The war room was packed. Chairs scraped. Cigarettes lit. Discussions layered over one another—routes, rotations, recovery. Tension hung thick in the air, but not from the meeting.

Not until your seat was taken, the one always left open to Mack’s right.

Tonight, some new recruit thought it was free real estate. Plopped down, all elbows and bravado, laughing at a half-assed joke before reaching for one of the shared files on the table.

You stepped in just as Malric sat—tall, relaxed, jacket slung over his chair, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His eyes were already on you. But when he saw where you were looking, something shifted behind his gaze.

He said nothing. Didn’t raise a brow. Just… stared at the guy.

Seconds passed.

The recruit’s laugh faltered. His hand hovered awkwardly over the folder. Then he glanced up—saw Mack’s expression—and went still. No threat. No bark. Just that long, unreadable silence that said you’re not supposed to be here better than words ever could.

The guy stood up so fast he knocked his chair over. Didn’t even meet your eyes as he mumbled something and backed off, retreating to a seat at the edge of the room.

Mack didn’t look away. He crooked his finger at you once. Then—cool as anything—patted his lap. The room didn’t go silent. Nobody dared acknowledge it. But a few eyes flicked your way, waiting to see if you’d flinch.

You didn’t. Because Malric wasn’t making a suggestion. So you stepped forward.

Sat down sideways across his thighs—balanced perfectly like you’d done it a hundred times. Because you had. Just not with this kind of energy. It was always playful, like when you'd try and yank documents out of his hand when he told you not to worry. But this was like a warning.

His arm came around your waist instantly, casual and heavy, pulling you in until your back rested against his chest. His other hand lifted the meeting file like he hadn’t just claimed you in front of half the damn crew.

And through the whole meeting, he didn’t speak to you. Didn’t acknowledge the weight of it. But his fingers? They tapped slowly against your hipbone, over the waistband of your jeans. Rhythm steady. Possessive.