In that moment, there had been nary a doubt in his mind that he was going to kill Joaquin. Even after the remote tried to stop him. Some greater power reached through him, breaking whatever effect the Stasis used to hold him still. It had only taken the view of Joaquin striking Soraya so hard that she hit the floor, and the collar no longer mattered.

Only his death.

It had been the fear in her scent that had stopped him. Not the acrid taste of prey, releasing its bladder with the acceptance of its death. This was a different flavour, a potent mixture of dread and terror. Dread of the unknown, and terror that only came from the concern for another. For him.

Not Joaquin.

The realisation had calmed him down from the rage of battle, and he knew he had already won. The monster was hurt and harmless, beaten in their match. He already had his prize.

She was his.

The walk to his office took him by several interns that weren't on official payroll, one of whom he remembered their name, and made a demand for certain medications to be brought to his office.

Soraya seemed out of it when he set her down, but she waved him away. He couldn't look at her face, not without losing himself to that fury, and he knew he needed to cool off, both figuratively and literally. The water was as cold as the pipes, and he made quick work ridding himself of most of the grime that caked his skin. He didn't bother with a towel, but the first aid kit was important. He'd not missed the scent of Soraya’s blood.

She was at his desk when he returned, and he cleared his throat, glancing down to his open journal. Malcolm didn't say anything as he knelt to tend to the abrasion that marred her. The only evidence of his torture was small spots of blood he'd missed in his hurry, but that was it.

A low, inaudible vibration lived in his chest as he worked, as he could still smell Joaquin on her. Even through the heady musk of her growing arousal. The aroma caused his own reaction to accelerate, heat blooming in his loins. Was it a Pavlovian response due to their many weeks together? Or was it a True need? Questions swirled in his mind to which he had no answer, and so he tucked them away for later perusal.

Malcolm searched the kit for an antibacterial salve when she sat down. The single-use, aluminium-lined packet looked small in his hand, the tear of opening it the only sound between them as the silence dared to draw out. He treated the wound with the precision of the surgeon he was.

Her siren song caused a wave of goosebumps that travelled from his ears and over his neck, but he didn't slow his careful ministrations when she asked her question.

“Why?”

A multitudinous train of thought crashed in a fiery explosive heap. His quicksilver mind frantically sought another solution, another reason for his behaviour among the wreckage, but only one revealed itself from all the mangled considerations. It felt more a truth than a thought, a fundamental fact of his universe.

“You are mine.”

It was as clear as that. An agreement between him and his dark passenger over which they had no quarrel. Unequivocally, immutably, Soraya was theirs. Theirs to have. Theirs to protect. Theirs to own.

Just as he was hers.

Simple.

Malcolm still heard the sound of Joaquin's hand connecting with her cheek echoing in his memory. He steeled himself to finally look at her face, inhaling deeply to prepare himself for the damage. A murderous rage nearly consumed him, a growl he couldn't hide making itself known rumbled through the air. The metal of the first aid kit did not survive his ire, crumpling in his grasp as he sucked in another breath. The sight of her swelling cheek was evidence of his utter and complete failure.

He'd failed to protect.

Their eyes met, his gaze full of more anguish from what had happened to her than all the culmination of the past hours of torment combined. 

Before he could say anything, there was a light knock at the door.

Face twisted into a snarl, his hackles rising until the cool presence of Ruby’s power settled on his shoulders, calming his wild reaction. The tall blond seemed to glide into the room, and set down a small tray of medicine and gauzes. She looked between them, and said nothing before she closed the door behind her on her exit.

Joaquin's scent tainted the space, and he turned towards Soraya with a solemn look. His visage held the knowledge that the blame lay entirely at his feet. All of it.

If he had better control, he wouldn't have attacked her in the boardroom. Which would have prevented his torture…which then led to the blooming ecchymosis on her cheek.

His fault.

His movements were mechanical as he pressed the round cotton pad to her cheek, carefully lifting her hand to take over. He confirmed that she wasn't concussed, and so could leave her alone now. Every fibre of his being wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her, but he had no right after what he'd done.

“That should prevent most of the swelling,” he said. His baritone was quiet. He stood finally, turning to go back into the bathroom, needing a proper shower. At the door, he paused. His shoulders slumped in defeat, struggling to accept something he couldn't change. His lack of control around her when she smelled of sex with him. The emotion had been so powerful, and then again when she'd began her ruse…

He was well and truly weak.

Malcolm turned his head slightly, looking down.

“Don't come around me when you smell like him. Please.”

It seemed the only solution.

