Chapter 1: Midnight Oil
The floor was cold under her feet.
Jade felt the grit of concrete dust, the faint stickiness of dried oil near the doorway. She’d pulled on her jeans but still wore the shirt, the one with the rust-colored smear near the collar. The smell of the garage hit her first—burnt rubber, gasoline, the sharp scent of metal. It was dark except for a pool of yellow light spilled from under a lifted truck.
She saw his boots first, scuffed leather, planted wide. Then the faded denim of his coveralls, rolled to the elbows. Malakai was half under the chassis, his back a tense arc of muscle, one arm extended as he ratcheted a wrench. The sound was rhythmic, precise. Click-click-click. He didn’t turn.
Her breath caught. She didn’t know why she’d come down. The apartment above was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that let the memories scream. Here, there was noise. Here, there was him.
“You should be sleeping, little omega.”
His voice was low, a vibration that cut through the still air. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement that wrapped around her, possessive and calm. The wrench stopped. He slid out from under the truck on the creeper, the wheels groaning softly. When he sat up, his hair was damp with sweat, a streak of grease high on his cheekbone.
“I couldn’t,” she said. The words were too small.
He nodded, as if that was answer enough. He stood, wiping his hands on a rag that hung from his pocket. His eyes tracked over her, not missing the shirt, the way her arms were crossed tight over her ribs. “Nightmare?”
“Just… quiet.”
“Quiet’s worse sometimes.”
He turned to the workbench, picked up a chipped mug. He took a sip, his throat working. “Coffee’s fresh. Bad for sleep, but good for forgetting the clock.” He held the mug out toward her, an offering.
She took a step forward, then hesitated. The space between them felt vast, charged. She wrapped her fingers around the mug. It was warm, almost too hot. The coffee was black, bitter. She took a sip anyway, the heat a solid point in her chest.
“What are you fixing?” she asked, just to say something.
“‘78 Ford. Owner’s kid blew the transmission joyriding.” Malakai leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms. The fabric of his coveralls stretched. “Simple job. Lets me think.”
“What do you think about?”
“Parts. Fit. Sequence. How things are supposed to go together.” His gaze settled on her, heavy and steady. “How to fix what’s broken without forcing it.”
She looked away, her eyes stinging. She focused on the tools hung in neat rows, the shadowy hulk of the truck, the single bulb swinging gently on its cord. The world here was solid, knowable. A bolt was loose, you tightened it. A belt was worn, you replaced it.
“He won’t find you here, Jade.”
She flinched at the name. At the certainty in his voice.
“He knows people,” she whispered. “He has ways.”
Malakai pushed off the bench. He didn’t move toward her, just picked up a wrench from the floor, setting it on the metal surface with a soft clank. “Let him come. This is my territory. My shop. My home.” He looked at her again, and his eyes were dark, unblinking. “You’re under my roof. That makes you mine to protect.”
The words should have scared her. Any claim, any possession, sent ice water through her veins. But this was different. It wasn’t a cage. It was a declaration, a wall being built around her with his own two hands. A dangerous, stupid hope began to uncurl in her stomach.
“You don’t even know me anymore,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m not… I’m not the girl who used to live down the street.”
“I know enough.” He took the empty mug from her hands, his calloused fingers brushing hers. A static shock, tiny and profound. “I know you called when you had nowhere else to go. I know you didn’t scream when you saw me covered in his blood. You just looked… relieved.”
She remembered that night. The fractured phone screen, the desperate swipe for a contact, any contact. His voice, sleep-rough and instantly alert. The sound of his truck eating up the miles. And then him, filling her shattered doorway, his face a mask of cold fury as he looked from her broken form on the floor to the man standing over her. The rest was a blur of red and blue lights, sterile hospital white, and then the steady rumble of his truck as he brought her here.
“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”
“You didn’t drag me. I walked in. I’d do it again.” He said it like it was a fact, simple as gravity. “You’re staying. As long as you need. Longer.”
He moved past her then, to a sink in the corner. He began washing his hands, the soap turning gray. She watched the play of muscle in his shoulders, the careful, thorough way he scrubbed each finger, under his nails. A man who cared about getting the grime out. A man who took his time.
“I don’t know how to be,” she admitted to his back. “Around you. Around… this.”
He turned off the tap, shook his hands, dried them on his thighs. When he faced her, his expression was softer. “You just be. Sleep when you can. Eat what I cook. Sit in the sun by the window. There’s no test, Jade.”
He walked over to the truck and patted the fender. “This’ll be here tomorrow. The work’s never done.” He looked at her, the flickering light cutting across his face. “Come on. I’ll walk you up.”
He didn’t touch her. Just led the way to the interior stairs, holding the door open. She went ahead, feeling the warmth of his body behind her on the narrow steps. In the apartment, it was warmer. The bed they shared—because there was only one, and he’d refused to let her take the couch—was still rumpled from her escape.
He went to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, set it on the nightstand. His ritual. She stood by the bed, unsure.
“Malakai?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For the coffee. For… not asking.”
He was by the window, adjusting the blind so the streetlight didn’t shine directly in. His profile was stark against the glass. “Nothing to thank me for.”
She crawled back into bed, pulling the blanket up. It smelled like him, like soap and engine and something else, something essentially male and safe. She heard him moving around, the soft rustle as he shed his coveralls, the creak of the floorboards. The other side of the bed dipped.
