She cries out when I hit deep. I stay there, just feeling her tighten around me. Then I start to move with slow, shallow thrusts, each one angled with purpose, dragging across that spot inside her that makes her gasp and claw at my back. I want her to feel every inch. Every intention. I want her to know I’m taking care of her even here.
Her forehead rests against mine, and when I look into her eyes, I don’t see fear. I see her choosing me again.
When she comes—clenching, trembling, whispering my name like it’s the only word that matters—I follow with a groan that feels torn from somewhere buried inside me.
We don’t speak when the water cools. I turn it off, wrap her in a towel, carry her to bed.
There, wrapped in cotton and moonlight, I pull her close.
She doesn’t hum. Doesn’t cry. But I can feel it in the way she touches me. In the quiet way her thumb traces a slow, steady beat against my chest, writing lyrics into my skin.
Chapter 38
Malachi
Idon’tevenwaitfor the engine to cool. Kill it mid-growl and swing off the bike, betrayal thick in the motion.The ride over only feeds the fire, doesn’t calm it, and my fists are still clenched. The message of peace never received. My boots hit the steps hard enough to rattle them, echoing through the silence in rhythms that pound war into the air. I need the noise. Need the impact. Anything to keep from spiraling.
The wind is useless. The afternoon air, too still. I need something to hit. Something that’ll hit back. Instead, I have Victor. And the weight of a name I can’t stop tasting, blood bitter on my tongue.
My knuckles throb with restraint that turns control into confinement. I don’t bother knocking twice. Just one sharp pound of my fist against the door, a sentence delivered by a judge who is already furious.
Victor opens it almost immediately looking composed, unreadable. He’s always calm, always steady. And I hate how much I need that right now. His presence doesn’t settle me. It spotlights the storm inside me. The contrast burns.
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice low, door swinging wide. The scent of cigar smoke clings to the entryway, mixing with something warmer—aged wood and bourbon. It would be comforting if I wasn’t ready to destroy something.
I don’t wait. Don’t ask. Just push past him, the storm in my chest moving on instinct. The fury isn’t patient. It has teeth and a damn clock.
“You know who Alice Brighton is?” I snap, words slicing the air, sharp as broken glass.
He pauses, brow furrowing. “No. Should I?”
I pace. Can’t stop. Can’t breathe unless I move. My body is a lit fuse and standing still would make me explode. I run a hand over my jaw, try to force air into lungs that don’t want to work. Rage tastes metallic on my tongue.
Candace’s bruises flash behind my eyes. The way her voice shook when she said they were going to sell her. It burns through me, fire in my veins.
“She’s in bed with Donovan.” The words hiss out venom-shaped. “Not literally, but hell, maybe even that.” That part twists in my gut, a sick, rotting knot that won’t come undone.
“She’s helping him take the girls. Off the streets. They’re not just disappearing. They’re being sold.” I stop, meet his eyes, needing him to feel it. Needing someone else to carry this weight for a minute. “Underground auctions. It’s some high-society game. They’re protected. Hidden. And she’s feeding it.”
Victor doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t blink. The stillness in him shifts. Something sharpens behind his eyes. He lowers into the chair across from me, silent in that way that doesn’t soothe. It cuts.
His silence is surgical. And I bleed under it.
“At an auction?” he says finally, his voice cold.
I nod once. “Yeah. Black-tie bullshit masking slavery. I just found out.”
That’s when it hits me. Hard. I drop down on the edge of his couch, the floor beneath me giving way without warning. Elbows braced on my knees, hands dragging down my face. I’m shaking and trying not to. My voice cracks when I say, “One of ours helped them.”
That silence comes again. The kind that only lives between men who know what happens next. He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He doesn’t have to.
“Who?” Victor asks.
I shake my head, don’t lift it. “You don’t need that name.” The echo of it still rings in my ears anyway. Chuck. The same bastard who tucked her in as a baby. The same one who would’ve traded her for cash.
“You handled it,” he says. Not a question. A truth.
“Yeah.”
