THE PATRIARCH’S DEMAND

MALIA KILSYTH

The air inside my father’s study always tasted like old mahogany, expensive scotch, and dead dreams.

I stood in front of his massive oak desk, my posture rigid, my fingers dug so tightly into the leather of my handbag that my knuckles were stark white. Outside the arched windows of the Kilsyth estate, the Melbourne drizzle slicked the dark glass, blurring the distant lights of the city. Down at the docks, the port war was tearing our territory apart, byte by byte, bullet by bullet. But inside this room, the silence was far more lethal.

Alastair Kilsyth didn't look up from his papers immediately. He let me bleed in the silence. It was a powerful move, one he had perfected over fifty-eight years of ruling our family with an iron fist. He took a slow sip of his neat Macallan, the ice clinking softly against the crystal, before finally raising his obsidian eyes to meet mine.

"Sit down, Malia," he said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, devoid of any paternal warmth.

"I’ll stand," I replied, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking through my veins. "Elena said you called for me. If this is about the shipment we lost at Victoria Docklands last night"

"The shipment is burned," he interrupted smoothly, setting his glass down with a heavy, deliberate thud. "Three of our enforcers are dead. Two more are in the ICU at St. Vincent’s. The Calabys are squeezing our neck, Malia. And we are running out of air."

A cold spike of hatred twisted in my stomach at the mention of that name. Calaby.

It was the name that haunted my nightmares. The name attached to the blood spilled three years ago when my older brother, Callan, was shot in the back of the head and dumped in the Yarra River. The Calabys had executed him like an animal. And ever since, revenge has been the only fuel keeping my heart beating.

"Then let me fight," I snapped, leaning over his desk, my amber eyes locking onto his cold gaze. "Give me Callan’s old crew. Give me the green light to strike back at their supply lines. Jarrah Calaby thinks he can push us into the sea, but I will personally put a bullet through that bastard’s"

"Enough!"

Alastair’s palm slammed onto the desk, the sharp crack echoing off the high ceilings like a gunshot. He didn't rise, but his aura expanded, suffocating and cruel.

"You are not your brother," he said coldly, each word a venomous dart aimed straight at my chest. "Callan was a soldier. You are a loose cannon driven by emotional hysteria. Your reckless hatred is going to get this entire family slaughtered."

I flinched as if he’d slapped me. The wound of losing Callan was still an open, infected sore, and my father loved to rub salt into it whenever I stepped out of line.

"I am trying to honor his memory," I whispered through clenched teeth, my throat tight with a surge of raw, bitter emotion. "You're letting his killers walk the streets of Melbourne while our men bleed out on the docks!"

"I am saving what is left of this syndicate!" Alastair stood up slowly, towering over me, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly slicked back, his three-piece suit without a single wrinkle. He looked every bit the legitimate corporate mogul and every bit the sociopathic monster hiding beneath the cloth. "The war ends today. I have negotiated a truce with the Calaby syndicate."

I blinked, stunned. "A truce? With them? After everything they took from us?"

"Peace requires sacrifice, Malia." Alastair walked around the desk, his polished shoes tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the hardwood floor. He stopped a few feet away, watching me like a hawk sizing up a mouse. "Jarrah Calaby took control of his family's empire six months ago. He is younger, more brutal, and far more strategic than his father ever was. He has cut off our distribution. He owns the ports. He has us surrounded."

"So we fight harder!"

"We don't have the ammunition or the men!" Alastair barked. He took a step closer, his sharp eyes narrowing into dark slits. "Jarrah agreed to pull his hitmen back. He agreed to share fifty percent of the Victoria Port revenues with the Kilsyth family, guaranteeing our survival."

I frowned, a deep, sickening sense of dread settling heavy in the pit of my stomach. In our world, no one gave away half an empire out of mercy. Especially not a ruthless Don known across Australia as 'The Warden.'

"What did he ask for in return?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Alastair didn't blink. He didn't even flinch.

"You."

The single word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, stripping the oxygen straight from my lungs.

"What?" I breathed out, stepping back as if he had struck me.

