That was her. After all these years. My sister’s alive. And I just let her walk away. But not for long. Not again. This time, I’ll tear the world apart to bring her home.
Chapter 59
Candace
Idon’tknowwhatjust happened, but I know what I saw. Malachi’s face cracked open, as if someone was tearing out his ribs and reaching straight into his heart.
He hasn’t moved. His hand has gone slack in mine, fingers still curled around something already lost. His eyes are pinned to the hallway where they disappeared, his stare willing her to come back.
But she won’t. Not unless we chase her.
I squeeze his hand hard. “Let’s go.”
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t argue. Just nods once, jaw clenched, and lets me pull him forward. The hallway is narrow, industrial. It’s the kind of place where secrets get dragged through the walls and left to rot behind locked doors. The overhead light buzzes, flickering, warning us in static. I ignore it.
I don’t care if we’re not supposed to be here. Or if this place was built for men meant to rule and not women who demand answers. I will burn it to the ground if it means getting answers.
Our boots echo off the concrete, quick but careful. The scent of sweat and blood still lingers from the fights, but beneath it there’s something colder now. The adrenaline has turned to smoke. We’re walking into a memory that was never ours but still cuts like it is.
I glance at Malachi. His face is stone. But his hand is gripping mine tighter now. Fierce. Like if he lets go, he’ll unravel. Or I’m the only thing anchoring him to the ground. Maybe I am. My heart thuds louder as we walk.
“You really think it was her?” I whisper.
He swallows hard. “I-I don’t know. It’s been years. But... yeah. Yeah, I think it was.”
My stomach twists. That woman, she didn’t say a word. Barely even looked at us. But there was something in her movements, every step carrying muscle memory she couldn’t shake, even if her mind had tried.
If that was Amelia, if she’s alive and here, with him, the man who bought that girl last night, then we’re in deeper than I thought.
We reach the corner where they vanished, and I slow my steps, checking for movement, voices, shadows. Nothing. Just another empty stretch of hallway leading to a locked door with a keypad and a rusted metal exit sign flickering above it. Locked.
Malachi exhales sharply, one hand bracing against the wall to keep himself standing. “She didn’t even look at me. Not really. But I swear to God, I felt it. I felt her.”
I place my hand on his back. Solid muscle, tight with restraint. The heat rolling off him is different now, quieter. Desperate. His grief has started coiling beneath his skin, clawing for a way out.
“Then we keep going. We don’t stop until we find her.”
He glances down at me, something raw in his eyes. “You don’t have to do this, Sour Patch.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I snap, because I’m angry and terrified and protective all at once. “You found her once. We’re not losing her again.”
He nods. Once. Sharply. But his throat works, swallowing down everything he doesn’t know how to say. I get it. Because if that had been someone from my past, someone I lost without warning, without answers—
I push the thought away before it finishes forming.
We turn and keep moving, deeper into the maze of corridors, past locked doors and abandoned storage rooms. Every shadow holds the potential for secrets. Every corner feels primed to snap back with the truth.
The silence stretches, heavy as the weight of what we just saw. My heartbeat becomes the only music in my head. Steady, repetitive, dull percussion against the inside of my chest. I breathe to the rhythm.
But I won’t let it win. Not tonight. Not after everything we’ve fought through just to get this close.
Just a few steps down the corridor, enough for the buzz of the warehouse lights to shift pitch, enough for the scent of sweat and motor oil to thin into something cooler, when a voice cuts through the air with precision, sharp as a well-placed hook.
“Hey.” We both stop.
The man stands near the padded door, half-shadowed, but there’s nothing casual about him. He’s tall, wiry, older, in his forties maybe, with graying hair swept back and a jaw made for bad news. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, arms lean and roped with muscle. A tattoo of a coiled snake winds down one forearm, and his eyes land on us with a fighter’s assessment.
“You fight to prove something,” he says to Malachi, his voice low and even. “And you”—he glances at me—”you’re hunting.”
