I don’t argue. Because he’s right.
My voice is low. “Find out what’s going on with Chuck. Give James space to do it right. But if he keeps hiding shit, I want to know.”
Nash pushes to his feet. “And Candace?”
My answer’s already formed in the pit of my gut. It tastes of possession and something sharper. Something I shouldn’t name.
Firmly, I meet his eyes. “I’ll handle her.”
He chuckles as he heads for the door. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Once the room is empty, I lean back in my chair, jaw tight, mind already spinning.
Donovan’s name hangs in the air long after the others leave. Every time I hear it, my skin itches, as if something rotten is clawing its way back to the surface. He’s not just a ghost from Victor’s past, he’s a loose thread in mine. Jared and Amelia vanished around the same time Donovan disappeared. Cornelius died not long after. Too many coincidences. Too many unanswered questions.
If Donovan knows where my brother and sister are, if he had anything to do with Cornelius’s death, I won’t just find him. I’ll dismantle him.
But even that rage, hot and steady as it is, can’t quiet the way Candace has started to crawl under my skin. She’s a splinter buried too deep. Something I should’ve pulled out a long time ago but didn’t, because the sting reminds me I’m still alive.
That girl is gasoline and spark, and I’m the idiot holding the match. Candace Giles is more than just a storm. She’s a reckoning. And I’ve never walked away from one of those.
Chapter 9
Candace
Platesclatter,silverwarescrapesagainst ceramic, voices rise and fall in a chaotic symphony around me. My body moves on autopilot dodging between tables, balancing trays, and refilling drinks with practiced efficiency. The heat of the packed restaurant clings to my skin, sweat trickling down my temple, but my hands are too full to wipe it away. My lower back aches with every step, the muscles in my legs tight and burning. I can only imagine how wild my hair must look by now, strands sticking to the back of my neck, curls puffing with humidity and motion. My shirt clings to me, damp with effort, and every breath drags through heat so thick it might as well be steam.
Under my breath, almost without thinking, I hum the faintest line of a melody. A fragment from one of my old lyrics. The sound grounds me, a rhythm steadying the chaos. But as soon as I catch myself, I clamp my mouth shut. Not here. Not now.Not when every inch of me is already exposed to the grind of this place.
We’re short-staffedagain. Two people called out, leaving the rest of us drowning in the dinner rush. It doesn’t bother me, not really. The busier we are, the more I make in tips. And right now, I need every damn cent. Every table covered, every drink poured, every smile plastered on my face means more money in my pocket, more space between me and everything else falling apart. It’s a distraction. A rhythm I can lose myself in, a well-rehearsed dance that requires no thought. It’s survival masked as customer service.
“Candace?”
The new hostess calls my name, cutting through the noise. My step falters for a fraction of a second, my forced smile slipping as I glance at her. My pulse skips, a sudden chill prickling under the collar of my shirt.
“There’s a guy here,” she says hesitantly, her eyes flicking toward the front. “He says he needs to see you.”
My fingers tighten around the water pitcher, my knuckles whitening. Heat flushes up my spine, that familiar twist of anxiety laced with something sharper. Not again. Not here. Not him.
“What guy?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.
“He didn’t give me a name, but…” She hesitates before lowering her voice. “I think he’s from the Outsiders.”
Of course he is.
A slow, burning irritation coils in my gut. My stomach drops before I can stop it. He’s everywhere lately, slipping into the fragile spaces I keep for myself. A song I can’t escape, no matter how hard I try. The kind of tune that burrows deep and lingers until it haunts my dreams.
I force myself to exhale, and finish topping off a customer’s glass without spilling it. “One second.”
Swallowing my frustration, I hand a table of older women their check, making sure they don’t need anything else before I step away. My mind is already racing.What the hell does he want?My palms itch and I press one hand briefly to my apron to stop it from trembling.
Passing Ruby on my way out, I lower my voice. “Can you keep an eye on my tables for a minute?”
Ruby nods enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh absolutely. Should I bust out some Spice Girls or stick to classic rock tonight?”
I shake my head, fighting a smile. “Just don’t scare off the customers.”
“No promises,” she chirps back.
