Page 51 of Malice

Twenty minutes. That’s how long it takes to reach the clubhouse. Twenty minutes of Carter not saying a word, not looking my way, just boring into the three men with a stare so intense it feels like the air is ready to crackle with electricity.

The van barely halts before the back door swings open. Greyson stands there, his blue eyes scanning everything with grim precision. Behind him, Matthew’s face is tight, barely holding back his anger.

“What happened?” Greyson asks, voice calm but with an edge to it.

“Three guys tried to grab her,” my father says, shutting off the engine. “In broad daylight. At the bookstore.”

Greyson’s eyes catch mine through the windshield, his expression hardening, calculating. Then his gaze shifts to the men on the floor, and suddenly it feels colder in here.

“Get them inside,” he orders. “Carter, take Trixie through the back. We don’t need a spectacle.”

Carter moves first, his hand steady on my elbow as he helps me out of the van. My knees protest, scrapes burning through my jeans. I stumble, and his arm wraps tighter around my waist, steadying me.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice raw.

The clubhouse’s back room is smaller than I imagined, windowless, under harsh fluorescent lights. Scarred wooden table, metal folding chairs. Bare walls, except for a Devil Souls patch by the door and a burn mark shaped like a handprint on another wall.

Greyson directs the men into chairs. Matthew secures them with fresh zip ties while my father stands guard, arms crossed and face unreadable. Carter places me in the corner behind him, his body shielding me from the men who tried to grab me.

“Wait outside,” Greyson says, his words aimed at Carter. “Matthew will take you.”

“No.” Carter’s voice brooks no argument. “Her mom can stay with her, but I want them where I can see them.”

Greyson considers him for a moment, then nods. “Your call.”

Carter

I stand next to her, my fingers clamped around hers like a lifeline while Greyson faces the prick from the bookstore—the one she thrashed with a goddamn plunger. Matthew ripped his mask off and tossed it aside.

The guy’s face is a fucking mess: bruised, swollen, one eye almost sealed shut. He looks younger than I thought, mid-thirties, with close-cropped hair and a thin scar running down his jaw.

Greyson’s voice lands flat and even, no warning in it at all. Sounds too friendly, which is more dangerous than a fucking growl. The asshole keeps his eyes glued to the ground, blood dribbling from his nose into a puddle at his feet.

Greyson drags a chair across the floor, the legs groaning against the concrete, then plants it right in the guy’s face. He sits, leans in, every breath he takes like a fucking metronome.

“Listen up, shithead,” Greyson says, voice low and lethal. “The woman you tried to snatch? She’s under our protection. Not just anybody’s. She’s ours. The fucking Devil Souls’. Touch what’s ours, get buried. Understand?” He lets the silence do its work. “So, who sent you?”

The guy finally lifts his head. His one good eye meets Greyson’s, but it’s all fear. No fight left in him. He glances past Greyson, eyes landing on me. His gaze flickers over the patch on my cut, a Devil Souls skull and wings, our death warrant stitched in black and red. Then he caves.

“Marcus Caldwell,” he whispers, like a death sentence. “He paid us to grab the nurse. Said she’s testifying against one of his goons, that he can’t sit in a cell, or he’ll spill his guts.”

Silence wraps around us like a vise. My heart slams a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The captive’s blood drips onto the concrete, a slow, steady rhythm under the sound of a bike growling its way into the lot.

“Caldwell,” Greyson repeats, voice icy as hell. Whatever warmth he had is gone. “You’re telling me Caldwell sent amateurs to nab a woman in broad daylight?”

The guy flinches. “He thought she’d be alone, no eyes, and that her boyfriend was just muscle from the ring, not—” His gaze flicks back to my patch. “Not one of you.”

Rage floods me, hot and blinding. I squeeze Trixie’s hand, my knuckles straining against the leather of my glove. Across the cracked asphalt, Caldwell’s smug face flashes in my mind. This shit isn’t over.

The name—Marcus Caldwell—lands in the center of my chest and detonates. It’s not just a name; it’s the source of the rot, the reason Trixie has been looking over her shoulder. The reason she was almost taken from me.

He nods, jerky as hell. “Yeah. He figured if we grabbed her, he’d shut her up. Make it all disappear.”

Something inside me fractures. Not breaks, not yet, but a crack spiders through me, sharp and clean. All my rage, fear, and the raw urge to destroy crystallizes around that single point.

I turn to her. Trixie. My hands are shaking so bad I can feel it in my teeth. Her face—strong, composed, a fucking fortress—makes my throat tighten. She’s there with blood on her fingertips, a bruise screaming across her arm, and a raw spot on her scalp where some bastard yanked her hair out, and she’s looking at me like I’m the one who might shatter.

I can’t let her see what comes next.