Page 43 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

Chuck is already cuffed to the chair when I step into the room.

One bulb overhead buzzes, sounding complicit in whatever wickedness is about to happen.

No brothers. No witnesses. Just me, the stink of oil-soaked concrete, and the bastard who should never be trusted to breathe free air—let alone raise a daughter such as Candace.

The air is stale. Too still. Even the shadows seem to be holding their breath.

He lifts his head when he hears my boots. Smiles. Crooked, wearing the grin of someone pretending we’re old friends about to reminisce over a drink. “Didn’t expect it’d be you they sent. Figured it’d be Nash. He is your enforcer, right?”

I don’t answer. Just let the sound of my knuckles cracking speak for me. Slow. Intentional. My gloves creak, leather stretching over bone. His smile falters, awareness creeping in that he’s finally remembered who the hell I am.

I pace behind him, boots creaking over grit and grime. My voice is calm. Too calm. “What happened to you?” I ask. “You used to be one of us.”

Chuck’s bravado deflates in a blink. “I was never the same after Candace’s mom left,” he mutters, thinking that explains anything.

I stop. Lean down close so he can feel every word slide across his skin. My breath hits his ear with the chill of frost. “You still had Candace though.”

His shoulders jerk tight, but before he can come up with another excuse, I drive my fist into his ribs.

One solid blow. A grunt tears from his throat.

I don’t give him time to breathe. I keep going—measured, controlled.

Not rage, not revenge. Just justice, cold and earned.

Fist to his stomach. Elbow to jaw. He’s going to be awake for every second of this. That’s the point.

He needs to feel a fraction of what she did.

My hands throb, skin tight across bruised knuckles, but I barely feel it. My blood runs cold. There’s ice in my veins, fire in my chest.

I straighten, watching blood drip from his lip. “Who were the men that tried to take Candace?”

Chuck wheezes, voice rattling in his throat. “They worked for Donovan… well, used to. He killed them.”

“Where is Donovan?”

His head shakes before he even speaks. “I can’t.”

I draw the gun slowly, letting the click of the safety fill the space. The sound echoes through the air, a countdown in steel and tension. I press it to his kneecap. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”

“You won’t kill me?”

I huff a laugh. “I’m still gonna kill you. Just might make it quicker.”

Something in his eyes breaks. Shoulders slump. Fear turns to grim acceptance.

“He’s… he’s at a lake house. One they used to stay at—him, his wife, and stepdaughter. Before the wife died.”

The cold in my chest spreads. A lake house. Hidden. A place for monsters to rest between sins.

“Tell me about the auctions. The one you were gonna sell Candace in. The one Darla’s old man was part of.”

He hesitates. Too long.

I grab his jaw, force his bloodied face up to mine. His skin is clammy, stubble rough against my palm. “Tell me.”

Still nothing. So I hit him again. Hard enough that his head snaps sideways. I want to put a bullet in him, but not yet. Not until I squeeze out every damn name, every secret.

He chokes on a mouthful of blood. “It’s Alice,” he croaks. “He’s working with Alice Brighton.”

I freeze. Alice. The name echoes, sharp and sudden, through my skull. I turn to face him slowly, my balance gone, everything tilting.

“Who?”

He looks up, one eye swelling shut. “Alice. Brighton. She’s behind it now. The auctions. Funding. The recruitment. Donovan’s just the muscle. She’s the brain.”

I stagger back a step. My mind rifles through memories I buried like corpses. Cornelius. That name. He warned me once; told me Alice Brighton wasn’t dead, just dangerous. Said if I ever heard her name again, to run or burn the world down. I didn’t listen.

“That’s not possible,” I whisper.

Chuck gives a broken little laugh that curdles in my gut. “Yeah, well… she’s back.”

Then he drives the final nail in.

“She’s Candace’s mom.”

Silence slams into me with the power of a freight train. I can’t move. Can’t think. Can barely breathe.

Alice. The ghost Candace mourns. The absence she hates. The woman who’s supposed to be dead. Helping Donovan. Trafficking girls. Selling her own daughter.

My throat burns. Images collide in my head of Candace smashing a bat into a mirror, humming a war song beneath her breath, folding her arms over herself, wrapped in armor forged from wounds. All this time… she doesn’t even know.

Chuck knows.

