4

Malrik

The cracked intercom blinked silently in my hand.

I stared at it, fingers twitching. My body was healing—faster than expected, or maybe too slow to matter. The silver rounds buried in my ribs clung like chains, but the bleeding had slowed. I could leave soon. I had to.

And when I did, I’d tear apart the bastards who dared ambush the mafia king.

But then it hit me again.

That heat.

Not the usual cold burn of adrenaline. Not the bite of pain. No, this was something deeper. A wave of fire rippled beneath my skin, prickling with every breath. It crept up my spine and crawled into my skull.

Not now.

The fucking bullets.

I gritted my teeth. Heat pulsed through my veins, dragging my control by the throat. I felt everything too sharply. The stale scent of blood and dust in the air. The crumbling wooden walls holding secrets they shouldn’t. The sharp tang of her—the girl. Her scent was everywhere. Copper. Sweat. A thread of something sweet underneath.

I shifted, jaw clenched.

The door creaked.

I turned slowly, heat pulsing in my chest.

There she stood. Scratched, bruised, still bleeding somewhere, but upright. A hoodie hung loose off her shoulders. Her eyes…those ruby fucking eyes, were red-rimmed but still burning. Tired, but not broken.

My pulse kicked.

"It's been days and you're still here," I said, my voice low, thick. "Do you live here or something?"

She didn’t flinch. "You shouldn't be."

She stepped inside, shut the door.

"Neither should you," she added.

I nodded once. "How are your wounds?"

She tilted her head, gaze dipping to my side, then back up. "Healing faster than yours."

A bitter laugh scraped out of me. "I should hope so."

At least she wasn’t burning up like I was. At least her eyes, those cursed ruby eyes, were probably just a coincidence. At least she wasn’t like me.

I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. My fingertips burned at the contact. Too warm. Too drawn. What the hell was she doing to me?

"You're reckless."

"Maybe." Her voice had a bite, but there was a tremor under it. She lowered herself to sit beside me.

The air shifted.

Heavier now. Tighter. Every breath was laced with her.

I turned to her. "Can I see your scars?"

She looked at me, long and unreadable. Then she moved, slow, deliberate. She peeled off the hoodie, then the shirt. No bra.

One scar. Then two.

Jagged lines, some faded, others still healing. Like war maps carved into her skin.

I didn’t look away. Couldn’t. My breath hitched as I leaned forward, drawn in against reason. "Show me all of them."

Was I using my powers?

I wasn’t sure.

She didn’t hesitate. That stunned me. There was trust in her movements ; not softness, not surrender but trust. A brutal kind. Vulnerability forged in survival.

She lifted the shirt and let it drop.

Her breasts were bare, soft against the light, marked by time and torment. A scar ran from her shoulder down her ribs, thick and violent. Another curled along her thigh, angry and red.

I reached out, palm flat to the worst of them.

She shivered beneath my touch. But didn’t move away.

"I want to understand," I murmured, fingers brushing the rough skin. "What kind of hell made these?"

Her voice came out low. "The kind where you don’t ask questions. You survive."

The heat inside me surged.

I moved closer, lips brushing her temple. Light. Careful. A whisper of something I didn’t dare name.

She tensed, breath catching

.

It would've been easy to take more. Too easy. But I didn’t

.

Still, the space between us burned. Tension curled in every breath.

"I can’t give you anything," I said, forcing space between us, "not when I know nothing about you."

She exhaled slowly. A bitter, hollow sound

.

"You already know this territory," she said quietly. "Montova land."

My spine stiffened.

She looked me in the eye. "I'm the one they don't talk about. Asaraiah Montova. The illegitimate daughter."

The words cracked through me like a gunshot.

"You?" I breathed. "You’re her."

She nodded once. Her voice held steel. "Born in shadow. Raised in silence. I was never supposed to exist."

I reached out again, hands moving over her skin, not with hunger, but reverence. Tracing every scar like scripture. Every mark was a story. A warning

.

"You wear their hatred like armor."

"And you," she said, voice rough, "are a strange man who wants to see what's under it."

I laughed under my breath. "Strange isn’t the word I’ve been called."

What I wanted at that moment was primal. I wanted to bite her, taste her blood, feel her shudder in my arms. But I didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I kissed her lips. Slow. A question, not a demand.

She didn’t stop me.

I kissed her neck, her jaw. Still nothing. Her breath quickened, but she leaned into me.

She wanted it too.

Then she froze, like she wanted to say something.

"I—"

I silenced her with a hand, then wrapped her in my coat as I laid her back gently.

My little savior was a Montova. One of the names I hated most.

And this was how they treated their own?

Pathetic.

Still, as soon as I thought of her name—Asaraiah—the fire inside me simmered down.

I looked at her face, peaceful for once, and that’s when it hit me.

A sharp pulse. My skull screamed as static rang through my head.

I clenched my teeth, muffling a groan.

Then—

"Boss, are you there?

"

The voice crackled to life through the forgotten comm. Static followed, then clearer.

"Finally. I’m able to get through to you."