[2: I GOT LOYALTY, GOT ROYALTY]

IT FELT LIKE A DAMNED year since Mal had last been behind the wheel of his Camaro with Seong-Jae slouched down in the passenger’s seat, his long, lean thighs spread inside black jeans and his glare turned out the window, watching as Baltimore flashed by in flickers of concrete and brick and the reflections of sunlight off the edges of every car they passed.

Instead it had been only a week, but that week felt like an ever-widening, yawning gulf between them, Seong-Jae once more a stranger standing far out of reach.

What had Malcolm expected, anyway?

Seong-Jae didn’t owe him anything. And maybe…

Maybe Malcolm being chained to his desk—his solitary desk, Seong-Jae no longer hovering, his own desk positioned far across the room—had given them the distance they needed to re-establish boundaries as partners.

But damn it, he’d take Seong-Jae insulting him nonstop and questioning his every move to this frigid, withdrawn silence where the damned crow of a man wouldn’t even look at him.

“You’ve been getting on with the field work?” he asked tentatively.

“Mm.”

“Anything unusual?”

“No.” Seong-Jae seemed as if he would say nothing else, then, “A hit-and-run driver identified by plates on traffic cameras. An alcohol poisoning case at the university that may be tried as a homicide rather than seeking suit for wrongful death.”

Mechanical information. Recited tonelessly, emptily, with no interest—either in the cases or in talking to Malcolm.

Malcolm hadn’t realized just how much Seong-Jae had subtly warmed to him in small, yet measurable ways until they’d been withdrawn. Sometimes, he realized…

Small things could hurt as much as the heaviest blow.

“Do you want to finish them out together, or are you good wrapping up on your own?” he asked.

“I am fine,” Seong-Jae said distantly, his fingers curling against his mouth, gaze fixed out the window but hardly seeming to see the city blurring past, eyes unfocused. “There is nothing left but paperwork.”

“Half the time it feels like that’s most of our job.”

Seong-Jae said nothing.

And Malcolm bit his tongue and forced himself to let it drop, silence haunting them for the rest of the drive to the gym.

His gym was tucked away in a corner of Little Italy, not far from several of his favorite bars—an old brick storefront that had been converted into a private space for athletic training and martial arts lessons. Even from the curb the noise from inside was audible, the sounds of taped fists and boxing gloves hitting punching bags, the impacts of flesh to nylon and flesh to flesh, the call of voices barking out reps and the clang of weights striking racks. He pulled the Camaro into park at the curb and unbuckled his seatbelt, glancing over at Seong-Jae.

“You can use the locker room to change as a guest for today. It’s a private gym, so they’re not as strict about membership and dues and such.”

Seong-Jae still remained silent. He simply reached into the back seat for his duffel, and levered himself smoothly out of the car before slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Camaro bounce between the street and the curb.

Malcolm stared at the steering wheel, fingers tightening on it, and took a slow breath in and out.

Okay, then.

If that was how it was going to be.

He climbed out himself, locked up, and slipped his keys into the pocket of his track pants before smoothing the worn, aged A-shirt that was well on its way toward retirement as a cleaning rag. Seong-Jae hovered outside the glass door, looking inside with his expression strained; something was bothering him, Malcolm thought, something more than just having to drag Malcolm out of bed yet again.

But with the distance stretched between them, Malcolm didn’t know if he had the right to ask—or if he’d get an answer, or just another of those simmering looks that said everything and nothing at all.

He slipped around Seong-Jae and inside, pausing to hold the door before letting it swing closed behind them. Inside the noise amplified, a sort of muted cacophony at once jarring and soothing; the gym was a single brick-walled, concrete-floored room broken into different areas by equipment stations, from an elevated boxing ring to a section of carefully spaced hanging punching bags, weight machines, treadmills, open mats for sparring. Exposed lights overhead mingled with the sunlight falling down through high windows cracked open to let in the bite of early October air, cooling the miasma of human body heat that seemed to fill the room like rising water threatening to overflow the glass. Several men and women were hard at work, either alone or in groups, sweat gleaming off skin, harsh gasping breaths mingling with the noise of muscular impact, tangles of damp hair and the bitter scent of sweat soaking in dark patches into clothing. Malcolm recognized a few of the regulars by face, if not by name.

Even here he avoided getting too personal, and he wondered if Gabi was right about him after all.

Was he really that determined to keep everything superficial?

Seong-Jae brushed past him, heading for multiple doors set into the back wall. “I presume the locker rooms are there?” he asked with a stiff nod.

“Yeah,” Mal said, watching him a touch numbly. “I’ll wait for you out here.”

Seong-Jae disappeared through the double doors into the men’s locker room. Malcolm lingered for long breaths, until the doors stopped swinging and fully latched; until he could no longer see even a glimpse of Seong-Jae through the glass window inset into the door. He felt wrong, all of a sudden. This was his place, his turf, but the disquiet between them had invaded it and pushed him just a few degrees off from his rightful place here, until he didn’t quite fit into the space he’d occupied before.

Fuck, they were just here for a sparring session. A quick assessment. In, out, back to normal.

He needed to get himself back on track. Nothing had changed just because he’d been benched for a week.

Nothing at all.

He retrieved a roll of athletic tape from the supply shelf along the wall, then settled on a bench to kick his tennis shoes and socks off; he hated wearing them when sparring, and he was lighter on his feet when it was just bare skin against the mat. He ripped off a length of tape and started wrapping it around his knuckles, then paused, glancing up as the locker room door swung open once more.

And nearly taped his own damned fingers together, hands going numb.

