Page 33 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

Everything I’d been burying all week—grief, betrayal, rage so sharp it tasted of metal in my mouth—finally broke loose in that cage.

I didn’t just swing at the guy in front of me.

I swung at ghosts. At the stench of lies that still cling to my skin.

The twist in my gut when I found out Cornelius didn’t die the way they said.

At the sick realization that Donovan’s name sits tangled in the same rot that swallowed Jared and Amelia whole.

Underneath all of it… there’s her.

My eyes catch on Candace in the crowd, a habit I never unlearned.

Gravity’s rewritten itself to orbit her whether I want it to or not.

I didn’t expect her tonight; I’ve learned better than to hope.

But part of me did anyway. That part that’s still bleeding under the bruises, still waiting for something that doesn’t resemble goodbye.

She’s standing still. Watching me.

Not the way it was before, when her stare was all steel and scorn. Tonight, there’s something cracked open behind her eyes. Like staying away from me carved something out of her. Maybe, just maybe, she’s not ready to let me go.

I step out of the cage, blood roaring in my ears. Coach Tompkins slaps my back hard enough to rattle something loose in my ribs.

“You pulled ten grand outta that ring,” he says, voice all grit and pride.

I nod once, barely slowing. My eyes stay locked on her.

Ten grand. Enough to cover what her bastard father stole. It won’t give her back the house, the years, the parts of herself she had to break off just to survive. But it’s a start. A step. Something real I could give her if she still wants to walk away.

I won’t stop her. Even if it cuts the last of me out in the process.

I wasn’t supposed to fall. Not for her. Not like this—headlong, wrecked, and too far gone to crawl back out. But love doesn’t give a damn about rules or timing or the mess you’re standing in. Now that I’ve got it tangled in my chest, there’s no tearing it free without shattering everything else.

She doesn’t run this time.

She stays. Meets me in the middle of all the noise, blood, and broken things with her chin lifted, daring me to be what she needs or daring herself to ask for it.

James’ voice ghosts through the chaos. Be the man who doesn’t run when she does. Let her come to you. And when she does? Don’t fix her pain. Just sit in it with her.

She came. That’s enough.

I stop in front of her, close enough to feel the tension humming off her skin, static in the air. Her chin tilts up. Stubborn, soft, and everything I can’t quit. I brush a strand of hair from her face. She doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t pull away. That alone feels like a miracle.

“You came to watch me fight.”

“I did.”

I cup her face—both hands steady this time. Not the frantic kind of touch we fell into that night, not need wrapped in fury. This is quieter. Still trembling, but honest.

“Good.”

The word barely leaves my mouth before I close the space between us.

My thumb traces beneath her cheekbone, her skin warm and impossibly soft beneath my calloused touch. She holds still, breathing in pain. Bracing for impact.

I lean in slowly, giving her every second to walk away.

She doesn’t. So I kiss her.

Not hard. Not desperate. Just… true. A slow press of lips that says everything I’m too wrecked to voice. She stiffens, just slightly, her body at odds with her heart. Then I feel it—her breath catching, her mouth parting. The faintest taste of surrender.

I should stop. I don’t.

She’s still sugar and sharpness, still something I could drown in without ever finding the surface. Beneath the breath mints and maybe Ruby’s candy stash, there’s the pulse of her. Bitter, bold, unforgettable. The kind of taste that ruins you for anything else.

My hand slips to her waist, fingers resting just above her hip bone. I don’t pull her in. I just anchor. Something in me hopes that if I hold her steady, maybe everything else will stop spinning.

She makes a sound then. It’s tiny, helpless, caught halfway between protest and need.

It wrecks me.

Then she kisses me back.

Slow, hesitant, then with urgency you can’t fake. Her hand fists in my shirt, trying to drag me into her ribcage. The other finds my neck, pulling me closer. It’s not clean or sweet. It’s years of ache, fury, and what ifs packed into the space between heartbeats.

We kiss, bleeding under the surface, and this is the only thing that stops it from spilling out.

When we finally break apart, we stay close—breathing each other’s air, undone and silent. Her lips are parted. Her eyes glassy. She looks torn, trying to figure out if this is a mistake or the start of something real.

I brush my thumb along her jaw. “Leave your car. I’ll have a prospect grab it.”

