23. Malachi

23

MALACHI

Something is up. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something is up. The air crackles with a tension I can almost taste. I've learned to trust my instincts over the years, and right now, they are screaming at me that trouble is brewing. I scan the dimly lit street, searching for anything out of place, but everything appears deceptively normal.

I trace my thumb across my bottom lip, feeling the roughness of the day's stubble. Damn, I need to shave. My gaze remains fixed intently on the sprawling fa?ade of Aria's apartment complex from the confines of our car.

I yank the glove box open, searching for a snack Zane hasn't eaten. My hand brushes against something soft. I freeze, knowing without looking what it is. Slowly, I pull out the faded blue ribbon. Jane's favorite. The one she always wore in her hair. I close my eyes, memories washing over me. With a shaky breath, I carefully return it to its hiding place and slam the glovebox shut. This stakeout is a disaster, I can feel it. And Aria... God, why does she have to remind me so much of—No. I can't go there. Not again.

Beside me, Zane snores softly. His head is tilted back, resting against the headrest, and for a moment, I envy his ability to find rest in any situation, but I can't afford to relax, not now. Not when the feeling in my gut is this strong.

I reach over and gently shake his shoulder. "Zane, wake up."

He stirs, his eyes fluttering open. There's a moment of confusion before his gaze sharpens, the intensity returning. "Anything?"

"Not yet," I reply, my voice calm and steady, "but I need you to stay awake, Zane. Remember San Diego? We caught the smallest details then, and we can do it again now."

Zane rubs his eyes and sits up, peering out the window. "You really think this guy's coming back?"

"I don't know," I admit, "but I trust my instincts, and my instincts tell me we're not done here."

There's a brief silence, the only sound being the hum of passing cars and the distant chatter of early morning commuters. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.

"I'll call Cayenne," I say, pulling out my phone. I stole her number from Quinn last night after learning about the shadow Aria saw in her apartment. I hope to hell I'm not chasing some ghost. "Maybe she can access the security cameras from her end."

Zane nods, still scanning the street. "Good idea. If anyone can find something from nothing, it's her."

I dial Cayenne's number and wait for her to pick up. It doesn't take long.

"Malachi, what's up?" Her voice is sharp and alert, even this early in the morning.

"Cayenne, we need your help," I say, keeping my tone measured. "Did you check the security cameras at Aria's place? See if you can pull any footage from last night."

There's a pause on the other end, and I can almost hear her thinking. "Hold on," she says. "I passed out trying to pull them. I got as far as finding the shadow in the apartment. Let me check."

I listen to the sound of her typing, the silence stretching between us. Zane glances at me, his expression questioning, but I just shake my head. We need to give her time.

A few minutes later, Cayenne speaks again. "Malachi, something's not right. The cameras…they are all offline. Everything I pulled last night is fucking gone. Everything is gone."

"What do you mean, offline?" Zane interjects, his voice edged with frustration.

"I mean, they are gone," Cayenne replies, her tone firm and really angry. "Someone removed them. I've been hacked."

So the hacker got hacked. I'd find that funny any other day of the week, just not today.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to process this new information. "Can you get any footage from nearby buildings? Maybe someone caught something?"

"I'll try," Cayenne says, "but it'll take time."

"Do what you can," I tell her. "And, Cayenne, thank you."

"Always," she replies, her voice softening. "Anything for my boo."

As I hang up, Zane turns to me. "What now?"

"We wait," I say, my voice resolute.

Zane nods, his gaze unwavering. "Fucking hate waiting."

I chuckle dryly. "This waiting game is a shadow of our San Diego stakeout. Three days, and the darkness itself became our ally."

Zane grimaces at the memory. "Don't remind me. I still have nightmares about those damn rats scurrying around."

"At least the company was good," I quip, trying to lighten the mood, but the tension doesn't dissipate. We both know the stakes are high this time. This girl has gotten under our skin.

"I remember Dash getting a sixty-four-ounce Slurpee." He shudders at the memory.

"I don't know how the hell he drank that entire thing. So much sugar."

"Yeah, and then he had to run a mile to the nearest convenience store to take a shit." Zane grunts as though he's laughing. It's an odd noise. I don't hear him laugh often.

"Kid is going to get himself in trouble one of these days," I mutter.

