My gaze hardens on James. “And no more secrets. Not from each other. Not from her.”
James inclines his head, the first trace of apology in his voice. “Understood.”
I draw a deep breath, forcing the fire back down. “Good. Because when we move this time, we finish it.”
And I’ll bury every last name that tried to bury her.
Chapter 51
Candace
Thedoorclicksshutbehind the men, a gun cocking, final and loud in the quiet space they leave behind. My heart stutters once, then picks up a new, uneasy rhythm. It’s always tense when they head into the war room. Tension thick as fog. The weight of what they’re walking into presses against my skin, a bruise waiting to form. A bruise that hasn’t bloomed yet, but I can already feel it under the surface, pulsing in warning.
I grip my coffee mug tighter and retreat to the couch, curling into the corner where I can see the hallway but not be seen from it. Malachi’s hoodie swallows most of me, sleeves pulled over my hands, the soft fabric brushing against my lips every time I exhale. It smells like him, leather and smoke and something warm beneath it all. The scent wraps me in comfort. It makes it a little easier to breathe. The warmth of the coffee doesn’t reach my chest. Not really. It tastes burnt. Bitter. I take another sip anyway, hoping this time it’ll do more than scald my tongue.
Ruby’s voice cuts through the silence first, always the one to break it. “I swear, if Malachi doesn’t come out of there with a plan to blow something up, I’m gonna be disappointed.”
Darla snorts, tossing a pillow at her. “You’re deranged.”
“Takes one to know one, sugarplum.”
Frankie hums thoughtfully. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, pen tapping against her lip. “Something’s shifting. I can feel it in my teeth.”
The sound of her tapping echoes oddly loud in the room, bouncing off something unseen. I glance at her, a chill brushing down my spine. She’s always been strange, but lately... there’s something else. Something older. She hears things the rest of us can’t.
Sloane raises a brow from her seat beside Maggie. “That’s… concerning.”
Frankie shrugs, still tapping her pen. “It’s a witch thing. Probably.”
I manage a smile, but it feels like it doesn’t belong to me. Their voices are distant, muffled by the ache beneath my ribs. My mother is alive. Alive. Breathing. Moving through the same world I am. And she left me. On purpose.
She didn’t die. She disappeared. Watched me. Counted down the days. Let my father fall apart and me with him. There’s a tremor in my chest that won’t settle. Like something vital inside me got knocked loose.
Maggie meets my gaze across the room, her eyes warm, steady. She doesn’t say anything, just nods once. That nod cracks something in me. I press my sleeve against the corner of my eye, trying to catch the grief before it spills.
It helps. A little. I sip the coffee. It’s gone lukewarm. Still bitter.
“You okay?” Sloane asks gently, turning toward me.
I nod. Lie. Ruby doesn’t buy it. She shifts closer, bumping her shoulder against mine.
“You don’t have to say it, you know. You don’t have to be okay just because we’re here.”
The tears threaten, hot and unwelcome. I swallow hard.
“She’s alive,” I whisper. “All this time, I thought she was dead. I told myself she had to be. Because if she wasn’t… if she left me on purpose—”
“Then she’s worse than dead,” Frankie says softly. “Because she made the choice.”
I nod, unable to speak. The clubhouse feels too still. The murmur of voices beyond the hallway door is low, too quiet to make out. But I know Malachi’s in there. I can feel it in my bones. The storm under his skin. The way he holds too much inside and never lets it break.
He kills for this club. Protects it with a reverence that borders on sacred. Treats it as the only thing left that’s worth bleeding for. Now he’s bleeding for me too.
The thought should comfort me, but it terrifies me instead. Because I don’t know what it would do to me if something happened to him. The idea of Malachi hurt—of him bleeding, broken, or worse—makes my chest seize. I can’t picture a world without him in it. I won’t. I won’t let him burn himself out for everyone else the way I’ve seen others do. Not for me. Not for anyone.
I press the mug to my lips, close my eyes, and pretend the heat seeping through the ceramic is enough to hold me together. That the women around me can anchor me with their jokes, their stillness, their fire until the storm inside me settles.
But deep down, I know better. The storm isn’t passing. It’s just getting started.
