Malem’s POV
Michael’s shoes clicked against the pavement, a metronome counting down the small distance between us. Each step he took was unhurried, deliberate, as if he were proving a point with his calm. Hunters don’t hurry; they make the prey hurry for them.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I forced out, though the words came thin and brittle, sounding less like a defense and more like an apology.
“Oh, you know.” He tilted his head, and the lamplight carved his cheekbones into something that looked almost handsome until you noticed the tiny furrows at his temple and the scar near his jaw I had once traced in softer years. He wasn’t the boy I had known—the edges of him had been sharpened, the softness sanded down. Control seemed to sit on him like a cloak. “You’ve been diggin
