Page 70 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

There are more people here than I expected. A sea of masks, silk, secrets, moving in slow motion with the precision of predators. Every face is hidden behind painted porcelain, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel what they are. Hungry.

The scent hits first, opulence and rot. Expensive cologne barely masking sour nerves, perfume drowning beneath layers of sweat and fear. My stomach knots. The masked smiles resemble warning signs more than disguises.

I keep my head down and my hands in my lap, fingers laced tight enough to make the bones ache.

Malachi sits close beside me, too close to be casual, but not enough to draw attention.

His black mask marks him as a buyer, but he’s not here to purchase anyone.

He’s here for me. For answers. And he’s not letting me out of his sight.

I can feel the heat of his presence pressed to my skin, the way his gaze flicks constantly around the room, never settling for long.

Every time his thigh brushes mine, a pulse stutters low in my belly.

I don’t move. I don’t dare. Not because I want to run, but because I’m afraid of what would happen if I leaned in instead.

Victor and Olivia are seated just down from us, another set of black masks, but no one speaks. No one needs to. The tension in the room speaks for itself.

Knox and Sloane are positioned to our left, elegant and unreadable.

He’s in a crisp tux, and she’s a vision in dark green satin, their masks blending in with the dangerous opulence of this place.

Nash and East are here too, scattered throughout the crowd in separate positions, acting as eyes and ears. Surveillance.

This whole place feels torn from the depths of a nightmare I can’t wake from. A masquerade for monsters. And we’re pretending to be one of them. An announcement echoes through the speakers overhead, smooth and cold.

“The auction will begin shortly.”

Everyone straightens. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. The hum of anticipation sharpens to a blade.

We’re already in the grand hall, an opulent monstrosity built for ballroom dancing and corruption.

Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, but the gold doesn’t shine.

It suffocates. The air is thick, heavy with perfume, power, and the sickly sweet scent of fear.

Even the walls seem to hold their breath.

A quiet melody slips from my lips before I even realize I’m humming.

It threads beneath the noise of the auction, low and instinctive, something old and unfinished.

Malachi’s hand shifts against my spine; a subtle pressure.

Not a warning, but a reminder that we’re not alone.

I catch myself and stop, breath catching as I swallow it down.

The silence that follows feels heavier. But not because I regret it.

Because part of me wishes I didn’t have to.

We’re already seated near the back of the room, tucked into shadows just far enough from the spotlight to stay out of focus but close enough to strike if needed.

My mask is black, a buyer’s mask, meant to keep suspicion low.

It’s my shield tonight, though it still feels untrue against my skin, as if I’m wearing someone else’s face.

The auctioneer appears with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “There are twenty-five people up for sale tonight. Eighteen women and seven men.”

The bile rises in my throat. Sold. Treated as fucking cattle.

The click of Olivia’s jaw tightening is nearly imperceptible, but I feel it hit wrong.

It’s a sharp discordant note in the air.

Olivia stiffens beside Victor, and I feel Malachi shift beside me at the same time, subtly, but protective.

His thigh brushes against mine, a silent reminder that I’m not alone.

That I’m not getting pulled into this hell without backup.

I don’t look at Olivia. Because I can’t. I can barely look at the stage. Every person they bring out wears a different expression, some blank, some broken, some still clinging to the hope someone decent is here to buy them out of this nightmare.

Malachi’s hand, now resting against the small of my back, anchors me to the moment, grounding me when I want to float away.

I close my eyes for a beat, mouthing the silent lyrics of a song I wrote years ago, one I never finished.

Something about bruises that hum louder than screams. The words are gone now. Just rhythm remains.

Then they bring out a girl with silver hair, maybe in her early twenties. She’s trembling, but standing tall. That strength guts me.

Victor’s arm tenses as he clocks the shift in Olivia. I see her reach for him. Quiet, but firm. Malachi shifts beside me too, his hand pressing just a little more firmly against my back. Always alert. Always ready.

He leans toward her, whispering low. “Is this the one, treasure?” She nods.

“The next person up for auction is McKenzie Knight. She’s twenty-three years old, recently graduated from NYU, and is an excellent baker.

” The auctioneer’s voice is bright, presenting this horror with the cheer of a dating show instead of a sale.

McKenzie Knight. That name lands as a dropped stone in my chest.

The starting bid is seven-fifty.

A man at the front raises his hand without hesitation. Sleek suit, bald head, no emotion in his eyes. Something about him makes my skin crawl. The kind of man who buys women the way others collect rare art.

