coats and look around, taking in every line and feature in this old huge, townhouse that’s been polished to within an inch of it’s life. More luxury, this time with a charm that only comes from centuries of attention. It feels like old age wealth just hit Manhattan again, bringing with it an undercurrent of class that can never be bought. Six floors, a pool deck on the roof. Room after room of resplendent glory.
“How long have you owned this?” I ask, turning to face him.
He looks at me briefly over the top of a glass of champagne, then resumes watching a hockey match on the wide screen he’s staring at. “Five generation's worth, or six. On my father’s side.”
“Could you be any more contradictory?” I laugh, and watch as a butler takes the coat from the chair I’ve just draped it over after coming back here from my walk.
Dark eyes come back to mine. They’re not surprising given that I don’t think I’ve seen him sleep at any point in the last however long it’s been. “Champagne and hockey?”
“I own the team. They’re winning. I’m celebrating.”
“You own a hockey team?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“I won it in a card game.” He kicks his feet up on the coffee table in front of him, his precise polished shoes landing where generations of his family have probably only placed delicate objects. “Actually, I won money but he couldn't afford that so offered me this instead. He still owes me the rest.”
“Who was it?”
“Not telling.”
I half chuckle and look over the rest of the room, unsure what it is that we’re supposed to be doing here. I followed when he said it was time to come back, maybe hoping more conversation would come as to why, but time seems stalled again now. It’s frustrating to the new me. A new house around me, obviously, but, as always with Malachi, there’s no hurry or turn of speed. Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve got more money than sense. No need for time. No need for hassle or forward momentum either.
Perhaps I should go back to my apartment, find truths in my own way rather than continuing to wait for him to offer solutions to my needs. I tried a little while ago. Walked the sidewalks, took in the sights and smells of Manhattan again, but I couldn’t quite find the ability to go back there. It seemed old, different. Other than Gray, and this need still pulsing in my veins, there wasn’t a thing I wanted about that building.
