The Surveillance
2004 Words
Malachi stood on the curb long after her taillights disappeared into the night.
His hands were in his pockets, his jaw tight, his entire body thrumming with an energy he couldn't name. Frustration. Intrigue. Something darker, something that felt dangerously close to obsession.
She'd said no.
She'd actually said no.
He replayed the moment in his mind—the way she'd looked at him with those defiant eyes, the way she'd removed his hand from her face with such gentle finality, the way she'd closed the car door between them like she was drawing a line he wasn't allowed to cross.
If you think you're going to control me, you're in for a very rude awakening.
Malachi's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
She had no idea what she'd just done to him.
Most women fell at his feet. They said yes before he even asked the question. They wanted the power, the money, the danger that came with being close to him. They wanted to be claimed, to be possessed, to be his.
But not her.
Not Salome.
She'd walked away like he was just another man in a club. Like his name didn't carry weight. Like his attention wasn't something to be grateful for.
And God help him, it made him want her even more.
Behind him, the club's bass line pulsed through the walls, muffled but insistent. People were inside—his people, his business, his empire. He should go back in. He had meetings to oversee, money to count, problems to solve.
But he couldn't move.
He was still standing on the curb, staring at the empty street where her beat-up Honda had disappeared, his mind racing with questions he didn't have answers to.
Who was she?
Where did she live?
What did her life look like outside of that dance floor?
She'd mentioned a son—Kai. She'd mentioned responsibilities.
But that was all he knew.
He didn't know her last name. Didn't know her address. Didn't know if she was going home to an empty apartment or a house full of people. Didn't know if she was safe.
The thought made something dark and possessive coil in his chest.
She was out there, alone, driving through the city at midnight, and he had no idea where she was going.
He hated it.
Malachi pulled out his phone and dialed without thinking.
Jackson answered on the second ring. "Boss?"
"Where are you?"
"Outside. Waiting by the car." Jackson's voice was calm, professional. He'd been Malachi's right hand for years—he knew when to ask questions and when to just listen.
"I need you to do something for me."
There was a pause. Then: "What do you need?"
Malachi's jaw tightened. He knew what this was. He knew what it meant when he started asking Jackson to follow people, to dig into their lives, to find out everything there was to know.
It meant he was interested.
It meant he'd decided someone was his.
"There was a woman here tonight," Malachi said, his voice low. "Salome. She just left—beat-up Honda, maybe ten years old, heading east on Fifth."
Jackson didn't ask why. He never did. "You want me to follow her?"
"Yes."
"What do you need to know?"
"Everything." Malachi's voice was hard, final. "Where she lives. Where she works. Who she sees. I want to know everything about her."
Another pause. Malachi could almost hear Jackson processing the request, understanding what it meant.
"I'm on it," Jackson said finally.
"Don't let her see you."
"I won't."
"And Jackson?" Malachi's voice dropped lower. "I want the report tonight."
"Understood."
The line went dead.
Malachi stood there for another moment, his phone still in his hand, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the woman who'd just driven away from him.
He was crossing a line.
He knew it.
But he didn't care.
Jackson ended the call and slipped his phone into his pocket, already moving toward his car.
He'd worked for Malachi King long enough to recognize the tone in his boss's voice. This wasn't about business. This wasn't about a threat or a problem that needed solving.
This was about a woman.
And when Malachi King decided he wanted a woman, he didn't stop until he had her.
Jackson slid into the driver's seat of his black Audi and started the engine. He pulled out of the parking lot smoothly, scanning the street ahead. Fifth Street, heading east. A beat-up Honda, maybe ten years old.
It didn't take long to spot her.
She was three cars ahead, driving carefully, her brake lights flashing as she slowed for a red light. Jackson eased into the lane behind her, keeping two cars between them as a buffer.
She had no idea she was being followed.
Jackson had done this a hundred times—tailing people, gathering information, staying invisible. It was part of the job. Part of what made him valuable to Malachi.
But this felt different.
This wasn't about gathering intel on a rival or tracking down someone who owed money. This was about a woman who'd caught Malachi's attention. A woman who, judging by the way Malachi had sounded on the phone, had gotten under his skin.
Jackson watched as she turned left onto a quieter street, her car moving through the darkness with the kind of caution that suggested she was tired, distracted, or both.
He followed at a distance, his headlights dimmed, his movements smooth and practiced.
She drove for another fifteen minutes, winding through residential neighborhoods that grew progressively less polished. The houses here were smaller, older, the kind of area where people worked hard just to keep the lights on.
Finally, she pulled into the small parking lot of her apartment building—a modest, single-story structure tucked into a quiet residential street. The building was clean but worn, the kind of place that did the best it could with what it had.
Jackson parked half a block away, his car tucked into the shadows beneath a streetlight that had burned out.
He watched as Salome got out of her car, her movements slow and deliberate. She looked exhausted. She pulled her clutch from the passenger seat, locked the car, and walked up the front steps.