Kyle finished working on it a few days ago; new brakes, clean rotors, fresh alignment. I didn’t tell her I was the one who made sure it got pushed to the top of the list. I didn’t tell her I checked every inch of it myself before Kyle touched a wrench. She doesn’t need to know that. Not yet.

Her brows twitch. She wants to argue, I see it in the set of her mouth, but she doesn’t. She just nods. It’s a quiet surrender that lands in my chest, a heartbeat I didn’t know I was missing.

Outside, the night air is sharp and clean, cold enough to bite. My bike waits by the curb, matte black and gleaming under the porch light. I hand her my helmet without a word.

She stares at it. Then at me. Then slides it on, choosing trust with shaking hands.

Once we’re on the bike, her arms wrap around me tighter than they need to. I feel the way she fits against me, the uneven rhythm of her breath, the fear and the want tangled in every inch of her.

This isn’t just a ride. It’s her saying okay in the only way she knows how right now.

The clubhouse is quieter by the time we pull in. Not empty. Just settled. The kind of quiet that comes after the storm, when only the real ones remain.

I kill the engine. Gravel crunches under our boots. The lights throwing long shadows across the lot.

“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the back. “Less chance of stepping in blood or vomit.”

“Charming,” she mutters, but falls in beside me anyway.

Inside, the air is warm. Lived-in. Music hums low. It’s something old and slow, the bass a heartbeat in the floorboards. Blankets draped over chairs, bottles scattered, jackets flung without care.

Ruby’s already curled on the massive couch in a hoodie three sizes too big. Her laugh bounces off the walls, something wild and unfiltered. Candace stiffens at the sight of her, surprise flicking through her gaze.

Frankie doesn’t look up right away. She just swirls her drink in slow circles, eyes half-lidded, like she knew Candace would walk in before she did. The candles on the table flicker for a beat, though there’s no draft.

“Took you long enough,” she says, without looking. “Thought maybe you’d show after the third round.”

Candace stares at her. Frankie finally lifts her gaze, and there’s something uncanny in the weight of it.

She sees more than she should. Or watching not just this moment, but all the tangled threads spinning toward it.

Her eyes are too clear. Her presence too still.

She hums something under her breath, and for a beat, it feels like the room exhales.

Nash leans against the pool table, unreadable as ever, arms crossed. East walks in from the hallway carrying a beer and nods at us as he joins Frankie and Nash by the table, muttering something under his breath.

Knox is on the couch with Sloane tucked against him, but not quite touching.

Her smile is there, soft and practiced, but her eyes drift away from him mid-laugh.

Her hand sits on the armrest instead of in his.

When Knox reaches for his drink, she doesn’t lean in like she used to.

Just offers a small smile and goes back to listening.

“Hey!” Darla grins. “Look who came crawling back from the dead.”

“Careful,” Sloane adds dryly. “We were about to start talking shit.”

“We were already talking shit,” Frankie corrects. “We just hadn’t gotten to Malachi yet.”

Knox raises an imaginary glass at Candace. “Glad you’re here.”

She hovers in the doorway, a ghost unsure whether it’s allowed to be seen. Then Ruby waves her over, totally unfazed.

“Get over here,” she says. “You look like you need carbs and bad decisions.”

Candace hesitates. Then she moves.

She slides into the open spot beside Ruby, who immediately tosses a blanket over her legs, a motion driven by muscle memory. Darla hands her a half-eaten bag of gummy worms without comment.

Candace stares at them for half a second before taking one. A silent truce. A quiet craving.

“She’s in,” Frankie declares, raising her drink. “Blanket privileges.”

“Took me three years to get one,” Nash mutters.

“That’s because you don’t talk,” East says. “And you stare like you’re planning murders.”

Nash lobs a pretzel at him without breaking eye contact.

Laughter ripples through the room—low and warm and real. Candace tugs the blanket tighter, wrapping it around herself as armor. Ruby leans against her. She doesn’t pull away.

She’s not relaxed… but she’s not bracing for impact anymore, either.

East nudges Darla’s knee with his under the table, almost absentmindedly. She flicks a glance at him, eyes narrowing, trying to figure him out, and failing. But her lips twitch, just barely, a hint she doesn’t mind the effort.

She glances at me for half a heartbeat.

It’s not a question or a warning. It’s something close to thanks.

I drop into a chair across the room, where I can see Candace. See all of them. I don’t say a word.

She didn’t run. She’s still here. That’s all I need to hold the line.