"Let him." Zane rolls his head to look at me, still resting on the headrest. "You can tell him what to do and not to do until you're blue in the face. He won't learn unless you let him fail."

Just the idea of letting Dash fail makes me feel like a failure. I don't want him to fail, I want him to thrive.

"Malachi," Zane begins, his tone softening. "You can't protect everyone all the time?—"

I cut him off. "I know, I do. But that doesn't mean I'll stop trying."

Zane's eyes bore into mine, his expression unreadable. "I know you want to protect the kid, Malachi, but at some point, you have to let him make his own mistakes. It's the only way he'll learn."

I sigh, rubbing my temples. Deep down, I know Zane is right, but the thought of Dash getting hurt, or worse, because of a mistake I could have prevented is almost too much to bear.

"I just… I can't lose him, Zane. Not after everything we've been through."

Zane's expression softens, and he places a hand on my shoulder. "I get it, Malachi, but remember, we went through some pretty rough times ourselves, and we came out stronger for it."

As we watch the street, my mind drifts to how Zane and I got here. The long nights in foster care, two scared kids swearing to protect each other and the younger ones. That innate sense of duty, forged in the crucible of a broken system, now expressed in our work. I glance at Zane, seeing not just my partner, but the boy who stood beside me as we promised to never let anyone mess with our little family again.

I first met Zane in a run-down foster home on the outskirts of town. It wasn't a place you wanted to end up, but we had no choice. Both of us had been bounced from one home to another, never staying long enough to form any real attachments, but something about that place, about each other, clicked.

The walls were a faded yellow, the paint chipping and peeling in large flakes. The floorboards creaked under our feet, and the window frames were cracked and damaged.

We were both thirteen when we met—old enough to know the system's ins and outs. Zane was the brooding, silent type even then, his anger barely concealed beneath a veneer of indifference. I, on the other hand, tried to keep a level head, focusing on survival and looking out for the younger kids who were more scared and lost than we were.

Our foster parents were more of the drunk kind, preferring to pocket the cash the government so fruitfully handed them while we were left starving.

One night, some of the littles were crying from starvation, and our foster father was at the bar, our supposed mother passed out on the bathroom floor in her own filth.

I recall with vivid clarity how I snuck into that bathroom and rummaged through her wallet. It was one of those kinds that women wear across their bodies. I can even remember how the claw-foot tub was still filling with water, just swirling down the drain.

She must have been drawing herself a bath.

Ever so carefully, I crept toward her and opened the wallet. She never moved.

She also never figured out who stole a hundred bucks from her that night. As soon as I got it, I locked her in and took off down the street toward one of those twenty-four-hour convenience stores.

We ate like royalty that night—or teens starved for sugar. But the real satisfaction came from watching the littles' faces light up as we shared our bounty. We did feed them chicken nuggets first. Their grateful smiles reminded me why I did this, why I always looked out for those who couldn't fend for themselves.

Not long after that, a new kid arrived. Quinn was eight, scrawny, and scared out of his wits. The other kids picked on him relentlessly, sensing they could easily break him down. Zane and I stepped in, protecting him from the bullies. It was the first time we fought together, and it forged a bond between us that only grew stronger over time.

"Remember Quinn?" I say, looking at Zane. "How we had to teach him to stand up for himself?"

Zane smirks. "Yeah. He was a scrappy little kid once he got some confidence. Always wanted to be like us."

"Still does, in a way," I reply, "and now he's out here, helping us."

We fall silent again, lost in our memories. Those days were hard, but they shaped us into who we are today. When we fought to get Dash moved to us years later, we just clicked.

Summers went from hot and boring to full of fun and shenanigans, and if I ask Dash, he'd still say they were fun.

We went through hell so that boy could thrive.

"Do you ever think about what would have happened if we hadn't met?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"All the time," Zane admits, "but we did meet, and that's what matters. I like to think that we would have somehow met, even if that home never brought us together."

I nod, feeling a surge of gratitude for my friend. "You're right. It's a cozy thought."

Zane's eyes meet mine, filled with that same unwavering intensity. "Cozy?" he mocks.

"I like the word," I scoff. "What?"

"Nothing." He looks out the front windshield. "Nothing at all."

We wait, the tension hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to break. At least we have snacks bought with our own money.