“You got into bed with her,” I murmur, my voice going sharp and dangerous. “You were going to sell your own daughter. Why?”

“I needed money!” he spits, blood flecking the floor. “And my own fucking daughter cut me off!”

I backhand him. Hard. The chair rattles beneath him. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, a distant and relentless thunder.

“She should’ve cut you off years ago,” I growl. “She took care of you more than you ever did for her.” I lean in close again, my voice a promise. “You’re not walking out of this room.”

His eyes flare. He opens his mouth to beg, but I hit him again.

“Tell me about Winston and Trent.”

He shudders. “They’re part of… some secret society. They go to the auctions. To move up the ranks, they have to sell their firstborn daughter.”

I stare at him, ice sliding down my spine.

What the fuck?

I turn and walk out. My heart is still in that room, thrashing against the horror I just heard.

Candace’s mother. A secret society. Fathers selling daughters. And Chuck? He’s going to die screaming.

The door slams shut behind me, echoing through the hall like a gunshot.

My jaw is tight, breath ragged, blood still singing from the violence.

I barely make it ten steps before I catch sight of them.

East leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, Nash pacing like a loaded weapon, and Knox standing still as stone.

They all look up when they see my face.

Knox straightens first. “That bad?”

I don’t speak. Not yet. My hand finds the back of my neck, tries to scrub away the nightmare crawling under my skin. It doesn’t work. The grime is inside me now. I meet their eyes one by one, voice low and guttural.

“He said Candace’s mom is alive.”

Silence. Knox blinks. East’s brows twitch. But Nash? Nash doesn’t move. Not even a breath. Just stares at me like he’s waiting for the punchline to something that isn’t funny.

“She’s working with Donovan,” I go on. “Alice Brighton. Funding the auctions. Running recruitment. Donovan’s just the muscle. She’s the one behind it now.”

Knox swears under his breath and runs a hand through his hair. “No fuckin’ way. Candace—she thinks her mom’s dead.”

“I know,” I say, voice strained. “But it gets worse.”

Nash doesn’t blink. “Tell us.”

“They’ve got a whole system. A society. Winston, Trent… they’re part of it. You wanna move up the ranks?” I look at each of them, make sure they understand this next part isn’t some rumor. “You have to sell your firstborn daughter.”

No one speaks. The hallway might as well freeze over.

East makes a sound in his throat. Rough. Gut-deep. “Jesus Christ. That’s… fucked. That’s next-level evil. Who the hell even comes up with that?”

Nash is the first to breathe. His jaw ticks. “What about Chuck?”

“He knew,” I say. “All of it. He got into bed with Alice. Was gonna sell Candace for a payout.”

“Jesus Christ,” East mutters, looking away like he needs distance just to keep from exploding.

“He said she cut him off. That’s why he did it.” My lip curls. “Blamed her.”

Knox exhales, slow and sharp. “We killin’ him now?”

My hands ball into fists at my sides. “Not yet.”

East looks at me with sharp eyes. “Why the hell not?”

“Because we bring Candace in,” I say, voice tight. “She deserves to know what he said. What he did. And if anyone’s gonna decide what happens to that piece of shit, it’s her.”

Knox gives a slow nod. “You sure about that? You think she’s ready to hear this?”

“No,” I say quietly. “But it’s hers to hear anyway.”

Nash cracks his neck, finally moving. “Where is she?”

“With Ruby. Frankie said all the girls are up in her room, drinking and talking. Darla’s the only one not there. Still recovering.”

I glance at East, and he meets my eyes. Just a flicker, but it says enough. Darla. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking with the strain of holding something in. Worry. Raw and unfiltered. Not because of the past—he’s never once thrown it in my face. But because she matters now.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.

Knox sighs. “Then we better go get her.”

I take a step forward, then pause. My chest aches, not from the fight, not from the storm brewing around us, but from the thought of her hearing that name. Hearing what her father did. What her mother became.

A whisper flickers at the edge of memory. A line she once sang under her breath: born from absence, not from grace.

“She’s going to hate me for this,” I mutter.

Nash’s voice is steady. “I’m pretty sure she’s past that.”

East adds, “But she still trusts you enough to break.”

Knox gives me a look. “So go be the one she breaks in front of.”

I nod once. Then turn and head upstairs, each step heavier than the last.