Page 79 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi’s hand finds mine briefly. Just a squeeze. A silent tether. My pulse jumps. I let the moment anchor me. One beat. One note. It’s the kind of touch that says, I see you, even when you’re hiding.

The doors to the auction room swing open with a smooth, practiced elegance, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift as Phoenix and McKenzie step through first. He’s in a black tux, his mask gold and bone-white, a Day of the Dead-style thing that makes him look both regal and dangerous.

She’s the embodiment of fire and silk at his side, matching his every step in a red and black gown that clings with deliberate precision.

Then Victor and Olivia follow all refinement and quiet power. They bring their group with them, laughing softly, whispering about meaningless things to fill the tension hanging heavy in the air.

Then us. The Outsiders move through the space with the stealth of smoke; silent, sure, coiled and waiting.

Dressed in tailored black and fitted gowns, everyone masked in onyx.

Even me. The edges of mine itch slightly along my cheeks, but I keep it on.

Tonight isn’t about comfort. It’s about watching without being seen.

Malachi’s hand is at the small of my back as we walk in, and I feel the weight of the club behind us.

East with Darla beside him, her laugh quieter than usual.

Frankie rides solo in a sleek black jumpsuit with boots that shine beneath her cloak, her mask painted with stars.

Ruby falls in behind Nash and Kyle, her stride unbothered, curls bouncing, lips pressed into a smirk holding a secret no one else seems to know.

Kyle keeps pace beside her, clearly trying not to grin.

Nash notices. Doesn’t say a word. But I catch the slight shift in his jaw.

Knox with Sloane beside him. James and Maggie.

They all fall in, every step beating out a rhythm that echoes off marble.

Phoenix and McKenzie sit near the front.

We haven’t spoken much over the last three years—they’ve both been through hell, and so have we—but I know he’s tried to keep in touch with Amelia.

Built something close to a friendship with Victor too.

It’s part of the reason we’re all here, why this night is happening at all.

Malachi guides us toward the back row, the kind of placement that feels deliberate.

We’re not the stars of this show. We’re the shadows cast behind it.

I settle beside him, trying to focus, trying to stay sharp.

But my body’s already on high alert, senses stretched taut, breath shallow.

Then McKenzie’s spine goes ramrod straight, and through the comms, her voice threads through the silence. “She’s here.” I blink. Who?

Phoenix leans toward her. “What do you see, love?”

McKenzie’s voice drops lower. “Your mother. She’s here.”

My pulse kicks. I shift slightly in my seat, my eyes sweeping the back of the room. There are too many people milling about—drinks, masks, hushed conversations—but something… something makes my breath catch.

A woman in a black floor-length dress moves through the crowd. Her hair is red. A burnished, unnatural shade that seems lit from within under the chandeliers. Her walk is slow. Controlled. Every step claiming the air around her while everyone else merely exists in it.

There’s something about her. I can’t explain it. I don’t recognize her, not consciously. But every nerve in my body leans toward her with the pull of a compass finally settling into place.

She begins walking to the front. The crowd parts. With every step she takes, my lungs constrict more. No. No. She sits down, elegant and unbothered, directly behind Phoenix and McKenzie. The world slows.

Her profile sharpens through the mask. That jawline. The way she holds her shoulders. Even the way she crosses her legs, it’s all too familiar. A half-forgotten nightmare tearing free from the dark. I can’t breathe. I can’t blink.

Then Rex’s voice crackles through the comms, low and clear. “Boss. Your mother just sat behind you and Miss Kenzie.”

Just like that, the room tilts. A name crashes into me with the force of glass shattering against pavement. Alice. That’s her. That’s my mother. Which means... My head whips toward Phoenix.

Everything slows. My heart tries to beat out of my chest, but my body’s frozen in place.

Heat rushes to my cheeks, then vanishes, leaving me cold.

He’s my brother. Phoenix is my brother. All these years.

All the pieces I’ve buried, shoved into the back drawers in my mind—his eyes, his presence, that strange pull I couldn’t explain. It was blood. It was family.

My hands curl into fists in my lap. I try to steady my breathing, to keep the mask from slipping, figuratively and literally, but it’s too late. Everything’s already changed.

Malachi’s fingers shift against the small of my back, slow, intentional.

He leans in, lips brushing the curve of my neck in a way that’s both grounding and possessive.

The touch shouldn’t steady me, but it does.

My breath stutters, the fire in my chest flaring sharper, hotter, but not from fear.

His hand tightens just slightly at my hip, and I know he sees me unraveling.

He’s holding me together without asking for permission.