To our left, Sloane glances at Knox, a question in her eyes. Are we bidding? But when Victor raises his hand, Knox gives her the faintest shake of his head. They’ll wait. Let him take the lead.

Victor ups the bid to one million. Just like that, it begins.

The man at the front doesn’t even blink. “One and a quarter.”

Numbers rise fast. Too fast.

“One and a half,” Victor bites out.

Another buyer jumps in. Four million. Four and a quarter.

Victor hesitates, glancing at Olivia. Her face is tight, unreadable.

I want to scream. To do something. But I don’t know who this girl is, I just know that man can’t have her. It’s a gut feeling. A deep, sour coil that keeps tightening in my stomach. The kind that doesn’t need proof. Then a new voice cuts through the room, clean and cold.

“Four and a half.” Smooth. Calm. Distant.

I shift, eyes searching the crowd. The man is seated near the aisle. Black mask, black suit. Expensive. His posture is relaxed, almost lazy, but the air around him feels... different. Charged.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t need to. His presence speaks louder than the rest of the room combined. Even with the mask, something about him feels... familiar.

I narrow my eyes. There’s a flash of something, his jaw, the way he tilts his head, almost listening for something no one else can hear. Do I know him?

Victor goes to raise his hand again, over budget, but Olivia stops him with a look that begs him to trust her gut.

Sloane glances back, eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the silent exchange, realizing something is happening, something unspoken but powerful.

Her gaze sharpens with understanding, and she turns forward again, tension radiating from her shoulders.

The bidding continues. Five million. Five and a half.

Clearly not used to losing, the bald man scowls. He tries one last time. Six million hovers unspoken in the air, but he doesn’t say it.

Then, the man with the black mask lifts a hand, slow and deliberate.

“Six million,” he says. Bored. Unmoved. This has been the plan all along.

The bald man folds.

“Sold,” the auctioneer calls, voice smug with finality. “Six million.”

The room holds its breath. I don’t. I watch the man rise, smooth as silk, and make his way toward the stage. He doesn’t look at McKenzie at first; he looks at the bald man. Smirks. Salutes him.

He knew. He planned this. As he passes, his gaze brushes mine. Just for a second.

Malachi shifts beside me, his spine straightening, hand instinctively reaching to my lower back again. He senses it too, the change in me. The way my breath catches. The way my body tenses under a phantom touch. It slams into me like a gut punch.

Something tightens in my chest. A flicker of familiarity I can’t place. A memory with no name. A heartbeat out of sync. Déjà vu twisted with warning.

I don’t know who he is. But part of me whispers that I do.

We don’t linger. The moment the auction ends and the room starts to shift, we scatter, quiet, calculated. The masks stay on, always on. Anonymity is the currency here, and no one breaks the rules, not unless they want to disappear for real.

Malachi and I move toward one of the side exits, slipping through the corridors with Nash and East following at a distance. Knox and Sloane blend into another group of buyers, their movements smooth and deliberate, already playing their part.

Every hallway is a new opportunity to listen, to watch, to see if any familiar voice or slip of a name cracks open the door we’ve been pushing against for too long.

We don’t talk. Talking now would draw attention. And besides, my head’s still reeling. That man. His voice. That look.

Something about him carved its way under my skin, dragging a shadow behind it I can’t shake. I feel Malachi’s presence beside me, armor at my back. He’s scanning every person we pass, every doorframe, every shadowed corner. Not just for Alice. For his brother. For his sister.

We’ve been chasing Alice Brighton for months, but she’s no longer the only reason we’re here. If Savannah is her kingdom, then it might also be the prison that holds the answers Malachi’s been bleeding to find. The siblings he lost. The night Cornelius tried to save them.

Now we’re here. On their turf. On the edge of a secret empire. We’re not just hunting Alice anymore. We’re hunting ghosts. Something tells me they’ve been waiting for us.

We round the corner into one of the long gallery wings of the estate, where the crowd has started to thin. That’s when I see him. The man from the auction. Still in his mask. Still dangerous. But this time, he’s not alone.

He’s walking with McKenzie. Her silver hair is down, her hand tucked gently in his. There’s something in the way he moves beside her, not possessive. Protective. Like she’s breakable and he’s the only thing holding her together.

She’s speaking softly to him, but I can’t make out the words. They don’t notice us. But I notice them. And I can’t stop watching.

Even as they head for a private exit, even as they disappear into the dark like ghosts slipping through the cracks of the world, I can’t look away.

Because something in my chest tightens painfully. That man? That man is important. And I have no idea why.