I nod, barely. Because deep down, a part of me has always known, too. I just didn’t want to look at it too long.
Didn’t want to believe the monster might’ve worn my mother’s face.
Theridebackissilent. Malachi’s hand stays on my thigh the whole time, thumb tracing the same slow circle over my jeans, each motion grounding me in place. His palm is warm. Steady. I memorize the rhythm. Three beats, pause. Three beats, pause. It’s a song only he knows the tempo to. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. He just rides, fully aware I need the wind more than the words.
By the time we reach the clubhouse, the bar is dark, the bikes still. Upstairs, our room feels too quiet. Every shadow holds its breath. I curl into his T-shirt, pull the blankets up, and try to let the silence swallow me. It doesn’t. My mind keeps racing. She isn’t dead. I knew that already. But Maggie did, too. Not everything; just enough. Just enough to make them watch me closer. To make James keep me near, as though he sensed something coming for me from the dark.
Around two in the morning, I give up. I slip out of bed, pad downstairs in bare feet, and curl into the corner of the big leather couch. One of the lamps is still on by the pool table, casting a soft golden glow across the room. The silence here feels different. It doesn’t judge. It listens.
My thumb finds the edge of the blanket and begins tapping; four soft beats, each one knocking against memory. A rhythm I haven’t played since I was twelve. The one I used to hum when the yelling got too loud. I have no clue how long I sit there, but eventually I hear the stairs creak. I don’t even look. I know it’s him. Malachi drops onto the couch beside me, warm and quiet, his presence wrapping around me in something close to armor.
“You okay?” he asks, voice thick with sleep.
I shake my head. “No.” He doesn’t push. Just waits. “Maggie said something tonight,” I say, wrapping my arms around my knees. “Something I can’t get out of my head.”
His body shifts toward me, sharper now. Awake.
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Maggie admitted they’d heard rumors. Not facts, not proof. Just enough to be afraid. Enough that James kept me close. Like they were waiting for someone to come claim what wasn’t theirs.”
Malachi’s expression darkens. “The auctions and the old society.”
I swallow. “I think when my dad spiraled, when he tried to sell me, it wasn’t just desperation. It was a structure. A system. He didn’t invent it. He was following it.”
Malachi leans forward, voice low and hard. “I’ve been going through Cornelius’ files. Donovan Castiel’s name keeps showing up. Always clean. Always protected. I think he’s at the core. Especially if people keep reporting seeing a woman around him recently. The night my siblings vanished, Cornelius was trying to pass off intel. One of the names on the list was smudged. Almost unreadable. But I think it said Brighton.”
My pulse stutters. “You think she was there?”
“I think she’s woven into all of it.”
I stare at the cracked leather on the armrest, voice barely a whisper. “Maggie and James didn’t tell me because they didn’t know for sure. But they suspected. For years.”
I close my eyes. The memory flashes uninvited.She’s asleep in the hallway. We’ll give you twenty percent once she’s sold. Will anyone miss her? She wants the girl unharmed.
I thought they meant my father. That he was the one in control. But what if he wasn’t? What if he was just the middleman?
“I used to think she died.” My voice shakes. “Then I thought she left. And now I think… she watched. She waited. She let it happen.”
Malachi doesn’t offer comfort. He offers truth. He pulls me into him, wraps his arms around me, and lets the storm hit. His fingers slip into my hair, grounding me as my body trembles against his.
“We’ll find the truth,” he says quietly. “And when we do? We burn it all down.”
For the first time, I don’t just want justice. I want ashes.
Chapter 50
Malachi
Thesmellofstrongcoffee hits me before I’ve even made it down the stairs. Dark roast, sharp, with just a hint of cinnamon. Candace’s signature. It curls through the air, a thread tugging me closer, grounding and disarming all at once. She’s already up, hair twisted in a loose knot on top of her head, hoodie half-swallowed by her frame as she moves through the kitchen, trying to stay busy enough to avoid thinking. It’s my hoodie, the one she tugged off me without asking, and seeing her in it makes something settle deep in my chest. Maybe the storm isn’t done, but I’ve already found my shelter.
I pause for a second at the landing, watching her quietly. There’s a tension in her shoulders she hasn’t shaken since last night, every muscle bracing for a punch she can’t see coming. She moves with purpose, pouring mugs, setting out cream and sugar with care that pretends it matters. The ritual holds her together, piece by piece, a fragile thread warding off the truthtrying to unravel her.
Her hand lingers near the counter’s edge, fingers tapping once, twice—almost rhythmic. Almost a heartbeat she’s trying to control. I catch the faintest sound under her breath, a hum so quiet it barely exists. Not a tune exactly. Just breath turned into noise. Something between a prayer and a warning.
When I step closer, she glances up but doesn’t smile. Her eyes are rimmed with fatigue, but they’re clear. Determined.
“You sleep?” I ask.
A dry laugh escapes her. “Tried.” The mug she slides toward me is warm, the handle nudging against my fingers. I nod. Don’t push.
