Page 24 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

The fight flickering across the bar’s TV barely registers.

My leg bounces restlessly, nerves humming beneath the surface with the buzz of static.

The club’s gone still. It emptied out hours ago, and silence settled in the way fog does after the last customer walked out.

The air smells faintly of spilled beer, sweat, and the lemon cleaner Kyle uses after closing, but none of it cuts through the feeling in my chest. It’s well past two, but I haven’t moved from this couch.

Not with the weight pressing on my chest since lunch.

The kind of weight that never sits still.

A knowing. It’s a threat waiting to take shape.

A noose I can’t see, tightening by the hour.

Something’s off. Has been all day.

Earlier, word came through. Donovan was spotted.

I passed it along to Victor. He didn’t show at the lunch, said his woman still doesn’t feel safe.

Can’t blame her. I’ve never seen Victor this rattled.

Not even when Josie was around. Makes me miss having him in the thick of things. But we’ve got bigger problems.

Donovan’s name is a match to dry kindling in my mind.

He knows something; about Cornelius, about my missing brother and sister.

I’ve carried the weight of not knowing for too long, and every time that name surfaces, my knuckles itch.

He was there when everything fell apart.

Too close to the fire not to be burned by it.

One way or another, I’m going to get the truth out of him.

I’ll drag it out with blood if I have to.

Blood’s easier than waiting. Easier than not knowing.

My gaze is locked on the screen, but my mind spins elsewhere.

Chuck. The meeting. The look on Candace’s face when he brushed her off.

It all plays on a loop. Every time I close my eyes, I see her.

That flicker of hurt she tried to bury beneath defiance.

That crack she didn’t want anyone to see, especially me.

Then I hear it.

A motorcycle’s roar slices through the stillness, cutting through flesh. I shoot to my feet, instinct flaring sharp and hot. That’s Chuck’s bike, but he’s not the one riding it. The pitch is wrong. A stranger’s grip on familiar power.

My gut knows.

I’m already halfway to the door before the engine cuts off. My hand curls around the grip of the gun tucked behind my back, sweat slicking the metal against my palm. I crack the door open cautiously, breath shallow.

Then I see her. Candace.

Not walking. Not standing proud the way she usually does. Slumped.

Still straddling the bike, her body slumped as if lifeless. Her hair is whipping around her face, blood streaking her skin. Her eyes are closed. She looks… broken.

Panic slams into me with the force of a freight train.

My breath’s gone. Just gone.

I’m out the door in a second. No threats, no shadows. Just her, bleeding and barely upright. The wind hits me carrying the weight of a curse, her scent already in it. Smoke, blood, citrus. Too much.

“Who the fuck did this to you?” My voice is low, dangerous, but shaking beneath the surface. Rage tries to claw up my throat, but something worse follows. Fear.

Her head lolls forward, her gaze locking on mine. There’s steel in her eyes, there always is, but tonight it’s dulled by something raw. Something fractured. It guts me more than the blood.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” Her voice is barely there. Shaky. A single tear slips down her bruised cheek, catching on a strand of hair.

My heart tears in half. Mine. She doesn’t even know it yet. But she’s mine. And nobody does this to what’s mine.

There’s a fresh bruise slicing across her eyebrow, the sickly purple already forming along her jaw and throat. Her clothes are torn. Blood—some hers, maybe not—all over her. The metallic tang of it lingers in the night air.

“I’ve got you.” My voice drops, fierce and guttural. “You can always come to me.”

She wobbles as she tries to dismount, barely able to hold the weight of the bike. Her legs are shaking, arms trembling, and the angle’s off. She’s going to tip.

“Easy,” I murmur, stepping in close. I grab the handlebars and flick the kickstand out with my boot before guiding the weight of the bike down and steadying it. Only once it’s secure do I reach for her.

“Come here.”

She doesn’t argue. Just lets me wrap an arm around her waist, but the second her feet touch the ground, her knees give out completely.

I catch her before she falls and scoop her into my arms without hesitation. She tenses for half a second in a knee-jerk reaction, then melts against me, as if her body’s finally given permission to stop pretending it's okay.

