Novels by Malika Swain

The screen door creaks open with that soft, familiar groan, like it remembers them. Like the house itself is relieved to see them together again. Aria’s laugh tumbles through the kitchen like sunlight, warm and effortless, the sound curling around Kade’s chest and pulling him in like a damn tide.She’s barefoot again—always barefoot, like she belongs to the ground, not the pain that’s ever touched her. Her sundress sways as she moves, brushing Kade’s knee when she passes the counter, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes drag over her.“Stop starin’, cowboy,” she teases, sliding him a mug of coffee with her pinky still brushing his. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”“I’d embarrass myself a thousand fuckin’ times just to sit in this kitchen with you again,” he murmurs, smirking as he sips, eyes never leaving hers. “Especially with that ass dancing around like it owns the place.”“Kade,” she warns, cheeks flushed.“Yeah, princess?” he bites out, wicked and low. “Say my name aga

Her phone lights up again—Kade. Mason doesn’t even need to see the screen to know it’s him. The glow reflects in her smile before she even reads the damn message. Then she giggles. Giggles. “God, you’re such a dork,” she murmurs, thumbing a reply with lazy affection, body relaxed, tone dipped in sweetness like it’s meant for soft bedsheets and bare skin. Something inside Mason snaps. He shoves off the tree, stumbling back into the brush behind her father’s property. The moon’s hanging low, swollen and yellow, casting long shadows across the fields. His breath fogs in the air, sharp with rage. He throws a rock—hard—at the rusted fence post near the property line. It hits with a clang that echoes. His knuckles slam into the side of his car. A muffled grunt escapes his throat. He watches her—untouched by the world, barefoot in the grass, humming under her breath as she starts to braid her hair loosely over her shoulder. The same hair he used to wrap around his hand. The same mo

I kill the engine.The hum dies, leaving nothing but the chirp of cicadas and the wind dragging its fingers through the tall field grass. I’m parked just off the dirt access road, tucked behind the swell of overgrown weeds and half-hidden by the thick-bellied oak tree that’s been leaning for years, like it’s tired of standing guard over this fucking place.Her place.Their place.From here, I can just barely see the porch. The light’s soft—dim amber bleeding from the sconces mounted to the beams. That old swing creaks under the weight of Aria and her father. They sit close, like they always did. No secrets between them. No sharp words or cold distance like I had with my own. He’s got a worn mug in hand, steam curling into the dusk. She’s barefoot. Laughing at something he said, her legs curled up under her. Hair loose. Free.Fuck.I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white.She looks so at ease. Like nothing’s chasing her anymore. Like Kade’s arms are the whole damn finish l

The smell hits her before the door even opens. Warm formula. Bleach. Vanilla candle wax trying its damnedest to mask what exhaustion really smells like. Sloane presses her lips together, heels clicking against Mason’s tile like a countdown. She’s only here for a check-in, a drop-by, a quick “how are things?” But already, the air feels… wrong. Tanya answers with the baby in her arms. Her skin’s dull, eyes rimmed in tired red, robe slipping off one shoulder. “Sloane,” she breathes like it’s a lifeline. Sloane gives her a quick once-over. “You look like hell.” “I feel like hell.” Tanya shifts the baby to her other hip. “She won’t stop crying unless I walk.” “Where’s Mason?” Tanya’s lips tighten. “In the garage. Pretending to fix something.” Figures. Sloane steps inside. The baby’s soft hiccuping mews echo across the living room like guilt. Tanya lowers her voice. “I don’t know what’s going on with him,” she murmurs. “But it’s not good. Sometimes I catch him just… standing in he

The baby monitor hums low from the corner of the room, broadcasting soft breaths and the occasional sigh of a newborn too new to understand the weight in the air. Tanya’s upstairs, finally asleep, her body healing, her mind dulled with exhaustion. The house is too quiet, even with a baby in it.And Mason?He’s downstairs. Alone.The kitchen’s dark except for a single under-cabinet light, casting long, warped shadows over the table. A manila envelope sits center stage, unopened. It has weight. Authority. His name typed on the label like a death sentence.He doesn’t open it right away.He pours himself a drink first—bourbon, neat, too full. His hands shake when he raises it, and the first sip burns like acid. Only then does he sit, crack the seal, and pull out the file.It’s Kristen.Three pages. Two photographs.The first photo hits like a punch: she’s smiling—smiling—in front of a tiny white cottage wrapped in ivy. There’s a man beside her, tall and unremarkably handsome. His hand res

The fluorescent hospital lights buzz like dying insects overhead—cold, white, and merciless. It’s late, the air stale with too much bleach and not enough comfort. Nurses move like ghosts, hushed and efficient, their footsteps swallowed by the scratchy floors and tired midnight silence.By Saturday evening, the chaos had dulled to a quiet hum. Tanya was resting, the baby swaddled and sleeping, and most of the town’s whispers had gone home to brew.Sloane had left earlier—got a few hours of sleep, changed into something sharp, and returned with a face full of war paint and a fresh layer of control. Sloane hasn’t moved in hours. She’s sitting on the edge of one of those god-awful vinyl chairs in the maternity wing waiting area, legs crossed, one heel swinging slow and deliberate. Her coffee cup rests in her hand, perfectly upright, not a single sip taken. It’s long gone cold—but her grip? Ice cold. Her coat is draped over her lap like a throne of black wool. Hair curled to perfection