The car rolls through the Seattle night in near-silence, the world outside the tinted windows blurring into a smear of rain-slicked darkness. Inside, the silence is oppressive.
I've never seen Malachai like this.
His usual impenetrable calm is gone, replaced by a restless, coiled energy. His leg is bouncing in an unstoppable rhythm, his left thumb pressed hard against his lower lip, as if he'a physically stopping himself from biting the nail. His other hand is a white-knuckled fist on his thigh.
I know he doesn't see his family in the best light; his comments about his childhood aside, I've heard him on the phone with them. It's not pretty.
But his nervousness is making me nervous. If they've got him acting this way, I might as well jump out the car now.
Hesitantly, I reach over and place my hand over his clenched one. He flinches just slightly, his eyes snapping to me from where he'd been staring at nothing.
"You look more nervous than a cat on a hot tin roof," I say, offering a small, hopefully reassuring smile.
He frowns. "Is that even a real expression?"
"Yep. And you look it." I give his hand a final squeeze and pull mine away, not wanting to overstay my welcome in his personal space. "I'm sure it'll be fine."
He lets out a short, humorless breath and rubs the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. "Honestly, Juniper," he says, his voice low. "It won't be."
A low, groaning creak startles me into looking out the window. A pair of immense, black wrought-iron gates swing open, welcoming us into the Shaw estate.
Malachai adjusts the cuffs of his coat. "My father and stepmother will be… pleased to see you."
"Well, that doesn't sound ominous at all," my tone drips sarcasm.
"They will be pleased," he insists. "But… think of it as the way a parent is happy to see their child with a new toy they know will break soon. Their fascination will be short-lived. Meeting you tonight is but a formality. They don't believe you'll last. They're certain our breakup is inevitable and that I'll eventually marry someone they approve of."
Well, isn't that nice?
The car follows a winding drive lined with skeletal trees, their branches clawing at the bruised sky. Hedges sculpted into mythical creatures look like they'll come alive at any moment. And at the end of it all, the mansion stands, all dark stone and sharp angles, gothic arches and menacing turrets. Gargoyles perch on the eaves, under stone braziers burnimg with blue flames. Their cold, empty eyes seem to track our progress. The kind of house that eats the light.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
"Oh, so it's a class thing," I tear my eyes from the opulent grounds. "Will they get pissed if I use the salad fork for dessert?"
That pulls a real smile from him, small but bright in the dark cabin.
"Juniper." He reaches for me—hesitantly, then more deliberately—thumb brushing my cheek in the gentlest, briefest sweep. "You know what? You're right. It'll be fine."
The car slows as we pull up the grand steps, and suddenly I'm not so sure it will be.
A butler who looks so ridged he might as well have been carved from the same stone as the gargoyles opens the car door.
"Good evening, Mr. Shaw. Miss Monroe." He bows, giving me a once over in the process.
I was advised to come dressed for a funeral and Malachai had a new black dress delivered to my apartment, but over it all, I'm wearing a blood-red coat because it's the only warm one I own. The butler's expression sours like he'd rather I froze to death than dared wear red.
He silently leads us inside.
The foyer is a cavernous space, all black marble and dark wood, echoing with a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. A receiving line of sorts has formed. Everyone, everyone, is in black. The men in severe, expensive suits, the women in flowing, elegant dresses and dark fur stoles. They are a murder of crows, sleek, beautiful, and predatory.
"You didn't tell me this was a party," I whisper-yell at Malachai after the butler takes our coats.
"It's not," he whispers back. "It's a small family gathering."
Small? Fuck me. He's not beating the mafia allegations any time soon.
He loops my hand in his arm, "My parents should be waiting in the receiving room."
He leads me through the space and the people. The ceilings arch in cathedral curves. Every painting depicts someone staring back.
I don't need anyone to tell me who Malachai's father and stepmother are. They hold the attention of the room like royalty holding court.
Malachai's father, Alistair Shaw, is an older, harder version of his son, with silver streaks at his temples and all-knowing eyes. His stepmother, Helena, is beautiful in an uncanny way— all high cheekbones and sharp brows and cruel lips— like a stunning ice sculpture in a black gown.
She smiles a razor-thin curve that doesn't reach her eyes. "You must be Juniper."
I don't know what to do. Shake her hand? She doesn't extend it. Kiss her fingers? What is she? The pope?
I settle for an awkward curtsy. "Juniper Monroe. It's nice to meet you, Ma'am."
"Oh, just call me Helena."
"So this is the secretary," Alistair says it like a statement of fact. He takes my hand, his grip cold. "We've heard so… little."
"I didn't think the time was right yet, Father," Malachai says coldly.