Seong-Jae stepped out in a pair of loose black gi pants that rode so low on his hips Malcolm wasn’t sure what magical force of will kept them in place, rather than giving in to gravity. He wore nothing else—no shirt, no shoes, his feet bare beneath the trailing, gracefully straight legs of the gi pants, his chest bared in a plain of pale golden sinew slashed across with long, narrow scars that rippled over taut, lean musculature and rolled fluidly with every graceful movement. Serpentine—that was the word Malcolm’s fogged, struggling brain was searching for. Seong-Jae was serpentine; not in his build, but in how smoothly chiseled sinew slunk and slid beneath his skin in constant liquid flow. When clothed he was all sharp angles, from those broad shoulders to that narrow waist…

But shirtless he was water in the shape of a man, all ripples and agility.

He rolled his shoulders languidly as he padded across the floor toward Malcolm; Malcolm caught his gaze trailing down his chest, following the line of a particularly long scar that licked like a hungry tongue over the tight, prominent ridges of his abs, before he jerked his gaze away and stared down at his hands, focusing on wrapping his knuckles. Wrapping his knuckles, and nothing fucking else. Not how beautiful Seong-Jae was. Not the rough surge of longing in the pit of Malcolm’s stomach, starting as a heavy thing low down and burning hot only to turn lighter the higher it rose in his constricting chest. Not the memory of how those parted lips felt, tasted, crushed against his own and teasing him to a burning, hungry insensibility.

Seong-Jae had said no. Seong-Jae had said no. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

This man was going to fucking kill him.

The bench jolted subtly as Seong-Jae sank down on it, straddling it with his legs to either side of it in the same casual, effortlessly sensual way that he straddled his motorcycle, facing Malcolm. All Malcolm could see was a knee, a stretch of inner thigh in black cotton, the phone Seong-Jae deposited on the bench, but it was enough. Too much, when Seong-Jae was close enough that Malcolm could practically taste that smoke-and-diesel scent riding the air between them.

That was fine.

Malcolm didn’t need to breathe anyway.

But his breaths dried in his throat and choked into a thin whistle of air as Seong-Jae covered Malcolm’s hands with both of his own, stopping him, two fingers scissoring around the tape to halt his wrapping. Malcolm felt the touch of gracefully long, rough fingers deeper than skin, sinking into him and melting—and not even the cold, irritated disapproval in Seong-Jae’s voice could calm that heady, needy burn.

“Do you not know the appropriate way to tape your hands?” Seong-Jae demanded.

Malcolm blinked, forcing him to focus on the haphazard crosses of tape across the backs of his hands. He’d…he hadn’t really been paying attention to doing it right, but he didn’t know how to explain that without telling Seong-Jae just why.

“I manage,” he forced out neutrally.

“I do not know how you have survived to adulthood.”

With an almost offended sound, Seong-Jae began peeling the tape away from Malcolm’s hands, handling him brusquely. Malcolm stared down at their hands, his own twitching, fingers curling with the ache to lace and tangle his fingers with Seong-Jae’s and just hold, when he couldn’t. Every light brush, every touch, every stroke of those strong, confident fingers against his made his body prickle and his chest tight, and he was hardly aware of the words flying over his head as Seong-Jae continued speaking, practically chiding him.

“Just because you share physical traits with a tank,” Seong-Jae bit off, “does not mean you can simply rely on brute bulk to carry you through in all things.” He gathered up the unspooled length of tape, took Malcolm’s right hand in both of his own, and began re-wrapping it with quick, methodical motions, looping the tape over and under and around in bracing layers. “You are wrapping as though you are attempting to protect your skin. The purpose is to reinforce your joints and bones, so that the impact of a blow is less likely to tear them out of place in damaging ways and permanently injure your hands and wrists. Learn how to do it right.”

“Yes, Sir,” Malcolm murmured, and bit back his grin at the foul look Seong-Jae flung him.

He wasn’t about to tell Seong-Jae he knew all that. That he’d just been distracted. It seemed to make his partner feel a little better to have something to snarl at Malcolm over, and it eased something inside Malcolm himself to have Seong-Jae fussing and growling over him, those warm hands firmly layering the tape over his skin, sealing it off, then starting on the other hand in efficient, brusque motions. The entire time Seong-Jae hissed things under his breath, too low to be audible but most certainly irritated, the lyrical lilt of his subtle Korean accent coming out more strongly with every vituperative word, his brows drawn into black and furious furrows.

And when he was done with Malcolm’s other hand, he promptly dumped it in Malcolm’s lap, snatched the roll of tape from him, and started wrapping his own knuckles.

Mouth twitching with the struggle it took not to smile, Malcolm flexed his hands, clenching and unclenching them until the tape settled with his movements, giving him a full range of motion. He glanced at Seong-Jae, watching from the corner of his eye as Seong-Jae layered the thick bands of white tape against his skin, glaring at his own hands as if they’d mortally offended him.

“You worried about me, Seong-Jae?” Malcolm asked softly.

Seong-Jae stiffened. He lifted his head, fixing Malcolm with a seething look, before one hand shot out, tangled in the front of Malcolm’s shirt, and jerked him close until he was eye to cold, penetrating black eye and just barely holding back a startled yelp.

“Do not,” Seong-Jae bit off, baring his teeth, “tempt me to hit you before we officially begin your assessment.”

Then he let go, leaving Malcolm rocking back—and staring after him as Seong-Jae dropped the roll of tape on the bench and rose, a ripple of languid power surging down the dip of his spine in writhing coils of muscle as he lifted a hand to rake it back through his hair. Malcolm finally remembered to breathe, rubbing at his chest over his rough-beating, wildly racing heart.

“I think,” he murmured, more to himself than anything, “I missed you.”

A slitted black eye turned over a pale amber shoulder. “What did you say?”

Meeting that single viciously dark eye, Malcolm sighed, shaking his head and letting his smile break free. “Not a thing,” he said, and hauled himself to his feet, padding past Seong-Jae and toward a free mat with a toss of his head. “Come on. Let’s do this and go to work.”

