Page 27 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Because I want to believe this is real. That they mean it. That I belong here, wrapped in laughter and mismatched blankets and too-sweet drinks. But belonging has always come with conditions, and I don’t know the rules yet.

Later, when the clubhouse empties out and the music fades to static, I realize I’m not going home. Malachi made that clear. He doesn’t want me there until they find my dad and the men he brought with him. The way he said it was low and final, with no room for debate. I didn’t argue. I just nodded.

I didn’t even flinch. Maybe that’s the scariest part.

Now the quiet settles in, collecting in corners the way dust does. The storm has passed, but the air still hums with the echo of it.

Ruby’s asleep on the couch, curled up under one of Sloane’s soft blankets, one boot still on, eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes, war paint worn thin.

She’s snoring softly. I could sleep down here. I should. But even the couch feels too soft now. Too exposed. The hum of belonging is too loud and I don’t trust the way it seeps into my chest.

But my eyes drift to the staircase.

He’s up there.

That thought knots my stomach. Not in fear. Not exactly. It’s something heavier. A twist of nerves and heat, fear and pull. The last time I climbed those stairs, I was half-broken. He carried me. Now I’m walking under my own power, but it still feels like a threshold I don’t know how to cross.

My palms feel damp. My pulse kicks up, restless and unsteady. A new kind of tremor starts beneath my skin. The kind that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with him.

Every step creaks under my weight, betraying me with the awareness of what I’m doing. Knows what I want but can’t admit.

When I reach his door, it’s cracked open. Light spills out in a soft line across the hall.

I hesitate. Then knock.

The knock sounds louder than I mean for it to. It echoes down the hallway, a dare I can’t take back.

He’s already looking up when the door creaks open, watching with the patience of someone who’s been waiting. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just holds my gaze with that steady, unreadable expression that makes it hard to breathe.

He’s sitting on the front of the bed, elbows on his knees, legs braced wide in the stance of someone ready for whatever storm walks through the door.

Me.

Malachi looks built from sin and safety all wrapped in one.

Shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, ink snaking down his arms with the movement of something alive.

His hair’s damp from a recent shower, pushed back in messy waves.

That tattoo on his chest, the one I always pretend not to notice, rises and falls with each breath. Calm. Controlled.

Everything I’m not.

“Couch is taken,” I say, voice too dry. Too casual. My mouth feels parched, the words scraping their way out.

He nods once. “I figured.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No. You’ll take the bed.”

“And you?”

He grabs a pillow and tosses it toward the far side. “Same as last night.”

My feet don’t move. I stay frozen in the doorway, trying to pretend this doesn’t feel loaded. That I’m not counting the inches between us, not imagining what it would feel to climb into that bed and stay.

I brush the doorframe lightly as I step in, fingers lingering where his hand once braced beside my head. The memory flickers, a warning and a promise. Some part of me seems to need an anchor.

But it’s just a place to sleep. That’s all.

My body aches—deep, soul-tired aching—but my chest is worse. My heart won’t slow down. Not with him looking at me in that way. In a way that says he sees everything I’m trying to keep tucked under skin and sarcasm.

“I’m not here because I trust you,” I manage. My voice is raw. Frayed.

His eyes darken, but his voice is calm. “I know.”

That should be the end of it. Should be enough. But it’s not. Because when I finally step inside, it feels like crossing a line I can’t uncross.

He doesn’t look away.

I gather the spare clothes Sloane brought up earlier, then head for the bathroom.

Inside, I shut the door quietly, flicking the lock even though I know I don’t need to.

I catch my reflection and wince. The bruises have bloomed deeper; shadows of what I survived.

But my eyes… they’re quieter. Less panicked.

Something inside me seems to have stopped running.

Just for now.

The mirror fogs slightly from the heat rising off my skin.

I stare at myself, at the evidence. The fingerprint-shaped bruises that ghost across my biceps.

The thin cuts are still crusted with dried blood.

I trace one along my collarbone and flinch.

I don’t even know which blow caused it. But I remember the feeling.

The moment I realized no one was coming to save me.

That if I made it out, it’d be because I saved myself.

I change fast—cotton shorts and a tank top that feel too soft against skin that still remembers being grabbed. The hem of Malachi’s shirt brushes the tops of my thighs. It smells of his detergent and something uniquely him. Sharp, dark, grounding.

I breathe in through my nose. Out through my mouth.

This is temporary. Just until they find my dad and the bastards he brought to my doorstep.

I repeat it the way someone repeats a prayer. This is temporary.

When I step back into the room, he’s still seated. Still silent. Still watching.

My breath hitches. Because I can’t read him, and that scares me more than anything. Not the ink or the scars or the silence, but the way he doesn’t look away. He’s willing to carry the weight of whatever I bring into this room. Even the parts I haven’t named yet.

The air shifts when I move past him. The tension between us is a wire pulled tight. It’s humming, vibrating, ready to snap. I feel his eyes on me the way you feel a touch, even though he doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t have to.

His breathing changes. Just a little. A fraction deeper. His chest rises in a way that says he’s bracing, too.

It’s him. The weight of him. The steadiness. He’s made of stone and fire and every single thing I’ve been missing.

And I hate it.

Because I want to crawl into that bed and forget everything. Want to let myself fall into the gravity of him just for one night. But I can’t.

I won’t.

I slip under the covers and keep my back to him. My hands fist the sheets like they’ll keep me grounded. The sheets are warm from him. From where he sat. His heat lingers, a ghost pressed into cotton.

I slip under the covers and keep my back to him. My hands fist the sheets, trying to stay grounded. The sheets are warm from him. From where he sat. His heat lingers, a ghost pressed into cotton.

My pulse thrums at the base of my throat. Too fast. Too aware.

My skin prickles when I slip beneath the blanket. Not from cold, but from how close he is. How much he isn’t touching me. How much I don’t want him to stop not touching me.

The mattress shifts behind me, slow and deliberate. I feel him lie down; his weight pressing into the bed, steady and real.

My voice is tight when I speak. “You didn’t ask if I’m okay.”

There’s a pause. Then, low and rough: “I didn’t need to. You’re alive. That’s what matters. For now.”

His words settle over me, a kind of armor. Not soft. Not sweet. But solid.

A knot loosens beneath my ribs. Not all the way, but enough.

I think he’s asleep, then I hear it. A breath just a little deeper than the others. Maybe he’s not watching me anymore, just remembering that I’m here. Maybe I’m not the only one trying to survive the night.

I close my eyes. Try to sleep. Try to pretend the heat radiating off his side of the bed isn’t messing with my head. That the scent of soap and leather and something darker doesn’t make my skin hum. That his silence isn’t the only thing keeping me from unraveling.

I don’t trust him.

I’ll leave as soon as this is over.

But I don’t ask him to move. Don’t ask him to leave. Don’t do anything at all except stay.

For the first time in a long time, the bed doesn’t feel too big.

It feels like maybe… I’m not surviving this night alone.