"Why not?" Alistair's eyes bore a hole through my head. "She's going to be family, isn't she?"
"You must be joking."
We all turn in the direction of the new voice. Just like I needed no guide to point out Malachai's parents, I need no one to tell me who Silas Shaw is.
He wears black too, but he glows. Slightly shorter than Malachai but carrying a sort of presence that I can't explain. Beautiful smile with perfect teeth. Intelligent eyes. He reminds me of a painting of a fallen angel.
Walking beside him is a beautiful woman with long raven black hair, siren eyes and blood red lipstick on her plump lips.
"So she is real" Silas says, his voice dripping with faux delight.
"Of course she's real," Malachai growls at his brother.
Silas pays him no mind and greets his parents with a handshake and a kiss on the cheek before he turns to me. "Silas," he says with a smile. "And Delilah, my fiancée."
Delilah gives me a small, genuine smile. "It's lovely to meet you, Juniper."
While his parents treated me like an oddity, they embrace Delilah and welcome her with air-kisses.
It's clear that I'm an outsider.
Malachai's hand slips around my waist as if he can sense my nerves wearing thin.
"Dinner will be served soon," Alistair says. "In the meantime, enjoy the atmosphere around. If you'll excuse me."
He and his wife flutter away to some other guest, leaving Malachai and I with his brother and his partner.
"Malachai," Silas says, his smirk vanishing. "A word. In private."
Malachai's jaw tightens, but he nods. He gives my hand a brief, reassuring press before letting Silas lead him away, leaving me alone.
Shit.
The moment he's gone, the air grows heavier. I can feel so many eyes on me, it's insane. They don't hide that they want me gone, they're not subtle about talking about me. I hear someone whisper, "Where did he even get her from?"
It's the last straw.
"I'm so sorry," I say to Delilah, my voice a little too bright. "Could you point me to the restroom?"
"Of course! I'll take you!"
"No, no! Just directions. I can find it."
I need a moment alone. I need to breathe.
She gives me hesitant directions, and I flee.
The guest bathroom is almost the size of my entire apartment, done in black marble and gold fixtures. I splash cold water on my face, my hands trembling. "You can do this, Juniper. It's just dinner. It's just a really, really terrifying, powerful, probably-mafia family dinner."
I wash my hands and leave.
And immediately get lost.
I look around the quieter, darker wing of the house, a thousand curse words dancing on my tongue. Everyone probably at dinner talking about how incompetent I am. Maybe when they're done telling Malachai to cut things off with me, they'll send a butler to find my bones in their walls and—
"—you think you're being sly, brother?"
I pin myself to a wall as Silas's angry voice comes from a cracked door.
"Dating some clueless mortal, telling us she'll be your wife. Father isn't showing it but he was disgusted to hear the news."
"Then it's a good thing Father doesn't decide who I marry," Malachai replies plainly.
"You fucking idiot," Silas laughs. "It's clear what you're doing. Get a girl. Satisfy the old man's will. Toss her aside—"
"I won't—"
"You will. You'll have to. Because she's. Not. One. Of. Us," Silas emphasises each word. "Did you pick her because she's too stupid to know what she's gotten into?"
"I'm nothing like you, Silas," Malachai's voice is a low growl. "I'm marrying Juniper because I love her."
Silas barks a laugh. "You should know by now that I'm skilled at seeing through your bullshit." A pause. "We both know your name wouldn't even be in that will if Grandfather wasn't so insistent on following the old laws. You know I deserve the empire. You don't even want it."
Malachai's voice shakes with barely contained fury. "It's my birthright."
"Give it up then!" Silas groans. "Don't make me take it from you, Kai. I don't want to hurt you."
"You can't do shit to me."
Silas's voice drops to a cruel, silken tone that makes my skin crawl. "I can't. But that woman of yours… she's beautiful. Like a precious little bird. It would be merciful to spare her the misery."
I press myself into a shadowed alcove, my heart hammering against my ribs, as footsteps echo out of the room. Silas strides out and walk off in the opposite direction without spotting me.
Malachai emerges seconds later, fury swirling in his eyes. They find me immediately in the shadows. He doesn't look surprised.
"So," his voice is quiet. "You heard all that."
I step out into the light, my legs feeling like jelly. "So," I whispered, my throat tight. "I'm guessing he's the one I need protection from?"
Malachai closes the distance between us in two strides. He takes my hands in his, his grip firm, grounding. "I said I would keep you safe," he says, his gaze intense, unwavering. "And I meant it. Don't worry about Silas. I'll take care of him."
He tucks my hand into the crook of his arm, his posture shifting back to the unshakeable CEO I work with. The vulnerable man in the car is gone.
"Come on," he said, leading me back toward the dining room. "Let's get this over with."