Seong-Jae was a heated presence trailing at his back, until they stepped onto the mat and spaced back from each other, squaring off. Malcolm shook himself out in a quick warmup stretch then settled loosely into fighting stance, shifting his weight back onto his right foot for balance and stability, sinking down slightly, elbows in, hands at chin level, loosely curled. It was almost instinctive, slipping into that sort of boneless feeling that made his body feel just a little undone at the hinges, like he could easily flow in any direction, at once tense and relaxed. Winding up too tight left the body rigid and inflexible, incapable of dodging or making quick assaults—and Seong-Jae had the look of someone who was fast. Malcolm would have to be quick on his feet to avoid him.

Across from him, Seong-Jae settled into a more square stance—similar to Malcolm’s, hands up, feet braced with his weight primarily on his dominant leg, but more fully facing Malcolm and subtly angled forward; pure feral grace in a single captured moment, coiled and ready to spring into instant motion. He looked almost completely relaxed, as if he wasn’t even concerned. Malcolm smirked.

“You said kickboxing, right?” He flicked his gaze over Seong-Jae’s body, watching for a gap in his defenses, but it was too early to say. “So this should be interesting.”

“Stop talking,” Seong-Jae said, and drove a lightning-sharp jab straight toward Malcolm’s face.

With a startled sound, heart flipping, Malcolm danced back, pivoting on the balls of his feet and letting that jab snap past him in a sharp whoosh of air. So it was going to be like that? He grinned, retreating out of Seong-Jae’s reach, settling into a ready stance again with the first rush of adrenaline twisting hot in his blood and threatening to wind him up into knots.

Okay, then.

Okay.

He rolled his shoulders, then flicked his fingers: bring it. But Seong-Jae held back, watching him steadily, black eyes unreadable above loosely clenched fists, telegraphing nothing. Malcolm had no warning, barely even a subtle tensing of smooth muscle before Seong-Jae came at him again: a driving right hook aiming straight at his guard. Malcolm brought both arms up, shifting his forearms to block—but Seong-Jae immediately diverted the punch before it could strike and dropped down, skidding his body to the mat in an agile twist as one leg snapped out and lashed straight at Malcolm’s calves.

Malcolm twisted back, sidestepping over Seong-Jae’s leg and dropping himself; he hit the mat hard and struck both legs out, trying to tangle Seong-Jae’s, but his partner rolled out of the way with fluid speed and grace. Tricky, sneaky bastard. Seong-Jae was on his feet instantly; Malcolm jackknifed upright and barely had a second to find his feet before Seong-Jae was on him in a flurry of blows: left, right, jabbing in sharp and testing Malcolm’s vulnerabilities, pressing him hard until his body sang with the strain, the effort, the strength it took to keep up.

Twisting, ducking, weaving, he maneuvered out of the path of every blow, taking the pain when he had to block with his forearms and that hard-knuckled fist slammed into his arm and deflected off. Seong-Jae was more than fast; he was precise, focused, not making a sound as he came at Malcolm like a lethal machine of razor-edged movements, black eyes locked on him like gunsights, every moment faster and faster. There was no dodging, now. Not when Seong-Jae hammered him, giving Malcolm room only to block, pressing his forearms together and making a shield that took impact after impact as Seong-Jae drove him back one furious, slamming step at a time. Sweat prickled and ran on Malcolm’s skin, his breaths burning in his chest as he locked eyes with Seong-Jae over his own clenched fists. The next punch came in hard, came in fast—and Malcolm took his opportunity, using his forearms as a shield again but this time taking the hit and twisting his arms to send Seong-Jae’s arm glancing to one side. Just a second when his partner was off-balance…and Malcolm caught his arm just below the elbow, dragging Seong-Jae to one side, pitching him forward—

—only for Seong-Jae to twist with his arm as a pivot point, using Malcolm’s own weight as an anchor as one long leg came swinging around in a powerful roundhouse kick, the heel of his foot crashing right toward Malcolm’s skull.

Malcolm let go at the last moment and dropped down, hitting the mat on one knee before thrusting back, panting, pushing himself out of Seong-Jae’s guard again. “…whoa. Hey—”

He didn’t get another word out before the flat of Seong-Jae’s hand came knifing toward his side in a jab toward his solar plexus, leaving him spinning on one foot to whip out of the way. He dropped back into a defensive guard, fists up, and stared at Seong-Jae.

“You’re really trying to hit me, aren’t you?”

Seong-Jae fell back, poised lightly on the balls of his feet; sweat gleamed over his body, glazing every curve of sinew in a heated, slick sheen and tangling his hair to his brow in damp strands, this sculpture of raw, caged masculine energy barely tethered in place by some thin and fraying leash. His jaw set tight, his narrowed eyes focused on Malcolm intently.

“It would not be a proper physical assessment if I were not.’

Before Malcolm could retort, Seong-Jae launched at him again—harrying him hard, sharp slashing blows ripping toward his face, his throat, his chest, his stomach, his thighs, leaving him constantly defending, dodging, not a breath free to gather himself and launch a counter-attack. Heat burned through him, that deep pleasant burn of a body worked hard, muscles warming up to fluid fire, and something deeper; something that kindled and simmered and pulled and demanded, something that made the scent of sweat into an aphrodisiac and turned every near miss, this push and pull between them, into a flex and flow that felt like a push and pull of a different sort, rhythmic and straining and brutal and wild.

He shouldn’t be enjoying this. Not when Seong-Jae was clearly pissed at him about something, and ready to take it out on his skull even if he had to injure Malcolm all over again. But it felt good—the physical exertion, the primal urges building between them, that thin line between aggression and sexual tension and some dark hot hungry bloodsport, until Malcolm kept his gaze trained on Seong-Jae as much to anticipate his next move as to linger on the sharp stretch of muscle in his waist as he moved, on the way the gi pants dipped down below the sweat-gleaming rise of his iliac crest to expose a soft, dark tuft of black hair peeking in a touchable thatch above the waist of his pants.

