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I grimace, a sour taste coating my tongue.

“For future reference,” I say flatly. “The next time an irritant like that boy upsets you, it would be beneficial for you to simply pick up a brick and apply it to their skull.”

She blinks, her mouth falling open slightly. “Pardon?”

“You heard me,” I drawl. “Blunt force trauma is a wonderful tactic. It cuts down on the talking.”

“I can stick up for myself,” she mutters, shifting her gaze to the floor. “I know how to defend myself, Malachi.”

I snort, flicking a glance at the fresh white gauze wrapped around her arm.

“Could’ve fooled me.” I stand abruptly, the movement sharp enough to make her flinch.

The air in here is getting too thick. Too sticky.

I take a breath and finally peel off the ridiculously stifling hoodie, dragging the fabric over my head and tossing it onto the floor before rolling my shoulders out, trying to shake off the lingering residue of helpfulness. Then I snatch the box of painkillers from the table and toss it at her chest.

“Take two. Or don’t. I don’t care.” I say, then I snatch the remote off the cushion, flipping it into the air and catching it. “The dating show, documentaries on torture, or more pornography. Choose.”

“What?” She leans her head back against the cushion, looking utterly drained. “None. I just want to sit here in silence for a bit.”

“I said choose,” I prompt, my thumb hovering over the power button.

“Fine,” she mumbles, her eyelids fluttering shut. “The dating show.”

“Excellent choice,” I note as the television screen flickers to life.

As the high-pitched squeals of a group date that’s definitely going to end up in some kind of mass mating ritual fill the room, I settle back into the couch, right beside her. She’s already drifting, the fight finally bleeding out of her as the exhaustion takes its toll.

Her head lolls in slow motion, her neck losing its battle with gravity until she tips, her temple coming to rest against the hard line of my shoulder. And I find myself frozen, every muscle locking into place as I am unceremoniously repurposed as a pillow. My gaze traces her face, marveling at how soft and utterly defenseless it looks against the metallic sheen of my silver skin. The light from the screen dances across her features, turning her into a canvas of shifting shadows and neon flickers.

She is so soft. So terribly easy to break.

And surprisingly, I think I’m enjoying this—the weight of her, the quiet trust in her slow, shallow breathing. I reach out, my fingers trembling with a rare, hesitant curiosity, and run a hand through the spectacular disaster of her black, stress-matted hair. It’s softer than I expected, smelling of her peach shampoo and old rain.

“Rest, my little summoner,” I murmur.

Then the light changes, the bright colors across our skin flickering to a sickly, familiar grey. I snap my attention back to the TV, where the screen’s warping into a corridor of black stone and steel.

The lower halls of the Ninth Division.

The image vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by the flickering glow of a commercial for laundry detergent.

I blink once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

What the…

Chapter 13

Eden

My neck’s locked in a way that suggests I’ll never look left again, and my arm—the one pinned beneath my own weight—is humming with that static-electricity prickle of a limb that’s given up on blood flow.

I suck in a deep, slow breath of the warm fabric my face is pressed up against. But instead of the scent of my pillows, I get smoke and spices.

“You’re drooling on me,” a low, gravelly voice rumbles.

Panic detonates through my nerves and I jolt backward, my limbs tangling in an uncoordinated mess. I overcompensate so hard the edge of the cushions vanishes beneath me. I’m halfway to a very undignified meeting with the carpet when a hand the size of a dinner plate snags my waist, hauling me back onto the cushions with effortless strength. Malachi keeps his eyes on the TV screen as he settles me back into place beside him, giving my hip a firm squeeze.