The Cardigans (Criminal Intentions, Season One #1)

by Cole McCade

He opened his eyes and flung her a foul look. “I’m not that bad.”

Pretty, but in a sort of vicious, foxlike way. No—not foxlike. He reminded Malcolm more of a feral cat that condescended to tolerate a human presence, but the moment that human came too close he’d be off with a hiss and a flick of his tail.

like an old and battle-torn wolf, grave and fierce and solemn, the last one left of his pack and yet determined to defend his territory to the death, even when he could barely stand.

He would likely get in the way of wrapping up this investigation, but he was interesting nonetheless.

Zahré mār.

Pride simmered, a sharp response on his lips, a reminder that the shield Khalaji had flashed belonged to a Sergeant Detective and Seong-Jae outranked him as Lieutenant Detective—and he hadn’t earned that promotion with rookie mistakes like mishandling evidence. But he bit his tongue. He was new to Baltimore, and he would make plenty of enemies soon enough without starting on his very first case.

“That was a dick question. I’m sorry.” “I do not require an apology,” Yoon said stiffly. “I’m making one anyway. You don’t have to take it.” “Fine.”

If he let himself get too keyed up he would rabbit himself into tense, manic circles that would only end when he broke and did something inadvisable.

Khalaji was such a knot of furious, burning emotion underneath that quiet, grave surface. Even now he tried to conceal it, tried to cage it inside stillness, yet he gave himself away in his tension, in the set of his firm-lipped mouth, in that velvety animal snarl in the back of his throat.

And he wondered if Khalaji was passionate about his job, about the people he protected…or simply about his dislike of Seong-Jae’s methods.

He had to find a way to keep his detachment, or when they broke he would break too. They couldn’t see that. They needed to see him as resolute and firm. They needed to see him as someone strong enough to find justice for their son, and not a man made weak by years and years and a thousand losses that didn’t belong to him…but were his to carry, nonetheless.

People were not comforted by facts. People were comforted by hope, no matter how false.

Seong-Jae had little talent for hope, and so he chose silence.

Homicide detectives weren’t dealers in justice. They were peddlers of grief.

“Do you think I don’t know how to do my job, Malcolm?” she asked, deadly-soft. “You haven’t fired me yet. That’s a significant dereliction of duty.”

By day, Khalaji was a contradiction in his smoothly tailored suits paired with that grizzled, wolfish beard, wild hair, wilder eyes, animalistic things that didn’t belong to polished patent leather shoes and the touch of slow, lazy elegance in his movements, in his smile, in the kindness in brutal hands. He looked as though a wild man of the woods and an intellectual had merged into some hybrid breed who could arrange delicate fabrics into confections of drapery—or just as easily crush a man’s throat in with his bare hands, knuckles bloodied raw.

sense of elegant menace