She’s trembling, but she’s still burning from the inside out. That same fire I’ve seen since the first time she snapped at me across a barroom floor.

Candace chose me. When everything broke, she chose me.

Inside, I kick the door shut, lock it tight, and carry her upstairs. Every step, every breath, is a vow. Her weight presses into my arms, and I hold her tighter, afraid she might vanish if I loosen my grip. My arms burn with the need to keep holding her even after we reach the bed.

I set her gently on the bed in my room and grab a water from the mini fridge.

She clutches it with shaking fingers. Her thumb taps lightly against the plastic bottle.

A slow, steady beat. Almost a rhythm. I doubt she even knows she’s doing it.

I don’t say a word. The sound fills the silence, echoing a heartbeat.

Her voice cracks as she speaks. “I had nine grand saved. Hidden in my room. He stole it. That’s how he paid his dues.”

My fists curl so tight my knuckles ache. Blood rushes to my head, hot and sharp. Nine grand. Her way out. Gone.

“I figured it out when I got home,” she continues. “Trashed his room. That’s where these came from.” She lifts her arm, showing me cuts and glass-splintered skin. Fury surges. But beneath it? Fucking pride. She didn’t sit still. She fought.

“I fell asleep in the hallway,” she adds, swallowing hard. “When I woke up… he was home. With two men. They were talking about selling me.”

I freeze. Ice floods my bloodstream. The room tilts slightly, as if the words shifted gravity.

“They were there to take me,” she whispers.

Every part of me goes still. Then violent. My vision edges black. Not rage. Something colder. Final. A cold clarity settles behind my eyes, storm pressure building on the brink of breaking.

She lifts her chin. “I fought back. Took them by surprise. Got out.”

I pace, mimicking a caged animal. My heart’s in my throat, pounding. My head’s a pressure cooker about to blow. The air tastes of metal.

“I hurt them more than they hurt me,” she says, a small, defiant edge to her voice.

I stop in my tracks. “You trained with Coach Tompkins, right?”

She nods, her mouth twitching in something close to pride. “Broke a guy’s nose. Knocked the other one out cold. I’m sure I left marks.”

“Good.” I step close. “I hope they remember you every time they breathe.” The way I’ll remember this moment every time I breathe.

She offers a crooked smile. “I punched my dad too. He tried to run. So I hit him and took the bike.”

The anger in me twists into something darker. Protective. Territorial. It coils in my chest and settles behind my ribs, fire licking at the edges.

“You’re safe now,” I say, softer this time. “He’s never touching you again.”

She leans against me. No words. Just trust. For the first time, she lets herself collapse. And I hold her as if I’ll never let go.

Her breath fans against my neck. A shiver I feel all the way down my spine. Her skin is damp with sweat and blood, but her body fits against mine, carved for this moment.

While she’s in the shower, I make the calls I need to. Quiet, necessary, and merciless.

First to Nash. He picks up on the third ring, his voice rough with sleep. “Yeah?”

“Chuck stole the money Candace saved,” I say without preamble. “Then he brought two men to take her. Sell her. She fought them off.”

There’s a pause. Then a sharp inhale. “What the fuck?”

I give him everything. Her injuries, the cuts on her arms from busting up Chuck’s room, the panic in her voice, the way she rode in bloodied and shaking but still in control of that bike as if the damn street was hers.

“She’s upstairs now. Showering. But she’s rattled. Said one of the men had a foreign accent. Could be nothing. Could be Donovan.” If it was Donovan, hell itself won’t be enough to hide him from me.

That name makes everything inside me clench.

If Donovan had anything to do with this, if he even breathed in Candace’s direction, I’ll take him apart bolt by bolt.

I’ve been looking for a thread that leads back to my brother and sister for years.

Donovan was the last one seen with Cornelius before he died.

I know he knows something. Now he’s circling back as a vulture would, thinking we won’t notice? Thinking I won’t come for him?

He’s wrong.

Nash is already moving. I hear the rustle of fabric, the jangle of keys. “I’m heading to their place now. Maybe I can pick up a trail.”

