by P. Jameson
So fate couldn’t take her.
And also because… she was his. And fate didn’t fuck with his kind.
“Fate has other plans for you.”
She blinked, hearing his simple explanation. “Yes. I believe it does.” Trembling, she brought the cup to her lips and sipped her coffee. “Maybe I’m just now figuring that out.”
“I think fate is a tricky bastard. But you have a purpose, that’s why you made it. It’s why I ended up here, and not in a more… tropical state. Someday we’ll both look back and see how our destination was set in stone, even if we took the long way to get there. The endgame is already determined.”
Francesca was quiet, staring at him. And he didn’t—couldn’t—look away. “You believe that?”
He nodded. “In theory. It feels right. Instinct tells me it’s true. But who the hell knows if I’m right.”
Her eyes narrowed and the faintest hint of a smile curved her lips. Number eighteen. It was small but it still counted. “You surprise me.”
Malcom frowned. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? And how to go about asking.
“I always think I know what you’re going to say or do, but then you do the opposite. I love it.”
He went still, his throat throbbing at her words. I love it. He knew she’s said it off the cuff, with no more thought to using that L word over any other. But to him, it was fucking gold. She loved something he was doing.
The idea filled his chest up with that warmth he was coming to rely on. Inside he could feel broken things mending. Just tiny rips and tears. Nothing permanent. Nothing life-changing. Yet. But it felt wonderful.
When was the last time he felt wonderful? He couldn’t even remember.
“Tell me what happened with your family.” Francesca’s request was quiet. Like they were sharing secrets in the dark and someone might overhear.
Malcom sighed. He never liked thinking about his family. But his female had shared such hard details with him. It seemed only fair he give her something in return.
But how to do it? Hard and fast, like a good fuck. Or slow and easy, like making love.
He’d never made love before, so hard and fast it was.
“They have ties with organized crime. Mean motherfuckers, all of ‘em. Well, they—we—tangled with people more powerful than us, and came out on the losing side. Hurt us good. Cut us deep.” He shrugged, but it wasn’t so simple as it sounded. And Francesca caught on.
“There’s more to it,” she murmured, eyeing him.
He sighed, staring out the window at the breeze blustering. It seemed ominous for some reason. But maybe it was just because telling her details could ruin everything.
Or it could help, the thing inside him piped up.
Either way, the urge to get closer to her was too strong to resist. He wanted… needed… to show her who he was. At least a little. A little would do for now. One day though, he was going to want more.
“I was born into it. The life. I didn’t love it. The shady shit we did.” He shook his head. “Well…” He met her curious gaze. Couldn’t lie to her. “Maybe I did a little. Sometimes. When we were really sticking it to an asshole, it seemed like an okay life. But it was mostly getting beat to shit, and beating other people to shit. Taking orders and making people flinch.”
He watched her closely. Her expression was stone as she listened. Still no judgement, though she couldn’t like what he was saying.
Reserving judgement for later. Hearing him out.
“There was a guy… he got out. I wanted to be him. Wanted free so I could be something. Anything other than what I was. We were taught to be the villains. To value the cunning, the brutal. We were savage. But…” How could he tell her he wasn’t cut out for that kind of savagery? That somehow, they hadn’t crushed his tender side the way they’d hoped. Despite giving it their best shot.
“But you weren’t like them.” Francesca’s whisper felt like a bullhorn. “You weren’t cruel.”
The breath rushed out of him at her understanding.
“I could be. Can be. If I need to.”
Francesca tilted her head. “But you don’t like it.”
Malcom held her gaze so she’d know the truth. “No.”
“I think… I think that’s okay. I think it’s even a good way to be. You can do what it takes to protect what you love, but your heart doesn’t feed off it.”
But he knew plenty of his brothers’ did. The leader of their crew had the blackest heart he’d ever seen. Like all of them, he’d been trained as a small boy not to feel anything good. He embraced it and instead, made sure he felt nothing at all.
A savage heart. And he was no doubt still trying to track Malcom down so he could punish him for leaving.
The way he’d tried to do to his own brother.
“This man, the one who got out, he faked his death to do it. Moved a state away. Hid out in the mountains with a clan that took him in, unsuspecting of what he was.”
“A clan?”
Malcom froze. She had no idea what he was. The supernatural world that existed just beyond her recognition. And he wasn’t ready for her to know yet.
He cleared his throat. “It was a business owner and his family. They run a resort lodge in the mountains. Gave him an honest job, and helped him settle down. He met a fem... a woman, and you know, lives a pretty normal life now.”
“That’s wonderful,” she breathed, her smile growing wistful.
But this story didn’t have a happy ending. Not for Malcom anyway.
“I tried to take it from him.”
Her smile faded to confusion.
“Not just me. We all did. The family. Our leader found out he wasn’t dead but had skipped town to put down fresh roots. And Felix, he doesn’t like being duped. He don’t like lies and he don’t like losing underlings. Losing power. And Gash was powerful. A great loss to the family. He could take down ten full grown men by himself. Could best any of us except Felix.” Malcom swallowed hard at the memories and what he was about to reveal. “So, I got the orders. The clan was going to hunt him down, his female too. And make them both pay for his betrayal.”
