Page 44 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

Ruby is halfway through one of her revenge tales—grinning, dramatic, practically glowing with mischief. The laughter buzzes through the room, crackling through the air with static energy. Loud, unruly, safe. Wine sloshed, popcorn flew, and for once, the weight in my chest let go. Just a little.

“No, listen,” she says, leaning forward, eyes sparkling. “We broke into Darla’s closet. Her closet. You know, the sacred one? Where the glitter boots live? Sloane distracted the night nurse, and we slipped into Trent’s room on a stealth mission we named Mission: Immasculate.”

Silence.

She blinks, then waves her hands. “You know, because emasculate… but impossible? Immasculate? It was brilliant. Don’t look at me like that. I stand by it.”

Sloane groans into her wine. “You really thought that was gonna land, huh?”

“It did in my soul,” Ruby says, dead serious. “Which is where the best jokes live.”

Sloane snorts, tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth. “It was my shift. Trent was all drugged up and pitiful. Still had his IV and his little ‘I survived getting my dick shot off’ blanket tucked under his chin.”

Frankie grins over her wine glass. “He looked neutered. Cat-level neutered.”

“We put the boots on him,” Ruby continues, practically vibrating. “A feather boa. And some fake lashes Sloane snuck out of the pediatrics unit.”

“Oh,” Sloane adds, “and I redrew his catheter label to say Princess Tinkles.”

I choke on my drink. Lemon wine fizzed in my throat, the sweet sting making my eyes water as laughter stole the air from my lungs. My cheeks ached. It felt… good. Too good. Undeserved in a way I couldn’t name. The kind of joy that felt fragile, always one breath away from being torn apart.

“No, no,” Ruby says, tears streaming now. “The best part? The card. I drew Trent getting wheeled into the underworld by glitter demons. It’s taped above his bed. Signed by the entire nursing staff. Sloane made it happen.”

“I work hard,” Sloane says solemnly. “And I play harder.”

Frankie cackles into her glass as Sloane flings popcorn at her head.

The energy in the room sparks, chaotic and weirdly tender, a campfire shared between bruised warriors.

I hum under my breath—an old melody I didn’t mean to summon, one I hadn’t written down yet.

I cut it off before it grew legs. They didn’t need to know about that piece of me.

Laughter cracks across the room, unfiltered and free. I wish Darla was here, but she’s still recovering. For a second, everything felt light. Warm. Safe.

I lean back against the couch, eyes tracing the crooked string lights above us, the cheap bulbs casting soft amber halos. It smells like buttered popcorn, old upholstery, and wine. Not perfect. But close.

Then a knock hits. A single, heavy sound that snapped the air in two. All of us freeze.

The room drops ten degrees. Popcorn stops midair. Breaths catch. That knock wasn’t friendly. That knock came wrapped in steel and purpose.

Frankie turns toward the door, wine glass still in hand. “That’s not a ‘girls’ night’ knock.”

Ruby’s smile falters. “That’s a Malachi knock.”

My stomach twists. The kind of twist that warns you something sacred is about to bleed.

Sloane stands slowly, shoulders straightening. “Something’s wrong.”

Before I can answer, the door creaks open. There he is. Malachi fills the doorway, a warning made flesh; shadow, heat, and tension wrapped in leather and silence.

His presence sucks the warmth from the room and replaces it with something heavier. Magnetic. I could smell the night on him—cigarettes, motor oil, wind. His jaw’s tight. His eyes? Wrecked. And he’s only looking at me.

He doesn’t look at Ruby. Or Frankie. Or Sloane, even as she moves closer, subtly placing herself between me and the door.

His eyes find mine. And hold.

My pulse jumps. A shiver works up my spine, a slow, deliberate chord plucked on an untuned guitar.

I stand without thinking. The room sways slightly from the wine, but I stay upright. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at me, counting how many pieces I’ll fall into.

My fingers clench against the couch cushion. I hate that I need him to say something. Hate that his silence is louder than anyone else’s voice.

“What?” I ask again, sharper this time.

He takes a breath, rough on the way out. “I need to talk to you. Alone.” His voice is frayed at the edges. The truth has already broken him. Frankie glances at Ruby. Ruby glances at me. Sloane’s jaw flexes.

“Whatever it is,” I say, stepping forward, “say it here.”

“Not this.” Two words. That’s all it takes to shatter the fragile levity we’d built. My heart drops hard. Music cut off mid-chorus. The silence after is deafening.

Frankie rises with purpose. “We’ll give you space.”

