Cornelius’ voice on the phone is tight and urgent. “They took them, Kai. They took Jared and Amelia.”
My blood goes ice cold. “Who?”
He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t answer. Just hangs up. He was always that way—do first, bleed later. I race to the warehouse, gut twisting the whole way. By the time I get there, the place is on fire. Blood on the floor. Ash in the air. My siblings are gone. And Cornelius is dying.
He went in alone. Tried to save them. And I got there too late. Again.
I drop to my knees beside him. He looks at me, tries to say something, but all I catch is the way his hand reaches toward me—shaking, blood-slick, empty.
It’s haunted me ever since.
And somewhere in the middle of that night… Donovan disappeared.
Donovan Castiel. No polished front. No politician’s mask. Just a criminal with a head start. He moves through the streets with the slow, invasive spread of smoke. Launders money.Traffics drugs and people. Worms his way into every corner of Willowridge that looks the other way for a cut. He has ties to everything—the backroom deals, the trafficking network we’ve been unraveling thread by thread. I used to wonder if it was a coincidence. If him vanishing just as Cornelius died and my siblings were taken was just bad timing.
But I don’t believe in coincidence. Not in Willowridge.
It doesn’t feel like power. It feels like blame. Beneath the noise, beneath the silence and grief that still hasn’t settled, one truth pulses in my chest. A bruise that never heals.
There’s no room for softness. Not for me.
Family isn’t something you’re born into. It’s something you bleed for.
And tonight, it feels like I’ll never stop bleeding.
Chapter 3
Candace
5 Years Later
Thegroundtremblesbeneathme, the low growl of approaching motorcycles sending vibrations up my legs. Arms crossed tight over my chest, I stand at the curb, foot tapping against the concrete as impatience chews through me. Any second now, the parade of arrogant bastards will turn onto my street, dragging this ridiculous tradition with them. I steal a glance at my watch. Thirty minutes until my shift. Not enough time for this bullshit.
Then they appear.
The Outsiders round the corner, owning every inch of the road, Malachi Hayes at the front of the pack. My jaw clenches,a spike of irritation shooting through me because of course, of course he has to look the way he does.
He rides with the ease of someone born to do it, one hand loose on the bars, broad shoulders wrapped in that worn leather vest that clings to him with too much familiarity. The ink on his arms shifts with every move, dark lines twisting over muscle that pulls tight beneath his skin. I shouldn’t notice. Shouldn’t care. But those tattoos coil around him with the slow, deliberate pull of temptation. Sinful. Forbidden. The kind of thing that makes my stomach clench in ways I don’t want to name. I hate that I even notice. Hate that the ink winds across strength I have no business staring at.
And his face? That thick beard frames a jawline sharp enough to do damage, and his lips, just parted, tease at thoughts I have no business entertaining.
Then there are his eyes. Dark. Intense. Locked onto me with a knowing edge, as if he’s fully aware of the effect he has—and enjoys every second of it.
I hate that. I hate him.
More than anything, I hate the traitorous heat unfurling low in my stomach, mocking the loathing I’m desperate to hold on to. Just because he’s stupidly nice to look at doesn’t mean I have to tolerate him.
Most of the guys have a backpack clinging to them, girls with long legs and short shorts gripping tight, trophies draped over chrome and leather. But not Malachi. Commitment isn’t his thing. Of course he rides solo. Commitment would require maturity. So, naturally, his second seat serves no purpose beyond aesthetics.
He slows to a full stop in front of me, engine rumbling low beneath him, a sound that settles deep in my bones and coils there, steady and deliberate. A challenge. A warning. A promise.
“Looking sour today, sweetheart,” he calls, voice smooth enough to trip on.
I flip him off, then offer two dramatic, sarcastic claps. “Eat a nail.”
His grin spreads, quick and reckless, fire catching on dry leaves. “Flirting again? You’re getting bolder, Sour Patch.”
My spine locks. That nickname again. He started calling me that months ago and hasn’t let it go since. Says it with that infuriating confidence, as if it means something, as if he knows I’ll cave eventually.