Every burst of dull, throbbing pain as Seong-Jae’s fist or knee or calf smashed into Malcolm’s guard was just another deep jolt of lust exploding in his veins and throbbing in his cock. Every flashing-eyed, locked glance was a shiver rolling over his skin, the sweat pouring over his body just licking tongues teasing and tracing and taunting him with phantom touches that only made him crave more. That only pushed the adrenaline coursing through him even higher, a thing roaring in his ears to the rhythm of his pulse and the beat of his heart, pushing him harder and harder until suddenly he wasn’t falling back, with each of Seong-Jae’s strikes. Suddenly he was holding…holding, standing his ground, planted and braced and then pressing in, pushing forward, striking back, dipping under Seong-Jae’s guard to throw a sharp blow at his ribs before twisting aside, lashing back, coming around in a swinging hook.

Seong-Jae ducked and spun away, catching and deflecting the blow on his upper arm, recoiling back with a knee swinging up toward Mal’s hip—but Malcolm slipped inside that swinging leg and struck the heels of his palms out and into Seong-Jae’s solar plexus. He hit a glancing blow before Seong-Jae arched back with the agility of an acrobat, then broke free, distancing again, pausing, chest heaving. He rolled his head, neck cracking, shoulders flexing, before that full, wild red mouth creased in a dark and humorless smirk.

“I was wondering when you would start actually trying,” he murmured.

Then flung himself at Malcolm like a striking arrow, swift and sharp and deadly.

He caught Malcolm once. Once, his knuckles blunt and digging and hurting deep as they smashed across Malcolm’s jaw. Pain exploded, ringing through his skull, and the taste of blood salted his mouth, hot and coppery on his tongue, igniting something ferocious inside him and turning his breaths ragged. He reeled back for half a second, then dropped down, gathered his weight, and flung himself to crash into Seong-Jae bodily.

Seong-Jae was strong, fast, agile—but Malcolm was pure bulk, pure weight, and he used that to his advantage now as he closed with Seong-Jae, grappling hard, punches and jabs and kicks turning into holds and gripping hands glancing off sweat-slippery bodies and flowing across overheated skin. They crushed into each other, pressed chest to naked chest, sliding away, closing in again, grasping and twisting free and neither gaining the upper hand as they strained again and again against each other. For just a moment they locked eye to eye, arms tangled as they fought each other, pushing and straining, close enough that the sweat darkening Seong-Jae’s hair dripped against Malcolm’s cheek and the rush of Seong-Jae’s breaths washed over the wet heat of blood pooling from the split on Malcolm’s burning lip.

His stomach flipped and tightened, as he met those furious, burning black holes of eyes, those lightless and starless nights churning with inscrutable forces and wildfire things Malcolm couldn’t grasp on to. He could almost taste it—Seong-Jae’s mouth, his lips parted and gasping and just begging to discover the flavor of Seong-Jae mingled with Malcolm’s own blood, a violent thing of bloodlust and raw hot maleness. He almost gave in; right here on the mat he almost gave in, almost crushed his mouth to that beautiful one he craved so desperately right in front of everyone here.

But then the squeak of Seong-Jae’s foot subtly slipping against the mat arrested his attention, and Malcolm saw his chance.

Just a moment of weakness. A moment when Seong-Jae’s weight dipped subtly off-balance, and Malcolm took advantage; he barreled his entire weight into Seong-Jae, tumbling them both down to the mat in a thunderous crash of flesh to flesh. A flurry of tangling, struggling limbs, Seong-Jae’s body moving powerfully underneath him to shove him off, but Malcolm had the upper hand and he used it. All it took was a knee to Seong-Jae’s stomach, pressed and holding, to pin him into place, forcing him to enough stillness that Malcolm could grasp first one wrist, then the other, stopping Seong-Jae’s striking arms and pinning them down to the mat to either side of his shoulders. Quickly, Malcolm shifted his weight to flank his thighs to either side of Seong-Jae’s hips, straddling him, holding him down, and hooking his feet around Seong-Jae’s legs to force the man to be completely still.

Panting, struggling for breath, his heart a stampede inside his chest and his body a crackle of blood set aflame, he glared down at Seong-Jae. Fuck. Fuck, he was so fucking hard his cock practically pulsed, aching and hot against his track pants, his inner thighs burning, his body so wild with the rush he could hardly tell anger from arousal. He didn’t dare move, or he would end up grinding himself against Seong-Jae’s body.

Especially when something thick and hot and throbbing pressed up against Seong-Jae’s gi pants, twin to the hardness between Malcolm’s thighs, searing against him through the negligible layers of fabric.

Fuck. Fuck. He fought to ignore it, glaring down at Seong-Jae, who glared right back up at him with his eyes snapping with unholy black fire. Seong-Jae bucked sharply, his entire tall, sinuous body moving beneath Malcolm, but Malcolm tightened his grip on his wrists and pressed down harder against him, hissing through his teeth and catching a groan in the back of his throat as their hips dragged together and friction ran its rough, hungry tongue along the underside of his cock.

He grit his teeth. “Are you going to stop trying to kill me now?”

Seong-Jae hitched a breath that bordered on a soft groan, going still save for his heaving chest. “Get off me,” he bit off coldly.

“That might not be in my best interests.”

Eyes narrowing, Seong-Jae ground out, “Get off me, or I will not clear you for active duty and you can go home.”

“That’s evil.”

“It is the truth.” Seong-Jae’s chin lifted with stubborn pride, his throat gleaming lickably wet with sweat, shoulders tightening and bunching as he strained against Malcolm’s grip. “You have plenty to keep you busy at home, do you not?”

Malcolm stilled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means get off me,” Seong-Jae snarled, and Malcolm almost lost his grip, that startlement, that moment of inattention, making him lax—but the second Seong-Jae thrashed beneath him, Malcolm tightened his grasp, forcing Seong-Jae’s wrists down against the mat out of sheer self-preservation.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think his partner was trying to kill him.

“Maybe,” he growled, “you could tell me why you’re so damned pissed at me.”

Seong-Jae’s eyes glazed over to icy slits, before jerking away as he turned his head to the side, staring blankly across the gym. “You are presuming that I feel anything toward you at all.”