“Loop in Leo and Arden,” I tell him. “Keep Victor out of it for now. I don’t want him spiraling unless Donovan’s name gets confirmed.

We need to be surgical until we know what we’re dealing with.

” A small voice in the back of my head whispers.

If Frankie gets any hunches, we’ll follow them too. No lead is off the table.

“Copy. I’ll update you soon.”

When I hang up, my hand stays clenched around the phone. I text Knox and East, set up a morning meet, and ask Knox to bring Sloane. Candace needs someone who knows how to read pain that doesn’t bruise easy. Someone who can catch the damage that hides in the quiet.

I toss my phone aside and stare at the door she’s behind.

I’d left a pair of my boxers and a worn black tee folded at the foot of the bed before she went in.

Clean. Soft. Mine. Now I can’t stop picturing her in it.

Skin damp. Hair curling from the heat. Her scent pressing into the fabric where mine used to live.

She’s claiming my space. My things. My air. I don’t fucking mind.

My hand tightens again; this time it’s not from rage.

Not the time. She’s hurt. Shaken. Processing what happened in that hellhole she still had to call home. But the image—her bare in the next room, only a wall and a whisper of steam away—fuses itself to the inside of my skull.

Then the shower cuts off.

My pulse kicks up. Fast. Immediate.

A moment later, the bathroom door creaks open, and steam rolls out in curls, fog off a battlefield.

She steps through it barefoot, hair twisted into a messy bun, a few damp strands clinging to her neck.

My tee hangs off one shoulder, swallowing her frame, and my boxers cling to her hips as if they’ve found religion.

She’s a vision. Bruised. Raw. Gorgeous.

The kind of beautiful that ruins a man’s peace.

She catches my stare. Sees the heat I’m not bothering to hide pressing against my sweats. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t apologize. She’s still standing. Still fighting. Even now.

She’s still shaken. But she’s not broken.

“I didn’t wash my hair,” she says, voice soft. “I have special products for it. Curly hair’s a bitch to deal with.”

That little flash of pride, of control, guts me. Even after everything, she’s still holding onto this piece of herself. A flag she refuses to let fall.

“I’ll have Nash swing by your place,” I say, voice level. “Grab your stuff. Anything else you want?”

She hesitates, shifting her weight. Her arms fold over her chest, not to hide, but to hold herself in. Her fingers tug at the hem of the shirt as if she’s grounding herself there.

“My guitar,” she says, so quiet I almost miss it. The word lands carrying the weight of a secret she never meant to tell.

I blink. “You play?”

She nods, jaw working. “And my notebooks. If they’re still there. I don’t need them, but… I just want to know they’re okay.”

Then her face changes. Eyes wide. Breath catching. A sudden, sharp intake. As if realizing too late you’ve left the door unlocked.

“What if he went back? What if he took the guitar? What if he tries to sell it?”

Panic laces her voice, ragged and sudden. Her grip tightens around the fabric of my shirt.

“Hey.” I take a slow step forward. Hands open. “It’s okay.”

She takes a small step back. Not far. But enough to stab something in me.

I don’t move closer. I hold still. Her walls are back up; mortared with fresh fear and years of survival. And I respect it. I won’t break them down by force. Not now.

My voice softens. “I’ll have Nash look for the guitar. The notebooks. Everything. If he took it, we’ll track it. If he sold it, we’ll get it back. If he broke it—”

“I’ll kill him,” she snaps, voice fierce and sharp.

My lips twitch. “We will,” I say. “But I don’t think he had time. He’s running scared now. There’s nowhere he can go that we won’t find him.”

She watches me as though she’s trying to decide if she can believe that. As though she’s never had anyone offer to fight for the things that make her who she is. Not just her safety. Her voice.

Then her voice drops. Fragile, unsure. “Why would you do that for me?”

I step forward again—slow, steady. Not touching. Just close enough for her to feel the weight of the truth.

“Because you’re one of us,” I say, voice rough. “Whether you like it or not.”

She holds my gaze, and I let her see everything. My fury, my need, my loyalty. All of it.

For once, she doesn’t look away.