pendant

Chapter Eight— pendant

Micaiah's POV

The pendant was still warm in my pocket.

I rolled it between my fingers as Kieran drove, the delicate silver chain pooling against my palm like liquid starlight. I'd taken it from Mali's nightstand this morning while she slept, her dark hair spilled across my pillow, her breathing soft and even.

She probably hadn't even noticed it was missing yet.

The thought made something tighten in my chest—guilt, maybe, or satisfaction. I couldn't tell the difference anymore when it came to her.

"You're doing that thing again," Kieran said, his eyes flicking to me from the driver's seat.

"What thing?"

"That brooding, obsessive thing where you stare at nothing and think about your stepsister."

I shot him a look. "I'm not brooding."

"You've been fondling that necklace for the past forty minutes. If that's not brooding, I don't know what is."

I shoved the pendant deeper into my pocket and turned to look out the window. The desert landscape rolled past, all brown earth and scrub brush and mountains in the distance. We'd been driving for two hours, headed to Casa Grande to meet with a man I'd hoped never to deal with again.

But desperate times and all that.

"How much longer?" I asked.

"Twenty minutes. Maybe less if traffic stays clear." Kieran drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You sure about this? Barton's not exactly known for his generosity."

"I'm aware."

"And you know what he's going to ask for in return."

I did. Barton Russo didn't do favors without collecting debts, and the kind of support we needed didn't come cheap. But Daemon Blackwood was becoming a problem we couldn't handle alone, and Barton was one of the few people left in Arizona with enough muscle to make a difference.

"We don't have a choice," I said.

Kieran was quiet for a moment. Then: "Does she know?"

"Does who know what?"

"Your stepsister. Does she know what you really do?"

The question hit harder than it should have. I thought about Mali's face last night, the way she'd looked at me with heat and trust and something that might have been hope. The way she'd let me touch her, take her apart, put her back together piece by piece.

She had no idea who I really was. What I was capable of.

"No," I said finally. "She doesn't know anything."

"You planning to tell her?"

"Why would I?"

"Because you're living with her. Because you're teaching at her university. Because you're clearly obsessed with her and this is going to end badly if you keep her in the dark."

I turned to glare at him. "I'm not obsessed."

Kieran laughed. It was a sharp, humorless sound. "Right. You just orchestrated an entire job transfer, manipulated her college enrollment, and stole her jewelry while she was sleeping. Totally normal stepbrother behavior."

"It's a pendant. I didn't steal the crown jewels."

"That's not the point and you know it."

The pendant burned in my pocket. I'd taken it on impulse, wanting something of hers to carry with me. Something to remind me that last night had been real, that she'd finally stopped running long enough to let me catch her.

But Kieran was right. This was obsessive. Possessive. The kind of behavior that should have sent her screaming in the other direction.

Instead, she'd let me into her bed.

My phone buzzed. I checked it, half-hoping it was her, but it was just a reminder about my nine a.m. class on Monday. Introduction to Business Ethics, where I'd have to stand in front of a room full of students and lecture about integrity and moral decision-making.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

"You think she'll be in your class?" Kieran asked, like he could read my mind.

"She's a business major. It's mandatory."

"That's going to be interesting."

"That's one word for it."

Interesting. Right. More like torture. Three hours a week watching her sit in my classroom, probably avoiding eye contact, probably regretting everything that happened between us while other girls tried to flirt their way to a better grade.

I'd spent two years waiting for her to come back. Two years tracking her movements, making sure she was safe, keeping tabs on her life in Seattle even though she'd blocked my number and refused to acknowledge my existence.

And now she was here. In my house. In my bed.

And I'd left her this morning without a word because work had called and Daemon Blackwood didn't wait for anyone's convenience.

She probably hated me for it.

The thought should have bothered me more than it did.

"We should get a drink first," I said.

Kieran raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Before we meet with Barton. We should stop somewhere, get a drink."

"Micaiah, we're on a schedule—"

"Twenty minutes, you said. We have time."

He studied me for a moment, then sighed and took the next exit. "Fine. But just one. Barton's not the kind of guy you want to keep waiting."