Damn it. Malcolm hung his head, exhaling heavily. He felt like an empty sack all of a sudden, the fight—the desire, the adrenaline, the heat—draining out of him. “So you just tried to break my neck for the hell for it?”

“I have to entertain myself somehow.”

“Sadistic bastard.”

Closing his eyes, Seong-Jae took a slow, deliberate breath, then forced out, slow and precise, “Get. Off. Me.”

“Are you going to try to hit me again?”

Seong-Jae said nothing.

“Seong-Jae.”

“No.”

“Fine.”

It took a moment for Malcolm to let go. Even with that sinking in the pit of his stomach, he still couldn’t escape the sheer heat of their bodies pressed together, the magnetism of skin to skin and hardness to hardness and that flush in Seong-Jae’s cheeks that Malcolm thought might just be more than exertion when it matched the warmth burning all the way down his own throat. But slowly, warily, he let go of Seong-Jae’s wrists, then rocked back on his heels and to his feet, suppressing a hiss when his inner thigh muscles pulled at the base of his twitching, sensitive cock.

Seong-Jae lay there—a vision of sprawled masculine sensuality, the spill of his hair across the mat, the part of his lips, the leonine angles and twists of his body all whispering suggestions, wondering how he would look sprawled that way in Malcolm’s bed, flushed and bitten all over and kiss-bruised—while Malcolm straightened, swiping at his mouth and looking at the smear of red on the tape across his knuckles before licking the rest of the blood away from his lower lip. Arching a brow, he offered Seong-Jae his unbloodied hand.

Seong-Jae flicked him a look, eyeing his hand as though it were contaminated, then rolled smoothly to his feet, pointedly disdaining Malcolm’s help to stand on his own.

And promptly turning to walk away.

God damn it.

Malcolm took two quick steps to intercept, thrusting himself into Seong-Jae’s path. “You got something on your mind you want to talk about?”

Drawing up short, Seong-Jae looked coldly down at Malcolm. “No.”

He shouldered around Malcolm, stalking toward the locker room, but Malcolm fell into stride with him, angling to watch him. “Seong-Jae.” Fuck, he couldn’t believe he was trailing this stubborn, prideful asshole around, but goddammit, he couldn’t stand this. Even though Seong-Jae glared straight ahead, refusing to look at him, Malcolm wasn’t letting this go. “Remember what you told me? If you’re going to be my partner, I’ve got to treat you like my partner. So I’m treating you like my partner, but you need to act like it. If you need to get something off your chest, I’m listening.” Growling under his breath, Malcolm dragged his hair free from its tie and raked his fingers through it. “If it’s something that can affect our work, I need to listen.”

He started to reach for Seong-Jae’s arm—but Seong-Jae shook him off before he could even make contact, jerking sharply away and flicking him a cutting sidelong look. “I said no.”

Before Malcolm could retort—he didn’t even know what he’d say, pleading, cursing, laughing it off to avoid conflict, he didn’t fucking know—another voice cut in, dry and amused.

“So he’s a stubborn one, eh?”

^

SEONG-JAE NEVER THOUGHT HE WOULD be grateful to see Jason Huang.

But anything was better than this bizarre face-off with Malcolm, and the way those slate blue eyes practically begged him for an answer when he didn’t have one himself. He didn’t know why he was so angry. Angry enough to want to take it out on Malcolm; angry enough that for a minute he’d been willing to fight Malcolm to a bloody standstill if only it would make the churning feelings inside him stop.

He only knew he damned well did not like being this volatile. This responsive, especially when his body still vibrated with the heat of Malcolm’s against him, and the rough, clawing burn of a need he very rarely felt, let alone roused in response to another’s touch, body heat, bulk, weight, scent.

But when Malcolm had been atop him, heavy and thick and hard-corded with powerful thighs flanking him and his full-lipped, firm mouth split by that oh-so-appealing cut, swollen and bruised and bloodied, his eyes snapping and hot with a wolf’s hunting keenness…

No. This was not how Seong-Jae was wired. He had little interest in physical attraction, less in physical desire, only infrequently suffering this sort of…affliction.

And he would not succumb.

Especially when it was pointless, knowing who and what Malcolm was.

Who and what Seong-Jae was, and the mistakes that haunted him even now, catching up to him no matter how far away he ran.

He would not let Malcolm Khalaji be another mistake.

And the sound of Huang’s voice at their backs was a welcome distraction, even if relief warred with instinctive distaste and the simmering prickle of hostility dancing its fingers down the back of his neck.

“So he’s a stubborn one, eh? Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

Seong-Jae stopped in his tracks, sparing a glance over his shoulder. Jason Huang stood behind them, his tall, thick bulk barely caged in a tight black t-shirt and track pants, his dark hair tumbling around his shoulders. Malcolm drifted to a halt, glancing back, then turned to face Huang with a dry, casual smile, slipping his hands into his pockets and regarding the man thoughtfully.

“Jason,” Malcolm said. “You’re up before sunset. I’m impressed.”

Huang smirked, folding his arms over his thick barrel of a chest. “I’m more impressed you managed to say that without comparing me to a cockroach.”

“I was thinking more a rat,” Seong-Jae interjected.

That prompted a bark of laughter, cynical and flat, as Huang gave him a skeptical once-over, brows arching. “Good morning to you too, Detective Yoon.”

“Hn.”

“Friendly guy,” Huang muttered.

Malcolm snorted. “You get used to him.”

“Do you?” Huang drew a step closer. Something in his voice, cool and sly and menacing, mocked with a promise of unfinished business. “Should I get used to you, Detective Yoon?”

“Yes.” Seong-Jae turned back, locking eye to darkened eye with Huang. He could not trust this man; could not afford him the same sort of casual ease that Malcolm did, when he might well be the one behind the murders of Chris Romeo, Declan Lutz, so many others—and when he was the reason why hundreds died in the streets over the craving that burned in their veins until they were nothing but hollow shells. He drifted closer, narrowing the distance between them, deliberately stepping into Huang’s space. “You should.”

