Page 35 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

She didn’t say a word when she slipped out of bed. Just peeled herself away like it hurt. Leaving cost her more than she wanted to admit. She didn’t look at me, either.

But her hand... lingered on the doorframe.

A second. Maybe less. But long enough to matter.

Long enough to wrap itself around my ribs and stay there.

That second? It branded itself into me. I see it every time I blink; her fingers ghosting that wood, not ready to let go. Maybe, just maybe, she’d meant to stay.

Now it’s late afternoon, and I’m still carrying that second like a bruise. Her warmth. Her silence. The ache of almost .

The clubhouse has roared back to life—boots echoing across hardwood, music drifting in from the back hall, East shouting about something out in the garage—but none of it touches me.

My focus is wrecked. All I hear is her breath in the dark.

All I feel is her leg curling around mine, forgetting not to need me.

Even now, my skin remembers the press of hers. The way she didn’t flinch. The way she breathed softer once her knee found mine, a part of her no longer bracing.

I’m out back now, leaning on the railing, cigarette burning low between my fingers. I don’t smoke much, but tonight I need the weight of it, the burn in my lungs. The sun’s starting to sink, throwing the lot in gold and shadows when the door creaks open behind me.

I know it’s her before she says anything.

I don’t turn. Just tilt my head slightly.

Enough to let her know I see her, even if I don’t look.

The scent hits first. Clean soap, my hoodie, and underneath it all, her.

Warm skin and something faintly sweet, like peaches caught in sunlight.

The kind of smell that makes a man want to stay still long enough to memorize it.

For a beat, I think she’ll slip back inside. But she steps out barefoot, wrapped in one of my hoodies, arms folded tight, acting as a shield. The door clicks shut behind her.

She doesn’t face me. Just stares out at the treeline. Voice soft. Careful. “You didn’t try to touch me.”

I take a slow drag. “You didn’t need me to.” She did. I felt it humming through her skin, static in the air. But I knew the second I reached, she’d run.

She nods, already expecting that. Then her eyes cut to mine. This time, they don’t dart away. “I don’t understand you.”

I huff a laugh. It’s not cruel, just tired. “You think I do?”

“No.” Her brow furrows, just a little. “But you know what you want.”

Ash floats off my cigarette as I flick it away. “Yeah. I do.”

“And you still let me go.”

I finally look at her. The wind teases a strand of hair across her cheek, and for a second, she doesn’t move to fix it. Even that small act of control is too much tonight. Her jaw’s tight. But her eyes—damn, her eyes—are full of questions she’s not ready to ask.

“I’m not gonna cage you, Candace,” I say, voice rough at the edges. “Even if it kills me to let you walk.”

Her breath catches.

“You think I don’t want to pull you back in?” I add, keeping my gaze on hers. “You think I don’t feel it? Every second you’re close and still not mine? I do. But wanting you doesn’t give me the right to take.”

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But her knuckles go white where they grip her arms. Her pulse flutters in her throat. And I know she hears me. I know it’s landing.

So I soften. Just enough. “You stayed,” I say. “Last night. This morning. You stayed.”

She nods. Once. Then again, telling herself , not me. “Didn’t mean to,” she murmurs. “Didn’t want to.”

“But you did.”

She closes her eyes. Winces a little, the truth stinging. When they open, her voice is barely there. “It felt safe.” Three words. That’s all. But they flatten me. Because safe is sacred. In her world, safe means everything.

I don’t let myself reach for her. Just grip the railing harder. “I’d give you that,” I tell her. “Every night. If you wanted it.”

Her eyes shine; not with tears, not exactly. Just weight. Years of it. “I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s okay,” I say, quieter now. “I’ll still be here while you figure it out.”

She doesn’t flinch from that. Doesn’t run. She just lets the silence settle between us. And she stays. Again.

The clubhouse is quiet again. Just James, Maggie, and us. Candace is curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, watching the fight I put on an hour ago. Her focus doesn’t flicker once. Not even when James and I trade glances, or when Maggie stretches with a groan beside her.