We found a dive bar on the outskirts of Casa Grande, the kind of place with neon signs in the windows and a parking lot full of pickup trucks. Kieran pulled in and killed the engine.

"One drink," he said. "Then we go."

The bar was dark and smelled like beer and fried food. A few locals hunched over their drinks, watching a baseball game on the TV mounted in the corner. We took seats at the bar and I ordered whiskey. Kieran got the same.

The bartender poured with practiced efficiency and slid the glasses across the scarred wood. I drank, letting the burn settle in my chest.

"You left her alone," Kieran said quietly.

"I had to. You called, said Barton would only meet today—"

"I'm not judging. I'm just saying, she woke up alone after you two finally..." He trailed off, taking a drink. "That's not going to go over well."

No, it wasn't.

I could picture it perfectly. Mali waking up, reaching for me, finding cold sheets. The confusion giving way to hurt, then anger. She'd probably spent the whole day convincing herself that last night was a mistake, that I'd gotten what I wanted and moved on.

Part of me wanted to text her. To explain that work had come up, that I hadn't wanted to leave, that waking up with her in my arms had been the closest thing to peace I'd felt in years.

But I didn't.

Because Kieran was right—the less she knew about my real life, the safer she'd be. Daemon Blackwood had a habit of targeting weaknesses, and if he ever found out about Mali, about how much she meant to me...

I took another drink, trying to drown the image of what Daemon would do if he got his hands on her.

"You're thinking about her again," Kieran said.

"I'm thinking about a lot of things."

"Name one thing that isn't her."

I couldn't.

Even here, two hours away, preparing to negotiate with a mafia lord for support in a war that could get us both killed, all I could think about was the way Mali had looked at me last night. The softness in her eyes before I'd kissed her. The way she'd said my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

The way she'd fit against me like she'd been made for it.

"This is bad," Kieran said. "You know that, right? This obsession or whatever it is—it's going to get messy."

"It's already messy."

"Then stop. Walk away before it gets worse."

I laughed, hollow and bitter. "I tried that. She ran to Seattle and I spent two years going insane."

"So you dragged her back. Forced her into your class, into your house. What's the endgame here, Micaiah? You going to keep her locked up until she admits she wants you too?"

"She already did that."

"For one night. That doesn't mean—"

"She's mine." The words came out harder than I meant them to. "She's been mine since that night two years ago, and running to Seattle didn't change that. Nothing changes that."

Kieran stared at me. "Jesus. You really are obsessed."

I finished my whiskey and signaled for another. The bartender poured without comment.

"Barton's going to ask questions," Kieran said after a moment. "About why we need his help. About what we're willing to trade."

"Let him ask."

"And if he wants more than we can give?"

"Then we negotiate."

"With what? We don't have territory. We don't have men. All we have is—"

"Information," I cut in. "We have information about Daemon's operations. His supply chains, his contacts. That's worth something."

"Maybe." Kieran didn't sound convinced. "But Barton's old school. He might want blood."

Blood. Of course he would.

I thought about Mali again, about the way her pulse had jumped under my lips last night. About the trust in her eyes when she'd let me touch her, even after everything.

If Barton wanted blood, he wouldn't get hers.

He could take mine if it came to that.

"We'll figure it out," I said.

Kieran shook his head. "You're going to get us both killed."

"Probably."

We finished our drinks in silence. The baseball game droned on. The locals ignored us. And somewhere back in Phoenix, Mali was alone in my house, probably hating me, probably regretting everything.

But she was safe.

That's what mattered.

I paid the tab and we headed back to the car. The pendant shifted in my pocket as I walked, a small weight that felt heavier than it should.

"Ready?" Kieran asked.

I thought about Barton Russo, sixty years old and meaner than a snake. Thought about Daemon Blackwood, the enemy circling closer every day. Thought about the war we were walking into and all the ways it could go wrong.

Then I thought about Mali, and the way she'd looked at me last night like I was someone worth trusting.

"Yeah," I said. "Let's go."

Because the sooner we dealt with Barton, the sooner I could get back to her.