“What the fuck?”
Malachi. East. Nash.
A hand clamps around my wrist. “Sorry, Kai—”
“Get your fucking hand off her.”
Malachi’s voice cuts through the room, sharp as a live wire. Electricity arcs between us the second I meet his eyes. The grip disappears from my wrist instantly, as if even touching me with him in the room is some kind of sin.
My breath catches. That tone? It’s not for show. He means it. The way his eyes land on me, hard and hot, makes something pull tight in my chest. I hate how fast it happens. I hate how fast I feel it.
I cross my arms, tilting my chin. “I can take care of myself.”
“Never said you couldn’t,” he mutters, voice low, but there’s something else under it. Something rougher. He’s trying not to look too long, or too hard.
East and Nash exchange a knowing look. Smug, unreadable. Already placing bets on how this fire will burn.
Malachi doesn’t look away. Neither do I. For one breathless second, the rest of the room feels distant. It’s dangerous, the way we do this. This staring. This not-flinching. Both of us holding steady, waiting to see who breaks first.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Malachi growls. “I just dropped you off.”
His voice scrapes against something inside me. Irritation, sure, but something else, too. It curls low and tight, twisting under my ribs. There’s a flicker of something unwanted in my chest, a sliver of warmth I shove down before it can root itself. I’m not here to fall for concern dressed as a command.
Behind me, Chuck slinks in, quiet as a shadow. “She knows better than to barge in here.”
“Yeah?” I spin on him, heat burning in my throat. “And you know better than to rack up a tab you can’t pay. But here we are.”
“Candy,” he warns, voice low and laced with embarrassment.
His shoulders hunch just slightly, as if he might slink right back out of the room if given the chance. That’s all I’ll get from him. No apology, no shame. Just the same old cowardice. The man always vanishes when it counts. Always lets me take the hit.
I face Malachi, pull the wad of cash from my pocket, and toss it onto the table. It lands with a slap that sounds too loud.
“That covers his dues. This is the last time. If he’s late again, you deal with it. And cut his tab. No more free rides.”
There’s a beat of silence. Chuck doesn’t speak. Doesn’t thank me. He lingers just long enough to feel heavy and useless before slipping backward toward the door, his retreat a quiet failure. My throat tightens as I hear it close behind him. No goodbye. No fucking spine.
Malachi stares at me, eyes narrowed, trying to read past my skin. I don’t let him. I lock the walls back up, stack them high, thick, and cold. Whatever he’s searching for, he doesn’t get to see it. Not now. Not ever.
I turn and shoulder past Chuck’s ghost, not looking back.
Outside, the humidity hits me in a wave, thick and suffocating. The night air presses into my lungs, dense as damp cotton, heavy with the stink of oil, beer, and summer sweat. I drag it in anyway, sharp and bitter. It tastes of survival.
“You alright?” Frankie again. Arms crossed, one brow arched. The air around her feels… different. It hums, faint and strange, carrying the tension of static before a storm. My skin prickles, but not in a bad way. Just alert. Awake.
“Just peachy.”
“You don’t look peachy.”
The blonde scoffs from behind her. “What a bitch.”
Frankie snorts. “Darla’s a bitch too.”
I actually laugh. A short, sharp thing. The first real sound I’ve made that doesn’t taste of anger. It startles me. Thelaugh. Hearing my voice again for the first time in years, as if something inside me remembered how to breathe.
“That tattoo’s stunning,” I say, nodding at her arm. The ink glows slightly in the low light, pulsing with life, galaxies swirling in quiet motion.
She looks genuinely surprised. “Thanks. Amaranth’s my tattoo shop. You should come by sometime.”
