Page 48 of Ruined By a Devil

“Yes,” Malachi doesn't stop to look at me. He throws a lethal right hook that violently contorts the thick leather of the bag and I fight the urge to step back and leave.

“I can’t sleep…” I murmur. In the short time we’ve spent together, I learned to recognize when he’s not being truthful.

Instead of turning around and heading back upstairs, I walk across the dark mats and sit down on a wooden bench against the far wall, a few feet away from where he’s working. I cross my legs, wrap my robe tighter around my chest, and just watch him punch the poor bag. I remain quiet, knowing that if he wants to speak, he will and if I push him to open up, it will only result in him closing up even further.

I watch as sweat drips from the tip of his nose, pooling at his collarbone, tracing the sharp lines of his ribs. He pushes himself past exhaustion, past technique, until his strikes grow heavy and unrefined.

This isn’t Malachi.

I’ve spent my entire life around men trying to pretend they have no emotions and that nothing ever traumatizes them. I’ve watched it destroy them slowly and turn them into monsters. Even though I’ve used the word monster to describe Malachi in the past, I see the humanity that’s in him, which is something I can’t say for a lot of men in this world. And I wish I could tell him to protect that humanity before it’s too late.

Finally, he stops.

I watch as he rests his forehead flat against the leather bag, his chest rising and falling in deep breaths. His insanely attractive arms hang loose at his sides, the heavy wraps dangling. The sheer power he usually projects is nowhere to be seen. Instead, the person standing in front of me is terrifyingly human and vulnerable.

Malachi stays like that for a long time before he slowly turns around. His green eyes, that usually remind me of a snake, find mine in the dim light. Tonight they look dark, hollowed out by memories he keeps locked behind steel doors.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

I stand up from the bench without protesting and walk over to him on the black mats. He sits down heavily on the edge of a low ploy box, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging between his legs, neither of us saying anything.

I hesitate for a short heartbeat before I step directly into his space, sitting down between his legs and to my surprise, Malachi reaches out, his long arms wrapping slowly around my shoulders, pulling me close until he can bury his face into the crook of my neck.

For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. I’ve never, not in my wildest dreams, pictured something like this with Malachi. His forehead rests heavy against my collarbone, his hot breath washing over my bare skin. I can feel the erratic beat of his own heart as it echoes against mine while he just holds me, letting the weight of his body rest entirely against mine.

It’s the first time he’s ever let himself be vulnerable with me, no power plays or calculated moves to make sure he has the upper hand at all times. And I like to think that he’s letting me carry a piece of his weight because he’s too tired to hold it all alone, but I know better than to be foolishly blind.

A tight knot forms in my throat. Nothing about this is sexual, yet my chest aches with a strange, fierce intensity. In the bedroom, when he had me shaking and wet under his hands, he was still in complete control. But this… letting me see him bled dry, and letting me feel him tremble against my neck, feels way more dangerous. It’s a terrifying kind of intimacy that cuts deeper than any physical touch ever could and I would be lying if I said it doesn’t scare the shit out of me.

Carefully, I lift my hands and rest my palms against the hot skin of his back. I feel the hard ridge of his spine, the flare of his shoulder blades, and I gently slide my fingers up into the damp hair at the nape of his neck causing him to let out a long, shuddering breath against my skin, his arms tightening around my waist just a fraction more, burying himself deeper into my warmth.

We stay like that for a long time and I just hold him, letting my fingers move slowly through his hair, grounding him in the present, in this room, with me, hoping that my warmth will help him let go of that heavy memory. Even if it’s just temporary.

Eventually, Malachi lifts his head, his face only inches from mine. His eyes track over my features, studying the expression on my face as if he’s trying to solve some difficult math problem, but it doesn’t feel intimidating. While the thought of having anyone else stare into my soul like this scares me, for some reason, I’m comfortable with Malachi doing it.

“Jade,” He whispers, his thumb brushing lightly against the fabric covering my hip.

“I'm here, Malachi.” My voice is soft as I speak.

He gives me a small smile, brief enough that if I blink at the wrong time, I can easily miss it, and he leans in, his mouth finding mine. The kiss is slow, carrying the unsaid truth that frightens me more than his coldness ever did. It’s nothing like the ones we shared before.

His lips are warm and soft, with the faint taste of salt on them. I wrap my arms higher around his neck, pulling him closer, opening my mouth as I’m matching the slow, desperate rhythm of his tongue.

My heartbeat accelerates as if it’s on some heavy drug, my blood boiling hot from the sudden realization that I am losing the war to keep my heart protected from this man.

As he deepens the kiss, his hand moves up to cup the back of my neck, holding me gently against his mouth and for a minute, the rest of the world vanishes and we’re just two normal people with the most mundane life, living together and making out on the floor of a basement gym.

But the fantasy can only last so long before heavy footsteps snap us back into reality and we break apart instantly.

When I look over, I see Josh standing there, wearing a dark leather jacket, his face set in a hard, grim line. His eyes drop for a split second to the way Malachi is holding me before snapping straight to Malachi’s face.

“Boss,” Josh says, his voice flat. “Lucas and the guys swept the south strip. We caught the biker.”

The shift in Malachi is immediate and I watch as the soft, raw light in his eyes vanishes and is replaced instantly by the familiar cold steel. He lets go of my waist and stands up smoothly, his full height looming over the room once more.

“Did you take him to Eden?” Malachi asks.

“Yes,” Josh replies, stepping back to give him room. “Tied to a chair in the interrogation room, just like you wanted.”