"A blood contract," Alastair said, his voice flat, emotionless, as if he were discussing a real estate transfer. "An alliance forged by marriage. You will marry Jarrah Calaby. The wedding will take place in two weeks at St. Patrick’s Cathedral."

"No," I choked out, a wave of violent nausea rolling through me. "No! You can't be serious! You want me to give my body, my life, my name to the man whose family murdered Callan?! Have you lost your mind?!"

"You will do as you are told!" Alastair snapped, his voice hard as iron. He stepped into my space, grabbing my jaw in a vice-like grip that bruised my skin. "You are my daughter, Malia. You live under my roof, you eat from my table, and your life belongs to the protection of this house. You will wear the white dress, you will walk down that aisle, and you will lie in that monster's bed if it keeps the Kilsyth name alive!"

Tears of pure, unadulterated rage burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I pried his hand off my jaw, shoved him back, and stood tall, my chest heaving.

"I would rather die," I spat, my voice trembling with fierce, desperate defiance. "I would rather take a bullet to the head right now than let Jarrah Calaby touch me."

Alastair watched me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, a slow, terrifying smile crept onto his thin lips. It wasn't a smile of warmth; it was the cruel smile of a tyrant who had already won.

"You think you have a choice?" he said softly. He turned toward his desk, reaching into his top drawer, and pulled out a thick, unmarked Manila folder. He tossed it onto the desk between us.

"What is that?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"That," Alastair murmured, leaning his hands on the desk, "is the ledger for your sister Elena's private medical care, alongside the security logs of her residence. You know as well as I do how fragile Elena’s position is in this city, Malia. How easily an... accident could happen to a girl who lacks the strength to protect herself."

The room tilted. My breath hitched in my throat. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in on me.

He was threatening Elena. My soft, fragile sister. The only person left in this godforsaken family whom I loved with every fiber of my soul.

"You monster," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "She's your daughter."

"And you are her sister," Alastair countered smoothly. "If you refuse this marriage, the truce falls apart. The Calabys wipe us out. And I will make sure Elena is the very first casualty of the war."

I stared at him, my heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. The illusion of family, of loyalty, of blood it was all a lie. I was nothing to him. Just a piece of meat to be traded to the highest bidder to save his own empire.

"Two weeks," I said, my voice hollow, stripped of all life, leaving only a dark, simmering embers of vengeance deep inside. "I will marry him in two weeks."

"Good girl," Alastair said, turning his back on me to pour himself another drink. "Dismissed."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the study, every step feeling like I was marching toward my own execution.

I made it down the long, dimly lit hallway toward my quarters, my mind spinning into chaos. Marrying Jarrah Calaby wasn't just a sentence, it was a death trap. But as I reached the shadow of the grand staircase, a sudden, heavy shadow stepped out from the darkened alcove beside the front entrance.

My hand instantly flew toward the hidden pocket of my jacket, my instincts screaming.

"I wouldn't pull that if I were you, little bird."

A tall, imposing figure stepped into the light of the . Broad shoulders that blocked out the hall, a tailored black suit concealing the lethal frame beneath, and jet-black hair framing a jawline cut from marble.

Jarrah Calaby.

OHe was standing right inside my family's estate.

His striking steel-blue eyes locked onto mine, cold, calculating, and dangerously possessive. A faint, wicked smile touched his lips as his gaze tracked down my body, mapping every inch of me like territory he already owned.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs in pure, unadulterated panic.

Jarrah took a slow, deliberate step toward me, his heavy boots silent on the Persian rug. The air between us suddenly felt charged, thick with an electric, suffocating tension. He stopped just inches away so close I could smell the scent of expensive cedarwood, rain, and raw danger wafting off him.

He reached out, his long, calloused fingers gently tilting my chin up, forcing me to look directly into those icy blue eyes.

"I came to inspect my property," Jarrah murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrated straight down my spine. "And to remind you, Malia... when you walk down that aisle, you belong to me. Body, soul, and blood."

Before I could pull back or strike him, his thumb brushed over my lower lip with a slow, agonizing pressure that sent a traitorous shiver straight down my spine.

"Get your blade ready for wedding night, sweetheart," he whispered against my ear, his hot breath sending electricity through my skin. "Because I intend to make you use it.”