Just as I'm about to suggest we do a perimeter check, my phone buzzes. It's a text from Cayenne.

Cayenne: Got something. Sending footage now.

I open the video file, and Zane leans in to watch so we are shoulder to shoulder. The quality is grainy, but I can make out a figure in a dark hoodie entering Aria's building around midnight. They keep their head down, obscuring their face from the camera.

Malachi: Can you enhance it?

As we wait for her response, Zane and I watch the video again, trying to glean any additional details.

"Can't make out much besides the hoodie," Zane mutters, squinting at the screen.

"Look at the way he walks though," I point out. "Purposeful, like he knows exactly where he's going."

Zane grunts in agreement. "Not his first time here then."

My phone buzzes again, and I open Cayenne's reply. She managed to zoom in and sharpen the image somewhat. The figure's face is still hidden, but I notice a tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of the hoodie. It looks like some kind of tribal design.

I show Zane. "Mean anything to you?"

He studies it for a moment, then shakes his head. "Nothing I recognize, but it's a start."

"I'm going to forward it to Quinn and see if he can figure it out." I send it in the pack group chat and pocket my phone, frustration gnawing at me.

Zane drums his fingers on his knee as it bounces.

I reach over and place my hand on his leg. "You good?"

"Yeah." He holds his leg absolutely still.

"You don't look good." I drag my gaze over him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and the blue is more pronounced than I've ever seen it. Wait. "I've seen that haunted look on your face before."

"No you haven't." He looks away, staring at the building.

"Jane," I blurt out and watch as Zane goes utterly still. His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. "What the hell, man?"

"You don't see the similarities?" he retorts, staring at me, his voice low and strained. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, now hold a haunted look. "The way she looks at us, Malachi. It's the same damn look Jane had."

"You need to check yourself. This situation is nothing like Jane." That girl was a lying, cheating bitch. Aria is anything but.

"This is exactly like Jane. Damsel in distress. A beta ." He sneers the word as though it's a curse. "One who only wanted us to keep her safe ." Again, he sneers the word. "In the end, she wanted more and more and more."

I wince, because he's right. Jane was one of our first assignments. She got stars in her eyes because Zane saved her life by literally almost taking a bullet for her. It grazed him, but even so.

They fell in love, or rather lust . Jane was one of those alpha chasers, a beta who's convinced if she finds the right alpha, she will suddenly morph into an omega.

It's a real thing, but Jane wasn't a latent omega. She was a manipulative bitch.

The last assignment we took from her father, Zane had to guard her as she fucked a whole alpha pack. To say there's trauma there is an understatement.

"Do you feel that Aria is like Jane?" I nearly sit on my hands to keep from resting my hand against his heart.

He wouldn't appreciate the contact anyway.

He frowns and licks his lips. "It doesn't matter." He looks away.

Watching Zane and Aria dance around each other is getting old.

If she were ours, we'd know by now. Wouldn't we? But then why does Zane look at her like she's simultaneously the answer to all his prayers and his worst nightmare? It's the same look he had after... No. We all agreed never to speak of that again. Still, I can't shake the feeling we're missing something obvious.

"It does matter." I shake my head. A sudden movement catches my eye, and I snap my attention back to the street. A figure emerges from the shadows, moving with a purposeful stride toward Aria's building.

"Zane," I hiss, already reaching for the door handle.

Zane's out of the car before I can even finish saying his name, moving with the stealth and speed that comes from years of training. I'm right behind him, my heart pounding in my chest as we approach the figure.

As we draw closer, I can make out more details. It's a man, tall and broad shouldered, with a confident gait. He's wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled up to obscure his face, just like in the footage.

Zane and I exchange a glance, a silent communication passing between us. We've done this dance a thousand times before. He takes the lead, and I flank him, ready to provide backup if needed.

"Hey!" Zane calls out, his voice sharp and authoritative. "Stop right there."

The man freezes, his body tensing. For a moment, I think he's going to run, but then he slowly turns to face us. The hood still hides his features, but I can see the glint of his eyes in the dim light.

"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice deep and smooth—too smooth. I instantly hate it. His scent hits me then, unmistakably alpha, and my own alpha instincts bristle in response.

Zane takes a step closer, his posture aggressive. "Take down the hoodie."