There’s a pen near her fingers. A napkin tucked under her leg. When the volume dips, she hums. Quiet, under her breath, just two notes. Then it’s gone. Swallowed, vanished without a trace.

I think about the way her voice had sounded when she asked me if we could spar. I’d asked Coach Tompkins about it a few days ago. He’s been up my ass ever since. Keeps asking why she’s not with me.

I didn’t want to tell him she’s been avoiding me like I’ve got a damn plague mark on my back.

“What the hell is wrong with that guy?” she mutters, brow furrowed. “He keeps leaving himself wide open.”

I laugh under my breath. Share a look with James. I love that she knows this stuff. That the blood and brutality of it doesn’t send her running.

Maggie stands, stretching. “Alright. I’m out. I need my beauty sleep.”

James follows, slipping an arm around her waist, dropping a kiss to her forehead. “You’re always beautiful, even if you only sleep an hour.” The look they share makes something twist in my chest. Raw. Envious. Hungry.

I glance at Candace. She’s watching them too. For just a second, I swear I see it; the same flicker in her eyes that’s tearing me apart inside.

“Why don’t you two come over for dinner tomorrow?” Maggie offers.

I stay quiet. I want to know her answer first.

Candace swallows. Looks down.

“I’ll make cinnamon rolls,” Maggie adds with a smirk.

Candace scowls. Not deeply, just enough that it makes my lips twitch.

“That’s fine,” she mutters. Then looks at me.

“Sounds good,” I echo, my voice softer. My eyes never leave hers.

“Be there at six. Don’t be late,” Maggie warns, before she and James head out. James chuckles low as the door clicks shut.

But I’m still watching Candace. And she’s squirming under it. Which is maybe the best part of my night.

I stand. Stretch. Crack my neck. “I’m gonna shower.” I want to ask if she’ll join me. But I don’t. Not when she’s still looking ready to bolt at any second.

So I turn. Head up to my room. Our room. Let the heat of the shower wash the tension off my skin. When I come out, towel drying my hair, disappointment bites hard. She’s not there.

Sweats. No shirt. I sit on the front of the bed, pick up a book I’ve been pretending to read for days. I don’t read a single damn word. Not with her shadow still inked into my skin from last night.

Not with it felt safe still echoing in my skull, a prayer I don’t deserve. So when the door creaks open, I don’t look. I already know. I feel her before I hear her. Bare feet. Sleeves too long for her hands. My hoodie drowning her. That familiar, heavy ache clinging to her as if it’s part of her.

She pauses in the doorway, uncertain she’s allowed to stay. I don’t smile. Don’t speak. I just set the book down slowly, carefully.

“You okay?”

Her head shakes. Fast. Honest. “No.”

It knocks the wind out of me. I rise slowly, level. Not too close. “You want to talk?”

“No.”

I nod once. Take it in stride. I’ve learned not to reach unless she reaches first.

Her throat works. “I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

That lands hard in my gut. “Okay,” I say. Even. Steady. Even though nothing inside me is.

She walks past me—close, so fucking close—but doesn’t touch. Then she’s in my bed. Under my sheets. As though she’s always had a place there.

I turn off the light. Sit on the edge first, just to breathe. Just to believe this is real. Then I join her. Not too close. Not yet. The silence feels heavier than the dark.

She shifts. Her knee brushes mine. I stay still. Don’t crowd her. She doesn’t armor up. Doesn’t run.

“It’s not just that I don’t know what I want,” she whispers. I turn toward her, heart thudding. “It’s that I do. And it scares me.”

Every instinct in me begs to hold her. But I don’t.

I just say, low and true, “Me too.”

In the quiet that follows, the air shifts. It doesn’t feel distant anymore. It feels weighted, drawn toward something we can’t name. Maybe, finally, we’re falling in the same direction. Even if it terrifies us both.