Somehow, he met Francesca’s gaze. Her eyes were filling with tears. Tears she’d held back while she told him her story were now threatening to spill over.
Just a little bit more, the voice inside him urged. Get it out, and then we can make her smile again.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“We got a fight we weren’t expecting. They hurt us bad. Crippled us. Cursed us.” He blinked long, letting that horrible day wash over him. “Turned out Gash traded one powerful family for another. One that… as you said, was capable of protecting what they loved, even if their heart didn’t like what they had to do to get it done. There’s something so…” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Noble about being bad when it could save someone else. I wanted to be noble. I shouldn’t have wanted it, wasn’t brought up to want it, but I did. And there was nothing noble in what we tried to do to them. That was the moment I knew I was done. If it cost me my life, if it cost me something more, my future, my existence, whatever. I was done. Done with my family. Done being cruel because a cruel master told me to. Done living like that. I cut it down to nothing. Which is what I deserved. And now… I’m here.”
Still hurting. Still wounded even if it was only on the inside. Still hunted. Haunted. Still full of so many regrets for his part in that attack.
Francesca was silent. Still. And he couldn’t look at her. Not yet. Three more breaths and then he’d peek. If she hated him, at least he’d done the respectable thing and told her the truth. Most of it.
“You’ve lived in darkness your whole life, Malcom,” she breathed. “How will you keep away from it now?”
He pushed down the nausea that threatened him, and found the courage to face her.
“How? By finding the bright spots and holding on to them the way I used to hold the dark ones.”
“The
bright spots?” Her tone was skeptical. She wasn’t being cruel, but to her, his existence probably seemed pretty dismal. And it had been. Until he found her. “What bright spots?”
He looked away, out the window, letting the words fly. “You, for one.”
The air around them seemed to still. No one breathed. He’d surprised her. Maybe she would toss him out now. Back in the cold. Maybe he’d gone too far, too fast.
He felt the seconds ticking by with every heartbeat in his throat.
Finally, she said, “Alright, break time’s over. Let’s try the bows again and then we’ll move all the boxes into the storeroom and sort them after lunch.”
She pushed off from the stool, and went to gather a new roll of ribbon. He watched her, half relieved half something else as he let off a long sigh.
Well hell, at least he wasn’t fired.
Chapter Seven
Francesca snorted out a laugh, covering her mouth to keep the bite of pizza inside. Instead, it went backward toward her throat, choking her momentarily until she could manage a sip of her Coke.
Malcom watched her, surprise flickering over his expression. As if he hadn’t just said the craziest laughable thing. As if he hadn’t been making her want to giggle all through lunch. Thank god they’d called pizza in, because snorting in the middle of the restaurant would’ve been embarrassing.
“Malcom,” she wheezed, trying to catch her breath. “Jack is not my boyfriend. He’s not even my wannabe boyfriend. He’s barely even a friend really. He’s more like…” She shook her head, reaching for an explanation.
“Still. My observation stands. You’re gonna marry Santa, and he’s no Santa. He’s no good for you.”
She lifted her slice of pizza to her mouth. “Trust me, Jack isn’t interested in me.”
“He seemed pretty interested. He was practically armor, shielding you and shit,” he muttered. “All but climbed you.”
Francesca watched him while she chewed. Was he… jealous?
What he’d told her earlier about his past, had shaken her. They’d both suffered, both had darkness in their history. But he wasn’t innocent in his. Regretful. A changed man maybe. But he’d done awful things, and he knew it.
But he was honest. Didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. Gave it to her straight. Even at the end, at the risk of coming off wrong.
You, for one. He considered her a bright spot.
She took another bite, not ready to answer him yet.
A bright spot. He was going to cling to any that he found. Maybe that’s why he’d stood outside Brightwoods for so long. Why he chose the bench across the street. Because it felt bright. Because whatever light she’d made of her life was a beacon.
She liked to think she could help him. He spoke of being noble. Well, there was nothing more noble than trying with all your heart to change your bad habits. He’d betrayed everything he knew, and probably loved, to better himself on the inside.
He’d run away in order to change his path. Just like Julie. And Francesca hoped that someone in Julie’s new life, cared enough to give her a chance.
She shook her head again. “Jack’s not interested in me.”
Malcom frowned hard. “Why not?”
“Lots of reasons. He’s not attracted to me for one.”
“Of course he is,” he grumbled. “You’re beautiful.”
She stopped eating as a soft, achy pang hit her chest. Damn. It forced dampness to her eyes, and made her blink rapidly. She wasn’t beautiful. Average at best, but most days not even. She knew that much. Mirrors didn’t lie. But maybe Malcom did.
He glanced up from his own pizza and caught her gaze cautiously. “Just slipped out,” he said. “Been thinking it all day, and it just came out. But I won’t apologize for it.” He set his chin stubbornly.
Well, okay.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t matter. Jack hits for the other team, if you know what I mean.”
One of Malcom’s blond eyebrows lifted in surprise. “No shit?”
“None.”
“No shit.”
“Zero.”