The man hesitates for a split second before slowly reaching up and pushing back his hood, revealing his face. He's younger than I expected, maybe in his late twenties, with sharp, angular features and cold blue eyes. His dark hair is closely cropped, and there's a hard set to his jaw that speaks of a life lived on the edge.

Recognition flashes in his icy eyes as he looks between Zane and me. A ghost of a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. "Happy now?"

Cocky bastard.

Zane ignores the jibe, his focus laser sharp. "What's your business here?"

The man spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Just visiting a friend. Is that a crime now?"

"You were here at two this morning," I interject, my voice laced with skepticism. When he tilts his head to the side, a flash of recognition sparks. I swear I know this guy.

He shrugs, the movement fluid and nonchalant. "I keep odd hours. Surely you boys can understand that."

Zane takes another step forward, invading the man's personal space. To his credit, the stranger doesn't flinch. Zane's nostrils flare, picking up on the guy's scent. It's the same thing I've been trying to do, but it faded.

Alpha.

"I live here," the guy says slowly. "I'm going to pull out my keys."

I grind my teeth and give him a curt nod. "ID too."

"Listen," the guy says, "I'm only doing this because I'm in a good fucking mood, but you two are in the wrong neighborhood to be fucking with these people."

He isn't wrong.

With deliberate movements, he grabs his wallet and tosses it to Zane while he grabs his keys with his other hand and jingles them.

"Logan Pierce," Zane reads from the ID before tossing it back. "Address hasn't changed since his ID was issued." Zane sighs and looks over his shoulder at me. "Four years ago."

The tension in my shoulders eases slightly, but wariness keeps me alert. He isn't our guy, but something about him nags at my memory.

"You're that reporter," I say, realizing just who he is. "You were at the political event a few days ago."

"I sure was." Those blue eyes flash with recognition as his eyes roll up and down my body in a visual inspection. "You were working security."

"We were." I reach out to shake his hand, the tension bleeding from me. "Puritan City Alpha Security."

"That's right." He beams and snaps his fingers. "Hey, you guys wouldn't be hiring, would you?"

Zane just glowers at the guy. I'm not getting too much through our bond besides skepticism.

"Why?" I cross my arms. "You looking to get out of journalism?"

"Yeah," he drawls. "Not sure bugging people is in my DNA, ya know."

Zane cracks. "And you think you won't be bugging people working security?"

Logan laughs, a genuine sound that cuts through the tension. "Fair point, but at least I'd be doing it for a good cause—protecting people and keeping them safe. That's something I can get behind."

I glance at Zane, who raises an eyebrow but remains silent. The skepticism is still there, but it's softened a bit.

"What made you want to switch careers?" I ask, curious despite myself.

Logan shrugs. "Life's too short to stay in a job that doesn't feel right, and I've always admired what you guys do. The way you handled that political event? Impressive stuff. Made me think about what I really want to do with my life."

I nod slowly, considering his words. There's sincerity in his eyes that's hard to fake. Maybe he's not such a bad guy after all. "We might have an opening coming up. Why don't you drop by our office Friday morning? We can talk more then."

Logan's face lights up with a hopeful smile. "I'd like that. Thanks, man."

Zane grumbles something under his breath but nods in agreement. "Just don't expect any special treatment."

Logan chuckles. "Wouldn't dream of it."

As Logan heads into his apartment, I turn to Zane. "What do you think?"

Zane sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I don't trust him, but maybe we can give him a chance and see what he's made of."

"Yeah. Let's see what he's made of." I nod, watching the door close behind Logan. "It would be nice having an employee directly across from Aria."

Zane tilts his head to the side, glancing from one window to the next in the apartment building. "I don't know," he rumbles, but I can't tell if he is annoyed about the guy or having feelings for Aria.

My phone buzzes. Absentmindedly, I pull it out and answer, my eyes glued to Logan as he enters his apartment.

As I press the phone to my ear, all I hear is a deep, guttural groan and soft, lilting moans.

Zane's eyes snap to me, mine to his.

Pulling the phone away, I see it's Quinn. My frown must adjust my entire face as I glare at it.

"He's with Aria," Zane states.

"He isn't just with her." I look up at Zane. "He's rutting her from the sounds of it."