Chapter 3: Under His Protection

Zariah

Pain.

That was the first thing I felt.

A sharp, burning ache pulsed through my shoulder as I struggled to open my eyes.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t remember where I was. My thoughts came back in pieces.

The funeral.

The gunshots.

The black SUV.

Malik.

My eyes snapped open.

A dark ceiling stared back at me.

Not my apartment.

Not a hospital.

Somewhere else.

Panic shot through me, and I pushed myself upright.

Bad idea.

Pain ripped through my shoulder so violently that I gasped.

“Sit down.”

The deep voice came from across the room.

My heart nearly stopped.

Malik St. James sat in a leather chair near the floor-to-ceiling windows, one ankle resting over his knee, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Watching me.

Like he had been sitting there the entire time.

Waiting.

“Where am I?”

“My penthouse.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“You’re safe here.”

“I don’t want to be here.”

Malik took a slow sip of his drink.

“That’s unfortunate.”

I glared at him.

The man had the nerve to look completely calm while my entire life had apparently fallen apart.

“You kidnapped me.”

“No.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, Zariah.” His eyes darkened. “I saved your life.”

I hated that he had a point.

The last thing I remembered was the rifle pointed at me, then Malik grabbing me, then pain.

My hand moved slowly to my shoulder.

Bandages.

I froze.

“What happened?”

“The bullet grazed you.”

A bullet.

I had been shot.

Not directly, but close enough.

The realization made my stomach turn.

I looked away, trying to process the impossible.

My father had been murdered. Someone had tried to kill me at his funeral. And now I was sitting in the penthouse of the most dangerous man I had ever met.

Fantastic.

“You should’ve taken me to the police.”

The room went silent.

Then Malik laughed.

Actually laughed.

It was the first genuine sound I had heard from him, and somehow it was still terrifying.

“The police?”

I crossed my arms carefully, trying not to move my shoulder too much.

“Yes. The police.”

Malik stood.

The room felt smaller instantly.

He walked toward me slowly, with the kind of confidence that made it clear he was used to people moving out of his way.

“Half the police department works for me.”

My mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s impossible.”

Malik stopped in front of me.

Close enough for me to see the gold flecks in his dark eyes.

Close enough to smell his cologne.

Close enough to be a problem.

“Nothing is impossible when you own the city.”

I wanted to call him dramatic.

I wanted to tell him he was insane.

But the worst part was, I believed him.

A knock interrupted us.

The penthouse doors opened, and a tall man stepped inside. He looked around Malik’s age, dressed in an expensive suit with a serious expression.

Dangerous.

Apparently, that was the dress code around here.

“King.”

King.

So that was what they called him.

The man handed Malik a folder.

Malik opened it.

His expression hardened instantly.

Every muscle in his body went still.

My stomach sank.

“What is it?”

Malik didn’t answer.

“Malik.”

Still nothing.

Finally, he looked at me.

The expression in his eyes sent a chill through my body.

“Someone broke into your apartment.”

My heart dropped.

“What?”

“They tore the place apart.”

Fear gripped my chest.

My apartment.

My home.

The one place that was supposed to be mine.

“Why?”

“They were looking for something.”

“What?”

Malik closed the folder.

“The same thing your father died protecting.”

The room suddenly felt colder.

“I don’t have anything.”

“They don’t care.”

That scared me more than anything else he had said.

Because he was right.

Whoever was after me didn’t need proof.

They only needed suspicion.

A phone rang, cutting through the silence.

The man beside Malik answered. His face changed quickly.

Bad news.

Again.

Malik’s jaw tightened.

“What happened?”

The man looked at him.

“They found the driver.”

Hope flickered inside me.

Maybe they caught him.

Maybe this nightmare had an ending.

Then the man spoke again.

“He’s dead.”

The hope disappeared.

“Dead?” I whispered.

Malik nodded once.

“Someone got to him first.”

The realization hit me hard.

Someone was cleaning up evidence.

The shooter.

My father.

Maybe everyone connected to the truth.

This wasn’t random.

This was planned.

Every bit of it.

Malik’s eyes locked onto mine.

Cold.

Protective.

Dangerous.

“They’re getting closer.”

Fear crawled up my spine.

“What happens now?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“You stay with me.”

I laughed.

A nervous, disbelieving laugh.

“That’s not happening.”

His expression never changed.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

The room went silent.

And for the first time, I understood exactly why the entire city feared Malik St. James.

Because when he made a decision, it wasn’t a request.

It was a fact.

And somehow, the most dangerous man in Atlanta had just decided I belonged under his protection.