He didn't wait for a response, and disappeared into the bathroom, turning on the hot water. The collar burned at his neck, not because of the silver inlay, but because he finally understood why it was necessary.

He was the monster that society touted him to be after all.

Silence stretched for miles once Malcolm vanished into the bathroom. Every second of every minute replayed in her mind. She recounted the pang in her heart when she walked in on the werewolf’s bound and tortured form. Then the blossom of heat that turned into torment when Joaquin’s hand slammed into her cheek. Everything in between the extreme moments seemed insignificant; their unimportance felt like white noise, an oppressive static she could not break through. 

Don't come around me when you smell like him. Please.

Could she blame him for the request? Soraya was beginning to understand the strength of his senses—the smell lingering on her person, the sensation of her fingertips gliding across his skin, and even the symphony created by their voices twisting together in climax. How could she fully grasp the intensity of what he experienced? Heightened emotions, overwhelming sensations, and a struggle for control in a world of chaos and spontaneity. 

Soraya could not sit idly by and leave him alone. Whether it was a compulsion drawing her from the chair or an internal desire roiling in her belly, she could not decide. It hardly mattered; within moments, she nudged open the door and stepped into the vaporous bathroom. 

Enamored with his profile, Soraya took a moment to observe. Malcolm stood within the enclosure of luxurious marble, a waterfall streaking down his muscled back. He was as a stone statue, except for the shifting from his movements. She didn’t expect to find his head bowed and eyes closed, a hand wrapped around the girth of his erect cock. In silence, her eyes traced the sharp line of his nose to the strength of his jaw, the manner of his arm on the ceramic splaying his fingers and flexing every tendon from forearm to triceps. Malcolm was striking, and she devoured every detail she’d been missing during their nighttime forays. He turned his head slightly, nose resting on his biceps, but did not open his eyes.

Every time he stroked himself, his pectorals flexed, and she savored the faint growl parting his lips. Her cheek throbbed, but she no longer cared about the pain. Not when watching his manipulation of his cock. It was more erotic than she understood, not until she realized she was disrobing. 

The actions held no grace, but caught his attention. His eyes opened to narrow slits, the dark tint promising the green and bronze glint of his wolf. Piece by piece, she dropped everything into a pile by her feet and walked closer. He knew she was there; she could tell by the heat of his gaze. Soraya’s steps eased into a performance, the languid sway of her hips drawing notice to every curve on display for his viewing pleasure. He hadn’t opened his eyes fully, but Malcolm was looking. Of that she was certain. 

Steam rushed from the oversized shower when she opened the door, a cascade of wet warmth across her bare skin. Goosebumps jumped to the surface. His arm relaxed, dropping away from the wall. While she detected no surprise, Malcolm’s frown did not shock her. It reflected concern she did not believe she deserved. Preemptive in her movement, she followed him further into the enclosure as the door closed. Malcolm retreated until he was pressed against the cold wall, and Soraya refused to let him escape. The gleam of his collar acted as a reminder of her status above him.

Soraya pushed against him with surging intensity, but not anger. Desire without aggression. She kissed him, and she didn’t care about anything else other than the feel of his mouth on hers. Lips parted in an invitation to his tongue. It felt different, communicating emotions she could not yet acknowledge. Poignant fire eased into their embrace, an inferno that exploded when she wrapped her hand around his cock to take over for him. The kiss did not end, her supple curves melting against his hard body like the perfect puzzle piece. Corners and curves fit. Edges and contours slid into place. It was perfection in an imperfect scenario.

Her hand barely fit around his cock, and she stroked with her thumb sliding along the underside. Had she ever pleasured him without demanding something in return? As they kissed, it degraded into nothing more than mouths touching and his quiet breath against her bottom lip. Her strokes twisted when she reached the head, and she nipped along his chiseled jaw toward his ear. 

Then—he stopped her. 

She lifted her eyes to him, her lush lips turning downward and a despairing sigh floating in the air. His grip remained gentle, and Malcolm wore a smile she’d never seen before. It contrasted with his anger, his hatred, his struggle. 

“Not yet,” he growled.

His fingers trailed along her jaw, skirting along her lower lip with a slight drag. Malcolm nudged her chin higher, and such a simple act sent a surge of something sublime through her body. Anticipation married arousal. Arousal melted into need. She whimpered, a sound she did not know herself capable of making. It took effort to pry her hand away from his cock. She didn’t know why he wanted her to stop until he reached for the honey sugar scrub waiting on the shelf.

Ah. The water wasn’t enough to deceive his preternatural senses.