They finished their lunch in silence, but somehow both of them seemed a bit more settled. Like they’d managed to clear all the air. Like they were checking off boxes. Her past. His. Goals they wanted to accomplish. And now this.
Was she available? Yes.
Check.
He thought she was beautiful.
Check.
What now?
She’d never had this kind of interaction with anyone before. No friendship had ever progressed like this. No relationship. So fast, yet strangely perfect. Comfortable, but not so much that she didn’t feel the delicious tension growing between them.
And it wasn’t just her feeling it.
Amazing.
After lunch, she showed Malcom the crates she needed moved, and he insisted on stacking them all by himself while she stood by and watched. Whatever, he made for a good view.
He’d shed his flannel, leaving him in only a white muscle shirt. The collar was ripped out and it fit him snugly, leaving nothing to the imagination. He was more muscular than she’d thought. He was broad, his shoulders doubled hers. Biceps like boulders. Thick chest and rippled abs that narrowed to his waist before funneling into his hips. And a… Francesca gulped… a substantial bulge.
She hadn’t noticed earlier. Hadn’t looked.
She was looking now.
Malcom twisted to reach for another crate and hefted it into his arms. The fluid way his body moved was hypnotizing. Like he controlled all parts of it. He would never stumble or fidget. Not him. He owned his body, and she wished she had that kind of confidence.
Her gaze dropped again to his jean covered hips and her mouth went dry. It had been so long since she’d been with a man. Since high school. Back before her life had changed. When she and Julie were just learning the difference between innocent and not. And it was probably a little crazy for her to want this man so badly, so fast. But… there was something about him. Something thrilling and sweet. And after today, she felt like she knew him. Inside, where it really counted.
He froze, and she forced her eyes upward. Malcom stared at her, his gaze hot and questioning. Slowly, it traveled south, landing on her breasts. She realized they were heaving with her breaths, and his look felt like a caress. She wanted to moan at the way it made her feel. Desired. His eyes flipped back to hers, narrowing, and his throat bobbed in a sexy gulp.
“Were you looking at my cock, Bright Spot?”
Caught. She was soooo caught.
She swallowed hard. “No, uh… no. I thought your zipper was down is all. It’s not though. You’re all good.”
She nodded, willing him to accept her lame excuse, and crossed her arms over her chest. Which only brought his eyes back there. He stared unapologetically.
She uncrossed her arms, but he didn’t waver. And damn her body betraying her, but she puffed out her chest a bit more.
“Are you looking at my boobs?” she asked, imitating his blunt question.
He broke his stare, finding her face. His eyes twinkled mischievously, and his lips curled into a sinful smirk, sending a thrill up her spine. She loved this feeling.
“Naw,” he said, playfully. He strolled over to stand just in front of her, and she couldn’t catch her breath. He seemed huger. And his crisp pine smell had somehow gone darker. “I just thought I saw a stain on your shirt. Right about here.” His index finger hooked around the center of her flannel button-up, finding one of the holes between buttons.
Her breath was impossible as he found skin. Slowly, softly, he rubbed the curve of one breast, back and forth with the tip of his finger, before finding the valley of her cleavage. Up and down he moved one finger between her mounds. It wasn’t lost on her how similar the motion was to sex. He hooked it when he reached the bottom of her bra. He could yank her forward with it if he wanted to. She could picture it in her mind. She’d be absolutely lost to him.
&
nbsp; Where were the alarm bells that should be going off? Lost somewhere between her heart and where he touched her intimately.
She gasped, finally able to catch air, and Malcom slid his finger from her shirt, looking supremely satisfied.
“But nope. No stain. You’re all good.” His husky voice wrapped around her in the best way. Made her want to purr. Rub herself all over him like a cat in heat.
The bell on the front door jangled, breaking through her aroused spell. Francesca blinked. Customer. The bell meant she had a customer.
Malcom turned to go back to the crates, and she cleared her throat before walking out to the front of the shop, a smile creeping up her cheeks anyway.
Whoever was out there was going to get the jolliest welcome. She was practically Mrs. Claus as she pushed through the swinging door. Because damn, she was on cloud nine. And she’d like to stay there for a while. Forever even.
***
The wind whipped at Malcom, snapping like a fucking leather belt from his childhood, cold and sharp, making his face hurt. Didn’t seem right that the air could do that. Didn’t seem right that he was cold again, after all the warmth Francesca had given him today. So many memories from their time together rushed to the front of his mind.
He’d made her smile. Thirty-seven times, counting the little ones. Even made her laugh a time or two. And damn, her laugh was amazing. The stuff you’d expect to hear from angel choirs or heavenly harps. Lilting and sweet.
Except for that one time when she snorted. Which, if he was honest, he might have loved even more.
Then in the storeroom…
Malcom closed his eyes, breathing deep and remembering. His fiery little female had gotten aroused from watching him. He knew because—
Your senses are returning, the thing inside him piped up. He could feel the urgency of it, the excitement, the triumph. You could smell her heat, couldn’t you?
He didn’t answer. But in that storeroom, touching his… mate?... through her shirt, he definitely felt more himself. Less broken. More whole.
