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“Aria?” a voice calls. I’m instantly on the defense. My head jerks around to the man crossing the street, heading right for me. Dressed in all black, including black cargo pants and black sunglasses perched on his afro, he looks like he’s out to kill someone.
“Who the fuck are you, and how do you know my name?” Hands on hips, I step in front of my laundry, hoping like hell I don’t smell like an ice cream truck on a hot summer day, but the odds might be against me with my emotions, so I’ll act like a tough bitch.
What would Cayenne do? Probably kill him.
He holds up his hands, and his lips tick up into a smile I don’t find appealing. I don’t, I’ll swear to it.
“Aria, my name is Malachi, and my pack brother right over there,” he drawls, pointing at a parked van, where three sets of eyes peer out at me, “brought you home last night.”
If I squint hard enough, I can see Quinn.
“All right,” I mutter, even though my heart skips a beat at the sight of Quinn and Dash once more.
“Need a hand?” he inquires, his voice tinged with a foreign twang. It isn’t local, that’s for certain.
Scrunching up my nose, I glance suspiciously at him. Accepting help from strangers is a big no-no. Swallowing the urge to throw myself into his arms, I shake my head in refusal.
“I’m fine.” I sure as heck don’t want to catch his scent. Once that happens, I might feel like nuzzling him, and if I start nuzzling him, who knows where it will lead? It’s basically the omega version of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.
“Your call,” Malachi remarks, his accent sending chills down my spine. Bending down gracefully, he starts gathering my scattered laundry with practiced ease. His movements are fluid, almost elegant, and I’m unable to tear my gaze away.
“What’s your game?” I snap out, the edge in my tone unmistakable.
“Just lending a hand. Sometimes, even the strongest among us need help, whether we ask for it or not,” he retorts without lifting his gaze.
I huff, crossing my arms over my chest. “I told you, I don’t need help,” I insist.
He pays no mind to my protest, continuing to pile the wet clothes into the basket. “You know, pride is one thing, but struggling for no reason is another.” He meets my gaze, his brown eyes sharp and unwavering. “I’m not a threat to you, Aria.”
The way he says my name sends another shiver through me. I swallow hard, attempting to focus on the task at hand rather than the magnetic pull I feel toward him. “How do you know my name?” I inquire again, my voice softer this time, more curious than accusatory.
“Quinn mentioned it,” he states simply, as if that clarifies everything. “He couldn’t stop gushing about the girl with enough guts to take on a drunk alpha. Said you had the courage of a lion and the wit to match.” Under his breath, he adds, “Even if I only just learned about it.”
Salty much?
My cheeks flush at the memory. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now, under Malachi’s intense gaze, I feel exposed, and he’s looking at me as though I should say something. I shift on my feet, trying to hide my discomfort. “Well, Quinn has a big mouth,” I mutter.
Malachi chuckles a deep, rich sound that makes my toes curl. “He does, but he’s also a good judge of character. If he trusts you, then that means something.”
I glance over at the van, where Quinn and the others are watching. Dash gives me a lazy wave, flashing a grin that’s pure mischief. “Need a hand with that mountain of laundry, Aria?” he calls out.
I sigh, realizing I’m not going to win this battle. “Fine,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “You can help.” Men like to feel useful, so he can carry the wet laundry.
Malachi’s smile widens as he stands up, my laundry basket now neatly packed. “Good choice,” he says. “Where to?”
“Just a few more blocks,” I reply, pointing down the street, “to the next laundromat.”
We walk in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city filling the space between us. The distant honking of horns, the chatter of pedestrians, and the hum of traffic create a symphony of urban life. I keep sneaking glances at Malachi, my curiosity getting the better of me. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and moves with the confidence of someone who knows how to handle himself. His presence is both comforting and unsettling—a contradiction that makes my heart race.
“So, you and Quinn…” I begin, searching for a topic to break the silence. “You’re pack brothers?”
Malachi nods. “We are,” he answers. “Dash and Quinn are actual brothers. We run a business together.” He pauses and holds out his hand. “Puritan City Alpha Security at your service.” His voice drops like he’s poking fun at himself.
“And what do you protect?” I ask, genuinely interested as I shake his hand. Oh, calluses.
Malachi hesitates, his expression turning serious. “We protect people. Sometimes politicians.” He jerks his head at the park. “Sometimes when a celebrity comes through, we work their security detail. All kinds of jobs.”
I can sense there’s more to the story, but I don’t press. Not my circus. Instead, I find myself sharing more about me than I have with anyone in a long time. “A lot of people could use that service.” Like omegas. “I’ve had to protect myself for a long time. It’s not easy being an—” Oops, I almost told him I’m an omega. “Beta.”
