Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) by Naima Simone

so he could breathe without longing to kill someone. “What happened?”
    A soft sigh escaped her parted lips, and her lashes lowered. His heart seized in his chest. For the space of a second, he almost believed she derived comfort from his touch. Needed his touch.
    But then she stiffened. Her eyes snapped open, widened. She whipped her head away and lurched backward. Again, that hated, tortured look transformed her face. His arms dropped to his sides, and he hid his tightly clenched fists within the folds of his coat. He suspected the terror deepening her chocolate eyes at the moment didn’t originate from her attack, but from the same thing—event or person—that made her shrink when he brushed too close or invaded her personal space.
    Bitterness coated his tongue, scalded his throat.
    “I’m not going to hurt you, Danielle,” he growled, rage at whoever had done so roughening his tone.
    “I know,” she said, weariness weighing down her voice. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
    “We need to call the police,” Chay said into the heavy silence.
    “No.” Her sharp objection stunned Malachim. Then the “no” sank in.
    “What do you mean?” he snapped. “We have to call the police.”
    But she shook her head hard, her curls swishing from side to side. “No,” she repeated. “That’s not necessary. I didn’t get a look at either guy, and I’m okay.”
    “That’s not the point,” Rafe said softly. “One or both could come back.”
    “I’ll leave earlier,” she babbled. Malachim stared at her, suspicion infiltrating his concern. He would’ve had to be deaf not to detect the nervousness and desperation permeating her tone.
    “Danielle,” Malachim growled
    “No.” She slammed up a hand, halting his words with her palm. “No cops. I don’t want to report it. I’m fine,” she gritted out. “Please. I just want to forget it. I want…I want to go home.”
    The argument hovered on his tongue, damn near strangled him. One look at Rafe’s confused glower, and Malachim knew his friend shared his bewilderment and anger. But it was Chay’s closed expression that tipped his decision in Danielle’s favor.
    Damn, damn, and more damn. He scowled, frustrated. He’d been here before. Twenty years ago. There was only one reason a person didn’t want the police involved. They had something to hide.
    “Fine,” he finally said. And her relief only solidified his suspicion. “But I’m driving you home. From now on.” When her lips parted to argue, he narrowed his eyes. “Either I take you home, or we call the cops. Your choice. And you have five seconds to make it.”
    Her mouth snapped close, but Danielle returned his glare. Moments later, her head jerked in an abrupt nod. “You win.”
    Win ? He choked back a harsh laugh. If so, this was the shittiest victory he’d ever experienced. Malachim studied her as she slowly bent to retrieve her bag and purse from the ground.
    Secrets .
    He detested secrets and lies. From the moment of his birth, his life has been filled with them. And now Danielle Warren, with her cool elegance, sultry loveliness, and haunted dark eyes.
    She smelled like a lie.
    A beautiful, alluring, dangerous lie.

Chapter Eight
    “What are you doing here?”
    Malachim didn’t bother rising from behind his desk. Christopher Jerrod—a.k.a. the devil—would probably sneer at the display of manners, and Malachim didn’t feel like handing his father verbal ammunition. Besides, if he was sitting, the leather protected his back from the knife Christopher wouldn’t hesitate to bury there…again.
    Christopher sat—uninvited—in the chair across from Malachim, a small smirk playing over his lips.
    “Good morning to you, too, Malachim.” The words seemed innocuous enough. But Christopher was about as harmless as a dingo with a baby fetish.
    He didn’t respond. Instead he leaned back and studied the older man as a sharp wariness sliced through him. This morning visit was