The Cardigans (Criminal Intentions, Season One #1)

by Cole McCade

Malcolm tilted his head. That was new. Sickening. Interesting.

Monochrome in his paleness and dark clothing, standing poised as if the crow would take flight—or the spirit would fade away, as dead as the boy lying blank and empty on the pavement. Haunting, Malcolm thought.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” “I talk when it is necessary.”

Nonetheless, the snap of the gloves against his wrists brought an odd pleasure, as if the tight latex was a choking band snapping around Khalaji’s neck.

“Well, Khalaji? Am I handsome?” “Don’t be an ass,” Malcolm said,

And don’t—” Khalaji snapped one hand up. “Don’t say ‘as you say.’” “As you say,” Seong-Jae answered.

“Stuffing my face with Oreos and doing homework and trying not to think about why guys dump me all the time.” “Perhaps your attitude,” Seong-Jae said.

Yoon only stood there, his head tilted in that infuriating way, a damned android that seemed to be malfunctioning when it tried to process why Malcolm was so annoyed.

“Ninety-seven percent of the human population is smaller than you,” Khalaji said,

Yoon circled the desk. That subtle sense of elegant menace that always seemed to simmer under his skin emanated from him like a cold front pushing forward in his wake. He looked down at Giancomo, his black eyes flat and alien. “Are you ignoring the orders of two ranking officers?” Giancomo froze, eyeing Yoon

They were halfway up the stairs before Yoon spoke again, a low, taunting lilt at Malcolm’s back. “So you bite back?” “…god damn it, Yoon,” Malcolm groaned,

“Pull up a chair. We’ll get you your own desk soon.” Yoon pushed off from Malcolm’s desk, snagged a rolling chair, and slung it around, spinning it next to Malcolm’s and then settling down to straddle it with the back facing him, arms folded over the top, thighs spread rakishly. He rested his chin on his crossed wrists, lazy eyes watching Malcolm like a snake in the grass. “Yours is fine for now,” he said.

Malcolm just looked at him, then let out an exasperated sigh, turning back to the computer and digging for Sade’s social media data dump file. “Why do you have to do that?” “Do what?” Yoon asked mildly. “Nevermind. Just…nevermind,” Malcolm muttered. “Let’s just get to work.”

“There are always those moments, Khalaji.” “Malcolm,” he corrected quietly. Yoon lifted his head sharply from his distant study of his boots, looking at Malcolm strangely, before looking away, fixing his gaze across the parking garage. “Seong-Jae,” he answered softly. “Seong-Jae,” Malcolm tried, and found he liked the way it felt on his tongue.