The porch light flickered on as she unlocked the door.
Jackson pulled out his phone and started typing notes.
Address: 2847 Maple Street.
Neighborhood: Working-class. Quiet. No obvious security.
Vehicle: 2014 Honda Civic. Needs maintenance.
He took a photo of the apartment, zooming in on the address number beside the door.
Then he waited.
A few minutes later, a light turned on inside—probably the living room. Then another light, deeper in the apartment. Bedroom, maybe.
She was home.
She was safe.
Jackson sent the address to Malachi, along with the photos.
His phone buzzed almost immediately.
Malachi: Stay there. I want to know if anyone shows up.
Jackson read the message twice, then set his phone on the dashboard.
He settled into his seat, his eyes fixed on the apartment.
This was going to be a long night.
Back at the club, Malachi stood in the VIP lounge, his phone in his hand, staring at the photos Jackson had just sent.
The apartment was small. Modest. The kind of place that spoke of struggle, of making ends meet, of doing the best you could with what you had.
It didn't match the woman he'd met tonight.
Salome had carried herself like she owned the world—confident, defiant, untouchable. But this apartment told a different story. This apartment told him she was working hard, probably too hard, to keep everything together.
Malachi zoomed in on the photo, studying the details. The modest apartment building. The practical parking lot. The car that looked like it might not make it through another winter.
She was struggling.
And she hadn't told him.
She'd kept that part of herself hidden, locked away behind that bright smile and sassy attitude.
Malachi's jaw tightened.
He wanted to know more.
He wanted to know everything.
Vance appeared at his side, a glass of whiskey in hand. "You good, boss?"
Malachi didn't look up from his phone. "Fine."
"You've been staring at that phone for ten minutes."
"I'm handling something."
Vance raised an eyebrow but didn't push. He knew better. "The shipment came in clean. No issues. Ramirez wants to meet next week to discuss the new territory."
"Fine. Set it up."
"You want to be there?"
"No." Malachi finally looked up, his expression hard. "You handle it."
Vance blinked. Malachi never delegated the big meetings. He was always there, always in control, always making sure everything went exactly the way he wanted.
But tonight, he was distracted.
"You sure?" Vance asked carefully.
"I'm sure." Malachi's voice was final. "I have something else I need to focus on."
Vance studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. I'll handle it."
He walked away, leaving Malachi alone in the VIP lounge.
Malachi looked back down at his phone, at the photo of Salome's apartment, at the address Jackson had sent.
2847 Maple Street.
He could be there in twenty minutes.
He could knock on her door, demand answers, push his way into her life the way he pushed his way into everything else.
But he didn't.
Because she'd asked him not to.
Because she'd drawn a line, and as much as it killed him, he was going to respect it.
For now.
His phone buzzed again.
Jackson: No movement. Lights just went off in the back of the apartment. She's probably going to bed.
Malachi read the message, his chest tightening.
She was in bed.
Alone.
Safe.
He should feel relieved.
Instead, he felt restless. Hungry. Like something inside him had been awakened and wouldn't be satisfied until he had her.
Malachi typed a response.
Malachi: Stay there until morning. I want to know if anyone comes or goes.
Jackson: Copy that.
Malachi pocketed his phone and walked to the window overlooking the club below.
The dance floor was packed, bodies moving in rhythm, the music pulsing through the space like a heartbeat.
But he wasn't seeing any of it.
He was seeing her.
The way she'd moved on that dance floor. The way she'd looked at him with those defiant eyes. The way she'd said no and meant it.
Malachi's hand tightened on the railing.
She thought she could walk away from him.
She thought she could draw a line and he'd stay on his side of it.
She had no idea how wrong she was.
He wasn't going to force his way into her life.
He wasn't going to control her.
But he was going to know everything about her.
And when the time was right—when she was ready—he was going to make sure she understood exactly what it meant to be his.
Malachi pulled out his phone one more time and opened a new message.
He typed slowly, deliberately.
Malachi: You made it home safe?
He hit send before he could second-guess himself.
The message showed as delivered.
Then, a moment later: Read.
Malachi waited, his heart pounding in a way that felt foreign and uncomfortable.
Three dots appeared. She was typing.
Then they disappeared.
Then they appeared again.
Finally, a response came through.
Salome: I did. Thank you for asking.
Malachi stared at the message, something warm and possessive spreading through his chest.
She'd responded.
She hadn't ignored him.
She hadn't blocked him.
She was still engaging.
He typed back.
Malachi: Good. Sleep well, Salome.
Another pause. Then:
Salome: Goodnight, Malachi.
He read her message three times before locking his phone and slipping it back into his pocket.
She was home.
She was safe.
And tomorrow, he'd know everything there was to know about her.
Malachi turned away from the window and headed for the exit.
He had work to do.
- Writer