Huang only looked at him, a slow smirk on his lips. They were almost of a height, Huang just a bit taller, but Seong-Jae met his gaze unflinchingly, refusing to bow or shrink to the man’s greater bulk or the subtle sense of caged violence he consistently projected. Seong-Jae was caging a little violence of his own, the edges of his frayed temper close to fully shredding, dynamite only waiting to ignite…

And unlike Malcolm, Huang was not worth restraining himself over.

Silence stretched long between them—until Malcolm subtly inserted himself into the space, nudging his shoulder between them and pressing a hand to Huang’s chest, lightly pushing. “Come on. It’s too early in the morning for a pissing contest.”

But Huang did not budge. If anything he leaned closer, completely ignoring Malcolm, that dark smirk spreading. “We’re just having a conversation…aren’t we, Yoon?”

A vein in Seong-Jae’s temple throbbed, thumping against his skull. He took that last step until they were standing toe to toe, eye to eye, Malcolm forced aside until it was only Seong-Jae and Huang, close enough that Huang’s eyes filled his vision, shrewd and calculating—and widening slightly as Seong-Jae swayed in close enough to whisper,

“Keep my name out of your mouth.”

Huang turned his head, his voice a low mockery of intimacy against Seong-Jae’s ear. “And if I don’t…Seong-Jae Yoon?”

This time, when Malcolm caught Huang by the arm and hauled him back, Huang did not resist. “C’mon,” Malcolm said. “You want to go, let’s go. We can do a round or two.”

“Sure,” Huang said—but he never took his eyes off Seong-Jae, as he let Malcolm draw him away. Malcolm glanced back at Seong-Jae.

“Go get changed,” he murmured. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“No,” Seong-Jae said. “I think I will stay.”

Malcolm fixed him with a long, significant look, then turned away, reaching back to bind his hair up again, thick biceps flexing and veins rising sharp against weathered skin—while Huang stepped onto the mat and shook his shoulders out, rolling his body through several quick, short stretches. Seong-Jae settled to stand at the edge of the mat, folding his arms over his chest and watching. One could tell a great deal about a man by the choices he made in a fight; for example, Malcolm had proven himself a cautious fighter focused more on defense than offense, patient and willing to watch for his chance, wearing down his opponent by letting them exert themselves until they made a mistake—not dissimilar from his style in the interrogation room, patiently testing and feinting, drawing people out and letting them undo themselves until he saw his moment and went in for the kill.

Seong-Jae wondered if Huang would be more aggressive, and kept a close eye on him as he and Malcolm took up positions opposite each other, settling into almost identical Krav Maga grounding stances and eyeing each other with sharp, clear, predatory gazes. Once again Seong-Jae was reminded, as he watched Malcolm, of a battle-weary old wolf, scarred and worn and on his last legs and yet refusing to give ground so long as he could hold his territory.

Huang, though…

Huang, Seong-Jae thought, was a great black bull, a mass of hulking muscle that could be dormant one moment, idle and still…and the next charging, all of that potential for violence turned into a catapulting shot of energy and sheer raw power hurtling at a target with little to no warning and yet an unwavering and dangerous focus.

Perhaps, though, Huang would prove him wrong.

With a smirk, Huang jerked his chin at Malcolm. “You’re bleeding. Your partner fuck you up?”

Malcolm answered that smirk with a slow, dangerous smile. “He got one hit in. I still won.”

“I won’t be that easy.”

“It wasn’t easy.” Malcolm rolled his shoulders, powerful muscle shifting like the grinding of mountains in tectonic rumbles. He wore an old, thin, fraying A-shirt so translucent that it was barely there, sweat-soaked and showing the burnished, tawny shine of his deeply tanned skin, the ragged white cotton practically sucking at his body with its clinging film. “You going to stand there and talk, or you going to hit me?”

Huang’s smirk split into a grin, fierce and feral. “You asked for it.”

It would seem Seong-Jae’s assessment of Huang as a bull was entirely correct.

One moment he was dormant, and the next the entirety of his bulk swung at Malcolm like a weapon, a wrecking ball of human mass that could easily smash anything in its way. He led shoulders first, just like a bull charging with its head down and its great humping back driving its momentum. And he was fast; Malcolm barely had a moment to sidestep, light on his feet despite his own thick-set bulk, before Huang plowed over where he had been. Yet despite his brute force Huang moved with finesse, responsive and swift, already pivoting on his heel and coming back for another charge with his knee upraised and slamming toward Malcolm with the full momentum Huang had built in his rush. He calculated, Seong-Jae thought, but also relied too much on his own strength and bulk. His fighting technique was a matter of trying until he hit, because once that mass struck even once…

It was over.

It might take him several tries, flinging himself about like a sledgehammer, but all he needed was one good hit to win.

Interesting.

And there was something oddly familiar, about the way he moved. Something that struck Seong-Jae with a recognition he could not place, as Huang’s narrowed eyes flicked over Malcolm as if looking for a weak point to strike.

Yet Malcolm did not give him an opening; this, Seong-Jae realized, was where Malcolm’s defensive tactics played out well, the old man moving with the grace and litheness of a man half his age, raw power expelled in almost sensuous bursts of violent force that flexed his entire thickly-muscled, sweat-dappled body as he continuously deflected, twisted around, ducked beneath Huang’s blows only to come in for his own quick, jabbing feints, catching Huang in glancing blows to the ribs, the sides. Light, but nonetheless they slowed Huang down and made him falter with a second to suck in the breaths knocked from him. The wolf harrying at the bull’s heels and shanks, guiding it where he wanted it to go, wearing it out until Malcolm could go in for the soft underbelly and the kill.