Ruby looks ready to argue, but doesn’t. She just squeezes my arm once before grabbing the bottle.

Sloane lingers the longest. Her eyes stay on Malachi, cool and warning. “We’re right outside.” She doesn’t say it as a threat. She says it straight, a promise. I feel that promise settle between my ribs.

Then they’re gone, and the door clicks shut behind them. The silence isn’t peaceful. It presses. Thick. Suffocating. It smells like leather, sweat, and the coming storm. Malachi doesn’t move. He just stands there, hands loose at his sides, fighting the urge to clench them into fists.

My gaze drops to his hands. They’re shaking. Just slightly. Enough to make my throat tighten.

I step closer. “Is it my dad?”

His eyes twitch. Just enough. Every cell in my body braces.

“Is he dead?” I ask, bitterness rising in my throat. Some awful, hopeful thing.

“No,” he says. Rough. Final. That no splinters something I didn’t even know I still hoped for.

“Then what?”

He runs a hand through his hair, tension bleeding from every line in his body. “I just left him. He talked.”

His voice drops. Something heavy passes through his eyes, and I know—whatever this is, it’s worse.

I fold my arms, bracing against something I can’t name. “What did he say?”

His gaze drops for a second. Long enough. “He said your mother is alive.”

The words land without weight. Like they belong to someone else. I blink as air catches in my throat.

“What?”

“Candace…” His voice is lower now, gentler, but it doesn’t help. “He said she’s back. And she’s working with Donovan.”

The air in the room curdles. I feel it. The way my blood stops moving, the static between my ears, the scream rising too fast to catch.

I let out a laugh. Harsh. Cracked. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I was.”

“No.” I shake my head. “My mom’s dead. That’s what he told me. What everyone told me.”

Malachi doesn’t argue. His silence is confirmation. Something inside me snaps, a string pulled too tight. I feel it go.

My hands tremble. “You’re saying she’s alive… and running auctions now? Selling girls?”

“She’s the one behind it,” he says. “Funding. Planning. Donovan’s just the enforcer.”

My knees buckle. I sit down hard at the foot of the bed, heart thundering, trying to claw its way out.

“She left me. And now she’s…” My voice cracks. “She was going to sell me?”

His silence speaks volumes. It’s the silence that makes it real. Not the words. The absence of denial.

I stare at him, barely breathing. “And my dad?”

“He helped her.”

The words scrape down my spine, rusted nails on bare bone. My chest constricts—tight, tight, too tight.

For a second, it isn’t even pain. It’s white static.

My body can’t find the right response. Can’t decide whether to scream, or break, or run.

Something deep in me fractures; sharp and silent.

Malachi steps closer now, slowly and carefully, approaching the way someone would with something fragile and on the verge of breaking.

I can feel his heat. His gravity. It steadies me, even though nothing else makes sense.

“Candace… we’re not touching him until you say so. Whatever happens—it’s yours to decide.”

That breaks something else. The part that forgot what it felt like to have a choice. My hands curl into fists. My nails bite into my palms, grounding me. I can’t cry. Not yet. I stare at the wall, voice barely more than a breath.

“I want to look him in the eye when I say goodbye.”

Malachi gives a short nod. No hesitation. “Then let’s go.” But his jaw ticks. His knuckles flex at his sides. I know what it cost him—to wait. To hand the knife over to me and stand still while I chose how deep it went.

We don’t speak as he leads the way down the stairs. My body follows, but my mind lags somewhere behind, caught in the echo of everything that had just been torn wide open. Each step feels steeped in a new life. One built on rubble and reckoning.

The common room is quiet when we enter. Too quiet. Everyone is already there.

Ruby leans against the bar, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Frankie sits beside her, tattoos stark against her pale skin with an expression carved from stone.

Sloane’s pacing, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a small bruise blooming near her knuckle I hadn’t noticed earlier.

Nash stands near the door, unreadable as always, but I can feel his tension from across the room.

East is with Darla on the couch, a blanket over her lap, her cheek resting on his shoulder.

Her eyes meet mine, glassy but fierce. She gives me the smallest nod.

“I wanted to be here for you,” she says, quiet but certain.

The words hit me square in the chest. An ache I didn’t know I’d been carrying. Proof someone saw me, really saw me, and still came anyway.

Even James and Maggie are here. James has a look on his face I’ve never seen before. Something ancient and still, worn by someone who’s already lived through this moment a hundred times.

The air is dense with unsaid words. With vengeance held on leashes. With love disguised as stillness.

Nobody says a word. They don’t have to. They’re here. Not just in the room. With me. Waiting.