For tonight’s auction, every single person being auctioned chose to be there. Phoenix and his men interviewed each one, and gave them a way out if they needed it. The money they earn is theirs, ninety percent, straight into their hands. The other ten goes to a fund for survivors such as McKenzie, Darla, and me.
Victor spread the word in the right circles, the ones still wrapped in shadow. Almost three hundred RSVPs. It’s the biggest auction yet. But what they don’t know is this night isn’t for them. It’s for the ones they’ve hurt. It’s a trap. There are undercover plants waiting, and they’re walking into a setup they won’t see coming.
We’re not just attending this auction, we’re turning it into a weapon. Taking back what was used to break us and using it to break the system instead. Even Amelia is helping. She’s posing as Ava Cross, a woman being sold at the auction to help her get away from an abusive ex. The money she wins will her get as far away as possible.
Behind us, one by one, the Outsiders fire up their bikes. The familiar thrum of their engines rolls through my chest, a heartbeat I didn’t realize I needed. It buzzes in my teeth, hums in my fingertips.
The first bike to pull up beside us is East’s. His sunglasses are perched on his nose, ridiculous under the night sky, but that’s East for you, bold, reckless, and annoyingly good at it.
He looks over and smirks, his voice crackling through the comms embedded in our helmets. “Damn, Sour Patch. You’re gonna break necks in that dress.”
I arch a brow. “Only if they’re dumb enough to look too long.”
A soft laugh behind him makes me glance again. Darla is sitting on the bike, posture easy and certain, a woman born to be there. Her hand rests casually on East’s thigh, and her lips curl into something carrying trouble beneath cherry red lipstick. She meets my gaze and winks. It’s not loud or possessive, just… hers. I smile, letting the warmth of it settle low in my chest.
East gives a mock groan. “God, I love you,” he mutters, then adds quickly, “but not like he does.”
Malachi doesn’t respond. Just revs the engine once in warning and pulls ahead.
Nash is next. Silent. Solid. He gives a single nod, his face shadowed beneath his helmet, but the weight of that nod feels grounded in promise. A protector in leather and steel. And maybe something more. His gaze shifts toward Ruby, riding her own bike just a few feet away. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger, leaning slightly toward Kyle as they exchange some low, teasing comment. Her smile curves slow, playful. A muscle in Nash’s jaw ticks before he turns his head forward again.
Knox and Sloane follow close behind, Sloane’s hair tucked into a silk scarf that matches her wine-red lips. Knox leans just a little toward her, his hand on the throttle, her presence pulling him steady.
Frankie rolls up on her own bike, her black hair pulled into a sleek braid down her back, her helmet resting against her thigh until the last moment. She gives me a nod, chin lifted, sharp and knowing. No need for words. She sees everything. The stars painted across her mask glitter with a shimmer that seems to whisper secrets. For a second, I feel her reading the beat pulsingin my chest, one I haven’t named but still follow, a half-written song I don’t yet understand.
James and Maggie ride near the rear. Maggie’s hands rest gently on James’s waist, her dress catching the moonlight. She’s a vision from a dream. The two of them are steady in a way that makes my chest ache, the kind of love that survives storms because it was built to endure them.
Kyle flanks the group, his face unreadable but his eyes constantly scanning. Ruby rides between him and Nash, her curls bouncing in the wind as she leans too close to Kyle and yells over the engine, "If this dress flies up, you're legally obligated to catch it, and tip me for the show!"
Kyle’s eyes widen, and he lets out a startled laugh. Nash doesn’t say a word, but I catch the way his head tilts slightly in their direction, how his jaw tightens just a little more than usual. He looks away a beat too slow, trying to mask a reaction that’s already written across him.
We fall in behind the limo in a wave of thunder and heat. The Outsiders claim the night with the slow build of a storm rising behind a velvet curtain.
And me? I hold tight to Malachi, dress clinging to my skin, hands curled against his stomach, and a fire building in my chest I can’t name yet. It beats to a rhythm I know but can’t write. Yet.
All I know is, whatever this night holds, whatever truths are waiting behind silk masks and whispered names, we aren’t riding into it alone. We’re riding in as a family. As a force. As the storm.
We don’t follow behind the limo; we flank it in shadow-formed symmetry. A dozen Outsiders cutting through the night with quiet intent, the rumble of our engines low and steady. It’s not flashy. Not loud. It’s a warning. We’re here, and we don’t need an introduction.
The wind whips at the hem of my dress, my hands tight around Malachi’s waist as we take the turn into Victor’s estate. I don’t know how the hell I’m still on the bike in this dress, but somehow, it works. The slit’s high enough, and I hiked the fabric up to my thighs before I climbed on. My boots dig into the footrests, and I press into Malachi’s back, steadying myself. The heat of his body bleeds into mine, steady and certain, drumming out a rhythm only we can hear.
Ahead, the Hummer limo glides through the gates with the ease of something born to rule. We pull to a stop along the circular drive as the limo parks ahead. One by one, helmets come off. Malachi helps me off the bike and I adjust my dress as subtly as I can.
He watches me with a flash of something hot in his eyes, then turns his attention forward, jaw tight beneath his mask. That tension? It thrums through him in a pulse held tight against his spine. It’s all I can do not to reach for it.
Victor’s already waiting near the entrance with Olivia, decked out in black and red elegance. We’re dressed in shadows, and they’re the stage. One by one, we fall in behind them, pieces of a plan sliding exactly into place.
“Comms check,” Nash murmurs through my earpiece.
“Loud and clear,” Frankie replies, already inside.
“Copy that,” East adds, his tone easy. But there’s tension under it. We all feel it.
We move through the hall. Security blends into the walls. Unassuming servers. Guests with teeth behind smiles. Everyone’s pretending, but the Outsiders don’t pretend. We watch. We wait.
Malachi’s hand finds mine briefly. Just a squeeze. A silent tether. My pulse jumps. I let the moment anchor me. One beat. One note. It’s the kind of touch that says, I see you, even when you’re hiding.
The doors to the auction room swing open with a smooth, practiced elegance, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift as Phoenix and McKenzie step through first. He’s in a black tux, his mask gold and bone-white, a Day of the Dead-style thing that makes him look both regal and dangerous. She’s the embodiment of fire and silk at his side, matching his every step in a red and black gown that clings with deliberate precision.