And yet there was something more to this interplay, as well. For all that Malcolm might maintain an air of sardonic friendliness when coping with Huang…

This moment seemed practice for the inevitable war that would play out between them. The truth of enemies pitted against each other in combat, eyes forever locked on each other, testing each other’s defenses in anticipation for the day when they would meet across the battlefield in truth.

Seong-Jae curled his knuckles against his mouth, watching with narrowed eyes.

Interesting indeed.

The end came almost too abruptly. One moment they were crashing and splitting apart, the next Malcolm shoulder-checked Huang hard enough to send him reeling back. Malcolm hooked Huang’s ankle with his own, tripped him, and sent him tumbling face-first onto the mat, following him down to clamp a hand against the back of his neck.

“Yield,” Malcolm growled hotly, shoulders heaving with his deep breaths, several loose strands of hair falling into his face and clinging to his beard, his brow.

“All right, all right,” Huang said, half-laughing, hands splayed flat against the mat in surrender. “Fuck. You been practicing?”

“I’ve been off-duty and bedridden for a week with a concussion and a hairline fractured rib.” Malcolm eased back, shifting to one knee. “You just got cocky and slow.”

“Fair enough.”

Huang twisted onto his back; Malcolm offered him a hand, and in a ripple of muscle pulled both himself and Huang to their feet, biceps bunching, the Army tattooed insignia on his shoulder straining like the ink would leap off Malcolm’s skin. Pulling back, Malcolm dusted himself off, while Huang winced and rubbed at the base of his neck.

“You hit like you mean it this time,” he muttered, and eyed Malcolm wryly. “Ought to get you for police brutality.”

“I don’t find that remotely amusing,” Malcolm said, and Huang snorted.

“Getting as bad as your partner.” He flicked his gaze to Seong-Jae, eyeing him. Seong-Jae folded his arms over his chest and waited. He could feel it coming, the potential building between them, hot and dark and angry, but Huang’s smile was forcibly friendly, a little too broad, as he asked, “You want to have a go, Yoon? I could use a fresh challenge. Too used to the old man here.”

Seong-Jae said nothing. Huang was too casual, but there was a power play at work here, and Seong-Jae wanted no part of it. Over Huang’s shoulder, Malcolm caught his eye, shaking his head and mouthing soundless words.

You don’t have to do this.

A spark of temper roused inside him, contrary and sharp and utterly irrational. He was not one prone to spite, or at least he tried not to be, but apparently his lesser self was awake and irritated today, because Malcolm’s attempt to nudge him through this situation was pissing him the fuck off.

And, unfolding his arms and letting his hands drop loosely to his sides, Seong-Jae shrugged and stepped onto the mat.

“As you say,” he murmured, and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, spreading his legs and balancing himself carefully opposite Huang with his hands loose and raised before him.

Huang’s grin disappeared, yet it still seemed to haunt his face with a sort of black, curious amusement as he resumed his own stance—and slowly sidestepped, circling. Seong-Jae mirrored him, steps moving carefully to the side, always keeping Huang right in front of him, always keeping the same distance between them, watching for the moment when the bull would charge. Malcolm had caught him out on a simple matter of environmental factors, the mat slipping beneath Seong-Jae’s feet and giving Malcolm an opening as he caught his balance.

He would not slip the same way with Huang.

And he was ready, when Huang dropped low and charged—aiming below Seong-Jae’s center of gravity, a vicious elbow jab trying to take him out at the knees while Huang followed up with his body to topple. Seong-Jae stepped back lightly, barely resting on his toes, keeping himself quick and fluid; if he relied too much on keeping his feet braced on the ground, Huang would overbalance him. He had to be air, contact with the ground optional…and as Huang rolled forward like a tumbling boulder and sprang to his feet where Seong-Jae had been, Seong-Jae darted in with a side-handed slash toward the back of Huang’s neck.

He met an unyielding wall of muscle as Huang twisted his torso and took the hit on the back of his shoulder, then swept his arm back toward Seong-Jae’s waist. Yet Seong-Jae was already dropping down and out of his reach, hands braced to the mat, leg lashing out to sweep Huang’s ankles. This was not fighting with Malcolm. This was not frustration and anger and a deep-buried hurt he refused to face coming to the fore with every blow, every dodge, every grim and silent moment of locked eyes and trembling potential. This was colder, crueler, mathematical trajectories meeting the pure animal fight for dominance to set the tone between them.

This was a moment to establish control.

Because one day they would meet not on a sparring mat, but over crossed guns, and Seong-Jae would not be the one raising his hands in surrender.

He let his body go loose, until he felt the pull and burn of exertion in every motion—every twist as he bent back at the waist to let a punch swish over him without touching, every molten tug at the core of his solar plexus and center of gravity as he rotated his body to come back around in a high, arcing kick that Huang rolled away from, Seong-Jae’s heel barely glancing off his shoulder before Huang whipped back to grab on to his leg, fingers digging painfully into his calf. With a savage yank, Huang ripped him off his feet, dragging him onto his back and knocking him down with a hard thud that slapped the breath out of him as he landed flat on his back, head smacking against the padded nylon mat beneath him.

Huang was on him in an instant, hand against his throat, pinning him in place as he crouched over him with a slow smirk. “That was over faster than I thought it would be.”

Seong-Jae arched a brow, caught Huang by the wrist, hooked his thumb in the other man’s, then bent it back viciously enough to hopefully rip the ligament, while digging his fingers into the tender places between the bones on the underside of Huang’s wrist. Huang jerked back with a hiss—and Seong-Jae jackknifed his body while rolling to the side, kicking back to hook his leg around Huang’s neck, catching him in the bend of his knee in a squeezing chokehold, then flexing his entire body to smash Huang down face-first into the mat. Huang let out a broken groan, already starting to push himself up, but Seong-Jae rolled over and flowed upward to one knee, planning the other in the center of Huang’s back and bearing down with all his weight, clamping his hand down against the back of his neck.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, catching his breath in short sucking gasps and leaning down over Huang, “you should not assume a fight is over until it is actually over.”

