He turns his head just in time for my fist to crash into his jaw. Bone and cartilage crack beneath the impact. His head whips to the side, body buckling. He hits the pavement hard, a choked grunt escaping him before he goes still.
Good. Let him hurt. Let him feel even a sliver of what I’ve carried.
I don’t hesitate. I swing my leg over the bike—his bike, now mine. My fingers tremble, sticky with blood, but they wrap around the throttle as if they were made for it. The engine growls to life beneath me, loud and alive.
Gravel sprays behind me as I peel out, the back tire screaming across the asphalt. Wind tears at my face, stinging the cuts on my cheeks. My ribs ache with every inhale, my legs shake from the adrenaline crash, but I don’t let up.
I’m barely holding on. But I don’t care.
I ride. To the club. To Malachi. To someone who might actually fight for me. To someone who might actually choose me.
Chapter 19
Malachi
Thefightflickeringacrossthe bar’s TV barely registers. My leg bounces restlessly, nerves humming beneath the surface with the buzz of static. The club’s gone still. It emptied out hours ago, and silence settled in the way fog does after the last customer walked out. The air smells faintly of spilled beer, sweat, and the lemon cleaner Kyle uses after closing, but none of it cuts through the feeling in my chest. It’s well past two, but I haven’t moved from this couch. Not with the weight pressing on my chest since lunch. The kind of weight that never sits still. A knowing. It’s a threat waiting to take shape. A noose I can’t see, tightening by the hour.
Something’s off. Has been all day.
Earlier, word came through. Donovan was spotted. I passed it along to Victor. He didn’t show at the lunch, said his woman still doesn’t feel safe. Can’t blame her. I’ve never seen Victor thisrattled. Not even when Josie was around. Makes me miss having him in the thick of things. But we’ve got bigger problems.
Donovan’s name is a match to dry kindling in my mind. He knows something; about Cornelius, about my missing brother and sister. I’ve carried the weight of not knowing for too long, and every time that name surfaces, my knuckles itch. He was there when everything fell apart. Too close to the fire not to be burned by it. One way or another, I’m going to get the truth out of him. I’ll drag it out with blood if I have to. Blood’s easier than waiting. Easier than not knowing.
My gaze is locked on the screen, but my mind spins elsewhere. Chuck. The meeting. The look on Candace’s face when he brushed her off. It all plays on a loop. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. That flicker of hurt she tried to bury beneath defiance. That crack she didn’t want anyone to see, especially me.
Then I hear it.
A motorcycle’s roar slices through the stillness, cutting through flesh. I shoot to my feet, instinct flaring sharp and hot. That’s Chuck’s bike, but he’s not the one riding it. The pitch is wrong. A stranger’s grip on familiar power.
My gut knows.
I’m already halfway to the door before the engine cuts off. My hand curls around the grip of the gun tucked behind my back, sweat slicking the metal against my palm. I crack the door open cautiously, breath shallow.
Then I see her. Candace.
Not walking. Not standing proud the way she usually does. Slumped.
Still straddling the bike, her body slumped as if lifeless. Her hair is whipping around her face, blood streaking her skin. Her eyes are closed. She looks… broken.
Panic slams into me with the force of a freight train.
My breath’s gone. Just gone.
I’m out the door in a second. No threats, no shadows. Just her, bleeding and barely upright. The wind hits me carrying the weight of a curse, her scent already in it. Smoke, blood, citrus. Too much.
“Who the fuck did this to you?” My voice is low, dangerous, but shaking beneath the surface. Rage tries to claw up my throat, but something worse follows. Fear.
Her head lolls forward, her gaze locking on mine. There’s steel in her eyes, there always is, but tonight it’s dulled by something raw. Something fractured. It guts me more than the blood.
“I didn’t know where else to go.” Her voice is barely there. Shaky. A single tear slips down her bruised cheek, catching on a strand of hair.
My heart tears in half. Mine. She doesn’t even know it yet. But she’s mine. And nobody does this to what’s mine.
There’s a fresh bruise slicing across her eyebrow, the sickly purple already forming along her jaw and throat. Her clothes are torn. Blood—some hers, maybe not—all over her. The metallic tang of it lingers in the night air.
“I’ve got you.” My voice drops, fierce and guttural. “You can always come to me.”
She wobbles as she tries to dismount, barely able to hold the weight of the bike. Her legs are shaking, arms trembling, and the angle’s off. She’s going to tip.
