Page 21 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

My gaze tracks every inch of Candace—her ripped denim shorts, that damn “Desperado” tee that hugs her curves as if it’s doing the Lord’s work. Her golden hair catches the light as she turns slightly, and I swear she wore that outfit just to torture me.

My jaw tightens against the rush of heat. She’s been dancing on the edge of my control since the second she walked in. Doesn’t even realize how easily she sets something wild loose in me just by breathing the same air.

Her legs cross tighter. A defensive move or maybe a tell.

She’s holding herself as if she’s a fortress under siege. But even the strongest walls crack when no one’s watching.

When our eyes lock, I smirk. The thing I know gets under her skin and makes her body stutter even as she tries to keep her face composed.

She’s tense, always tense around me, as though she’s coiled too tight, ready to snap or bolt.

But she hasn’t yet. And that alone? That tells me I’m under hers just as much as she’s under mine.

A flicker crosses her face, one she clamps down fast. As if desire itself is a weakness she can’t afford to show.

She doesn’t know how fucking beautiful that control is. Or how close it comes to unraveling mine.

The moment breaks when Knox strolls in, James a step behind.

“Meat’s ready,” James calls, slapping Knox on the back. “Let’s eat before East starts licking the trays.”

Candace doesn’t move. She stays perched on her stool, legs crossed, arms folded as if they’re armor. Even her old man heads toward the food, but she just stays there. Watching, waiting, keeping herself separate from all of it.

I catch the slightest shift in her jaw; tightening to hold something in. Her foot taps once against the bar rail. Restless. As though she’s holding herself back from bolting or belonging. Maybe both.

The overhead lights throw a soft sheen across her skin.

Summer-warmed, sun-kissed, untouched in all the ways I shouldn’t be thinking about right now.

I push off the doorframe and stroll over, planting myself beside her, elbows braced against the bar.

Close, but not touching. Just enough to make her feel the heat off me.

She stiffens.

The smell of her hits me—vanilla, citrus, something clean and warm that doesn’t belong in a place this grim, but clings to her in quiet defiance. I inhale it as if it’s the only pure thing in the room.

Her breath shivers in her throat. Progress.

“I figured you’d be the first in line,” I murmur, letting my voice drop low. “Didn’t strike me as the type to pass up free food. Especially cinnamon rolls.”

She doesn’t look at me, just sips her drink as though she’s praying for divine intervention. “Maybe I lost my appetite.”

The clink of ice against the glass is sharp, brittle. Her fingers tremble just a hair, but I catch it. Because I’m watching. Always watching her.

I tilt my head, studying the sharp line of her jaw. “Nah. You’re just avoiding being cornered by people who actually care about you. Scary shit, I know.”

That gets her. Her eyes cut to mine, green and fire-bright. A storm bottled tight. “You think you know me, huh?”

“I’m starting to.” I grin. “You hide in plain sight. Flannel around your waist serving as armor. Shorts that should be illegal. That shirt you wore just to test my self-control.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Please. Your self-control has been questionable since day one.”

Her fucking mouth. That fire. If I wasn’t already in too deep, I’d be smart enough to walk away now.

“Fair. But I’ve been a perfect gentleman today.” I pause, then lean in, voice dropping to a near whisper. “For now.”

Her pulse flutters in her neck. I track it the way a predator marks its target. She tries to mask it with another sip, but her fingers tremble against the glass. It’s not just nerves. It’s the desire she doesn’t want to admit to.

Her breath catches, but she covers it with another sip of her drink, the clink of ice loud in the silence between us.

I want to press my lips there. Right beneath her jaw. Feel the thrum of that pulse against my mouth. Let her know what it means to be wanted in a way that burns. But I don’t move. Don’t touch her.

I watch her a second longer, then shift the tone, smooth and easy.

“Your father paid his dues.”

Her head snaps toward me, brows furrowed. She didn’t give him the money; this is the first she’s heard of this. I see every flicker of emotion that runs through her—confusion, suspicion, betrayal.

The blood drains from her face, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t lash out.

She goes still.

It’s the kind of stillness I recognize in people seconds before they break.

Her grip tightens on the glass until her knuckles pale. She masks it by shifting in her seat, but she’s bracing for a blow.

A sharp breath pulls in through her nose. Silent. Controlled. As if she’s trying not to shatter in front of me.

The moment between us stretches, heavy with what we’re not saying.

I could reach out, push her hair back from her face, run my thumb over that stubborn jaw.

Fuck, I want to. I want her. Not just physically—though yeah, that’s definitely part of it—but something else.

I want to be the one she doesn’t flinch from. The one she trusts.

I want to touch her.

But more than that, I want her to want me to touch her.

And I think I’m close.

So close I can almost feel her heartbeat in my own chest.

Maggie’s voice cuts through the spell. “Candace, come get you some food, sweetheart!”

She blinks, as though waking up from a dream, and slides off the stool without looking at me again. But I watch her walk away, because how could I not?

The ghost of her scent lingers in the space she leaves behind. I breathe it in, foolish to the bone.

She moves into the crowd with effortless ease. Laughing at something Maggie says, nudging James in the ribs when he teases her. Her smile is easy, radiant even. This version of her—unguarded, unbothered—makes something twist in my chest.

The way sunlight breaks through smoke.

Then she crosses paths with Chuck.

And everything shifts.

She pauses, just enough to let him see her. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Perhaps hope. That childlike ache that never really dies, even when the man you once called your hero has done everything to kill it.

But he doesn’t even glance at her. Just brushes past as if she’s a stranger. Her smile falters. It’s barely a second, but it cuts deep.

I clench my jaw, rage boiling low and steady. What kind of father does that? She’s here, showing up, trying. And he can’t even acknowledge her? My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms. I want to grab him by the collar and make him look at her. Make him see what he’s throwing away.

She’s hurting. And I’m the only one who seems to see it. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand on the sidelines.

I don’t know where he got the money. But the way she looked at me, as if something had been ripped out of her, doesn’t sit right.

Now she’s standing here, broken-hearted and empty-handed, and I’m just watching. Boiling. Wondering what the hell I missed. It takes everything in me not to cross the room and put my fist through something.

Because for the first time in a long time, I care too much to pretend I don’t.