Huang braced his hands and heaved, trying to push up and throw Seong-Jae off—but Seong-Jae pointedly ground his knee into his spine and gripped up a handful of his hair, shoving his face harder into the mat with a pleasure he should be above feeling, but could not avoid. Huang let out a sound that was half protest, half laugh, going loose.

“Uncle,” he gasped. “Uncle, Yoon. You win.”

Seong-Jae eyed him, then relaxed his grip, rocked back, and stood, lifting his chin with a touch of pride. Not in defeating Huang, no, even if there was a certain satisfaction in establishing the pecking order with a man who should be in jail, not walking free. But his pride was in controlling himself. He continuously kept losing control around Malcolm, his emotions and his temper bursting free, his actions impulsive and wild—but with Huang he had maintained his composure, his detachment, relying on cold calculation rather than emotion, other than that one momentary indulgence. Good.

Maybe he was not entirely broken just yet.

Huang pushed himself up off the mat, swiping his hair back out of his face and wincing as he arched his back until it popped, before going loose and shaking his arms out, flexing his already-swelling hand. The look he fixed on Seong-Jae was long, measuring, thoughtful.

“I underestimated you,” he said slowly. “Good.”

Seong-Jae chose not to dignify that with a response. Malcolm, however, drifted closer to him, stopping at his shoulder and leaning in to murmur, “Was that entirely necessary?”

“Yes,” Seong-Jae said, and pulled away from Malcolm’s warmth to stride toward the locker rooms once more.

He was done here, and it was time to do their job.

Malcolm let out an audible sigh at his back. “I’m with him, so…”

“Malcolm,” Huang said, low and grave.

Something about the tone in Huang’s voice prompted Seong-Jae to pause, looking back over his shoulder. Huang caught Malcolm lightly by the elbow, leaning down to murmur something inaudible in his ear, tight and urgent. Malcolm listened with his expression tense, eyes unfocused, and whatever he heard made his jaw clench. He turned to look at Huang, studying him for an intense moment, before snapping off a tight nod and pulling away.

Leaving Huang watching them both, as Malcolm pulled away from him and caught up to Seong-Jae.

“Go ahead,” Malcolm said, jerking his chin toward the locker rooms. “Clean up and get changed. I’ll wait for you in the car. I can shower and change at the station.”

Seong-Jae eyed him. Suspicion was a cold tingle on the back of his neck. “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing,” Malcolm answered, just a little too casual, his shrug just a little too tense. “It’s personal.”

“You have secretive personal exchanges with the man behind the majority of cocaine distribution in the greater Baltimore area?”

“Something like that.” Malcolm arched one thick, graying brow, slate blue eyes sharpening, penetrating. “You want to tell me what that little testosterone war was about with you two?”

“Hn.” Seong-Jae tossed his head, clearing his wet, tangled hair from his eyes, and looked away. “Just because you can deal with him casually, knowing who he is, does not mean I can.”

“I pick my battles.”

“As do I,” Seong-Jae retorted. “And I have chosen this one.”

Malcolm tilted his head, then stepped closer, bringing that wild-wolf scent in to invade Seong-Jae’s senses, mingled with the musk of sweat and exertion and just a subtle sharp sting of blood. His chest almost brushed Seong-Jae’s arm as he stopped, looking up at him discerningly.

“Do you ever back down in a fight, Seong-Jae?” he asked softly.

“Not if I can help it.”

Malcolm shouldn’t be so close. And closer still, the weight of his body leaning into Seong-Jae, an intimate and invasive thing, letting him feel the deep, velvet rumble of Malcolm’s voice shivering through him with every low word. “Are we fighting right now?”

Seong-Jae let his gaze dip down to Malcolm’s mouth. Malcolm’s red, red mouth, stained with blood, a brutal warrior thing begging to be licked clean, the promise of the wound’s taste inviting, compelling, alluring, heady. “You tell me,” he whispered.

Malcolm said nothing. He did not need to, when the silence between them was so very loud with shallow, rushed breaths. Why was it so hard to breathe? Why was his chest tight, his body hot, everything in him aching with something that ran deeper than simple soreness? Why did his mouth burn, his fingertips tingle, as Malcolm’s bloodied lips parted and his tongue darted, a serpentine and seductive thing, over that bruised and swollen mouth? Why—

A harsh, grating buzz and chime came from the bench at the edge of the mat. Seong-Jae broke back, nearly thrusting away, putting distance between them. Much-needed distance, and he sucked in a deeper, shakier breath as he crossed to the bench and retrieved his phone to check the text notification. His fingers trembled subtly, and he gripped the phone tighter as he read the brief missive from the Captain.

New case—white male, late fifties to early sixties, ritualistic murder. Pretty graphic. Be prepared. W-Suites in Pulaski.

It was followed by an address. Seong-Jae frowned, swiping the address over to Google maps, then checked the time. Just after nine AM. “Case,” he muttered, pocketing his phone and turning away from Malcolm. “Older white male. Ritual murder. Hotel.”

“I’m almost offended that she didn’t text me.” The words were light, but there was something husky, heated in Malcolm’s voice, seeming to chase after Seong-Jae like the wolf’s breaths rolling down the neck of its prey.

He paused, glancing back. “You are still not on duty until I say you are on duty.”

“Am I on duty, then?”

“We can file the paperwork at the office on the way, and use the showers there.”

Malcolm grinned that fierce, feral grin of his, teeth white against the grizzled thatch of his beard. “Let’s get moving, then.”

Seong-Jae rolled his eyes. Exasperating, difficult, bizarre man. “As you say,” he muttered. “Let me fetch my things.”

Malcolm just whistled softly in acknowledgment, raising a hand, the jingle of his keys rising. Seong-Jae slipped toward the locker room to gather his bag and his clothing, his mind already drifting away from Malcolm and toward where it belonged.

On the case.

But as he stepped through the locker room door, he could feel Huang watching him, thoughtful gaze trailing him like a physical touch.