He lay on his back, a solid, still presence a careful foot away. The space between them was a canyon and a bridge all at once.
“Malakai?” she whispered again into the dark.
A slow exhale. “Still here.”
“Can I… Is it okay if I move closer?”
A beat of silence. Then, his voice, rougher now. “You can have whatever you need.”
She shifted, turning onto her side, inching backward until her spine was just shy of touching his arm. The heat from his body radiated against her. He didn’t move, didn’t try to hold her. He just let her be there, in his orbit.
“Try to sleep,” he murmured. “I’ll be right here.”
Outside, a car door slammed. She tensed. His breathing changed, just for a second—slower, deeper, a predator listening. Then it evened out again.
“Just the neighbors,” he said, his voice a sleepy rumble. “It’s just the neighbors. You’re safe.”
And for the first time in years, lying beside a man who made no demands, in a room that held no threats, she almost believed it. The fear didn’t leave, but it settled, banked like embers under the heavy, undeniable weight of his protection. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sound of his breath, steady as a heartbeat, marking the time until morning.
She closed her eyes, focusing on the sound of his breath, steady as a heartbeat, marking the time until morning.
Sleep was a shallow, greasy pool. She drifted on its surface for a while before it pulled her under.
Then, the cracking sound. Not in the dream, but in the memory her mind replayed as fact. The first rib. The taste of copper. The laughter that wasn’t laughter at all, but a low, pleased hum. Cole’s face, leaning in. You’ll never be anything without me. You think anyone else would want this? His hands, tracing the bruises he’d just made, possessive as a brand.
In the dream, she was back in the garage. But it was empty. The tools were gone. The truck was a hollow shell. She called for Malakai, her voice echoing off the concrete, and then Cole stepped out from behind the lift, wiping his hands on a clean rag. He smiled. “Thanks for the address, baby. He put up a decent fight. For a mechanic.”
She woke screaming.
It wasn’t a movie scream. It was a raw, tearing sound that scraped her throat on the way out. She was already sitting bolt upright, drenched in a cold sweat, the blanket tangled around her legs like a restraint.
“Jade.”
Malakai was there. Not just beside her, but already on his knees in front of her, his hands up, hovering, showing her they were empty. The streetlight from the window cut across the concern on his face, the rigid set of his jaw. “Look at me. You’re here. You’re in my apartment. Above my shop.”
She was gulping air, her heart a frantic bird against her ribs. The details of the room—the dresser, the water glass, his shirt thrown over the chair—slowly etched themselves over the nightmare’s fading film. But the terror remained, a chemical burn in her veins.
“He’s coming,” she choked out. The words were vomited up, involuntary. “He’ll find me. He always finds me. He’ll come and he’ll… and you’ll be gone. Or hurt. Or you’ll see… you’ll see what I really am and you’ll leave. And this… this chance…” She gestured weakly at the room, at him, her hand trembling violently. “This chance to just breathe… it’ll be gone. It’ll be my fault. It’s always my fault.”
A sob wrecked her then, harsh and ugly. She folded in on herself, wrapping her arms around her knees, making herself small. She’d said it. The pathetic, hidden core of it. She wasn’t just scared of Cole. She was scared of the good thing, the fragile, impossible good thing, because she knew how good things shattered in her hands.
Malakai didn’t try to pull her into an embrace. He stayed where he was, a solid block of warmth in the dark. His voice, when it came, was quiet but absolute, each word a stone laid in a foundation.
“Listen to me. I am not going anywhere. This isn’t a visit. This is your home for as long as you want it. Forever, if that’s what you choose.”
She shook her head, tears hot on her cheeks. “You don’t know him.”
“I know enough.” There was a new tone now, a cold iron beneath the calm. “I saw what he did. That’s all I needed to know. He is a ghost, Jade. And you are real. You are here, in my bed, in my life. And I don’t scare easy. I don’t break easy.”
He reached out then, slowly, and his calloused fingers touched her chin, guiding her face up until she had to meet his eyes. His gaze held hers, unflinching.
“Cole will never lay eyes on you again. No matter what. You have my word. It’s not a promise I make lightly. It’s a fact.”
The conviction in his words didn’t feel like hollow comfort. It felt like a law of physics. She searched his face for doubt, for the flicker of a lie. She found only certainty, worn into his features like the grooves in his hands.
The violent trembling began to subside, leaving a deep, hollow ache in its place. Exhaustion poured in, heavy as lead.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered.
“I know.” He shifted then, moving to sit beside her against the headboard. He didn’t pull her to him, just opened his arm in an invitation. A choice. “Sleep. I’ll watch the door. I’ll watch the window. I’ll watch the shadows. You just sleep.”
She hesitated for one last second, the ghost of the dream still clawing at her mind. Then she leaned into him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. His arm came around her, not tight, but immovable. She felt the steady, strong drum of his heart against her ear. A different rhythm to count.
Outside, the world was dark and quiet. The neighborhood was asleep. But in that small room, a vigil had been announced. She let her eyes close, the residue of the nightmare dissolving under the sheer, undeniable weight of his promise. The fear wasn’t gone. But for now, it was held at bay, outside the circle of his arm, beyond the threshold of a door he’d sworn to guard.
His breath was again the only sound, steady as a heartbeat, marking the time.