I nod. “Maybe.”
But it won’t happen. Not really. Not when every dollar I make is a step toward freedom. A tattoo might be therapy for some people, but for me? It’s a luxury I can’t afford. Not while I’m clawing my way out of this place. Every extra penny goes into my escape fund. No distractions. No indulgences. Just survival. Still, there’s something about her voice. An echo, maybe. As if she sees more than she says. As if she knows something about me even I haven’t figured out yet.
The door swings open again. Malachi. He sees me and zeroes in, tracking me with the focus of a predator.
“Kai, where are you going, baby?” Darla tries, her voice sugary and too eager.
He doesn’t even blink. His eyes are locked on mine, as if the rest of the world stopped existing.
She grabs his arm, tugging. “Come on.”
“Leave me alone, Darla.”
Her face twists, wounded, before she spins on her heel. Frankie catches her gently by the elbow, wraps an arm around her, and steers her back inside. It isn’t harsh, more a blend of protection and affection, the kind of touch that shields rather than restrains. I catch the way Darla leans into her just slightly, and something about it softens the sharp edge in my chest.
Then they’re gone, the door shutting behind them.
I smirk, unable to resist. “You hurt your woman’s feelings.”
“She’s not my woman.”
My gaze rakes over him. His cut, the way it hugs the hard lines of his chest, the ink trailing up his neck that disappears beneath his jaw. That throat—taut, tempting—makes heat flare in my gut before I force it down.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He steps in closer. That heat again. Thick. Tangled. Dangerous.
He smells of firewood, leather, and the night before everything goes wrong. I hate that I notice. Hate that it makes my knees feel loose.
“What kind of trouble are you and your dad in?”
“I’m not in trouble.”
He studies me, eyes narrowing as if he already knows I’m lying. “Bullshit.”
I square my shoulders. “Why do you care? You’ve never cared.”
There. A flicker. His jaw tightens, the kind of tension that suggests maybe he thought he had. For a fraction of a second, something stirs behind my ribs. It’s not trust. Not hope. Just the dangerous pull of being seen by someone who might mean it. I kill it before it takes hold.
“I care more than you think,” he murmurs.
My laugh is hollow. “You mean to tell me you didn’t know that my dad’s been late before? Racked up tabs, missed dues, and no one told you?”
His silence answers for him. He didn’t know.
I tilt my head, venom wrapped in velvet. “Sounds like you’ve got a club problem, Malachi. You handle that. I’ll handle my life.”
He takes another step, too close, his voice low and razor-sharp. “You think I don’t care, Sour Patch?”
The words slice clean through me, pulling heat and fury in equal parts. I hate how it lands. How it makes me feel seen. How it scrapes something raw inside me.
I look away, throat tight. “You don’t get to care now.”
I turn and walk, fast and unrelenting, but every step carries the weight of his stare pressed into my skin. I clench my jaw so hard it clicks. My fingers tremble slightly, curling into fists inside my pockets as I try to hold myself together.
Just keep walking. Don’t turn back. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you shake.
Chapter 8
