Page 45 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi glances at Nash and gives him a low nod. Nash responds in kind, stepping aside to open the back hallway. Malachi’s hand hovers near the small of my back—not touching. Just there. Solid. Grounding.

And I need that.

“You good?” Ruby asks softly, her voice rough around the edges.

I nod.

“You sure?” Sloane presses.

No. But I’m not going to break. Not with all of them behind me.

“Let’s do this.”

Frankie slips something into my palm as I pass. Brass knuckles. Polished. Heavy. Mine. “In case your words don’t land hard enough,” she says, flashing the ghost of a grin. I don’t smile. But I hold them tighter.

The cool weight of them in my hand feels forged for purpose. Closure made metal.

We walk in silence down the hall, past the rooms, through the back door that leads to the warehouse where they keep the ones who don’t deserve daylight. The metal door groans as it opens, swallowing the sound of our boots on the concrete floor.

The room beyond is dim, lit only by a hanging bulb swaying gently overhead. It casts a flickering halo over the man tied to the chair. His head is sagging, shirt soaked in sweat and blood, wrists red and raw from struggling.

My father. Chuck Giles.

His face is almost unrecognizable. One eye swollen shut, lip split wide, jaw already blooming with purple. Dried blood streaks his collar and the front of his once-crisp shirt. He looks ruined.

Because he has been. Malachi’s doing.

I know it before he says a word. I feel it in the tension still coiled beneath his skin, the slight tremble in his hand as he opened the door for me and stood aside. Not nervousness—restraint. This isn’t fresh rage. This is aftermath. Aftermath he made sure my father lived through.

Now I am here. To finish what he started.

I step inside slowly. The others don’t follow, but I feel them behind me. Ruby. Frankie. Sloane. East. Nash. All of them. Holding the line. Holding me.

Their silence is a war drum behind my ribs. Their presence a shield I don’t have to ask for.

Chuck stirs. Groans low. His head lifts sluggishly. When his one good eye focuses and lands on me, a slow smile spreads across his bloodied face.

“Look who it is,” he rasps. “My ungrateful daughter.”

My fists curl at my sides. “Don’t speak to me.”

He blinks. Surprise, maybe. I’m not. The devil always expects worship. Not resistance. I keep walking, each step heavier than the last. Not with fear. With knowing.

“Do you even remember who I was before you broke me?” I ask, my voice calm, quiet. Deadly.

He licks his lip before wincing. “You don’t know what it’s like, Candy. Losing everything. Losing her. She took everything from me.”

“You lied,” I say.

He laughs, a broken sound. “That’s what this is about? You mad I kept Mommy a secret?”

I lunge forward, brass knuckles slamming into his jaw with a crack so satisfying it echoes. His head whips sideways. Blood splatters the floor. He groans, slumping. I step back, chest rising and falling, but my voice stays steady.

Taking my time, I circle him and watch the way his eyes follow me. “You knew what they were going to do to me. You let it happen.”

“I needed money,” he spits, louder now. “And you? You turned your back on me first. After everything I gave you—”

“What you gave me was pain,” I say flatly. “All you taught me was survival. What you made me was something I’m still trying to undo.”

For a second, I see the man who used to carry me on his shoulders at county fairs. But even that memory feels stolen now. It belongs to a girl who died in a house full of broken locks and empty promises. His head drops.

I turn toward Malachi. He hasn’t moved. His jaw is locked, arms crossed tight over his chest, still holding himself back.

“You already did this,” I murmur. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. The broken man in front of me is the answer. “You beat him.”

Malachi’s eyes meet mine. “He was gonna sell you. I couldn’t let that lie. Not even for a second.”

My throat closes. The weight of that sinks in. He hadn’t done it to avenge me. He’d done it to protect me. And not for gratitude. Just because I mattered.

A lump swells in my throat. I look back at Chuck, really look at him, and for the first time in my life, I feel nothing.

No fear. No grief. No twisted longing for the father he never was. Just… emptiness.

“You’re going to die in this room,” I say.

“But first, I want you to hear this.” He lifts his head, one eye already swelling.

“I’m not yours anymore. I never was. You made sure of that.

Every time you hit me, every time you lied, every time you let someone else take the fall to protect your reputation. You killed me a long time ago.”

He smirks through bloodied teeth. “You think they’re gonna protect you? These animals?”

I look back at Malachi. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there with his arms crossed, the storm in him coiled and waiting.

“They already did,” I reply. Then I lean down, face inches from my father’s. “And you know what’s funny? After everything? After all the pain, all the control, all the fear…” I smile. “You still ended up the one tied to a chair.” And me? I’m standing. Free.

“I needed the money,” he snaps, bitterness seeping through. “Do you know what it’s like to have nothing? She left me. Your mother took everything and disappeared. You cut me off. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not sell your daughter,” I say. “That would’ve been a good start.” His mouth opens, closes. “I would’ve helped you. Even after everything, I still would’ve found a way. But you didn’t ask. You just saw me as a ticket out.”

I step closer until I can see the tremble in his jaw. “You don’t deserve to say my name.”

He sneers, wounded pride flaring. “You don’t have the guts to do it. You came in here to scream and cry, but you won’t pull that trigger.”

I stare at him. Not with hate. With pity. “I’m not here to kill you, Chuck,” I murmur. “I’m here to bury you.” And I turn away.

His laugh follows me. Mocking. Desperate. “That’s right. Walk away, just like she did. You’re nothing without me.”

I don’t even flinch. But Malachi does. The door hasn’t even shut behind me when the shot rings out. Just one. Clean. Final. No screams. No struggle. No mess.

I stand in the hallway, staring at the cinderblock wall. The others wait nearby—Ruby, Frankie, Sloane, East, Nash. No one speaks.

After a few seconds, Malachi steps out. His expression is unreadable. The gun already holstered. His movements are calm, precise. Firing a shot for me comes as naturally as drawing breath.

I look at him. He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t justify. He just meets my eyes and says, “You shouldn’t have to carry that.”

And that? That breaks me in a different way. Something inside me cracks. Not the pain. Not the grief. The weight of someone choosing to protect me, without asking for anything in return.

I swallow hard, then nod. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say you’re welcome. He just moves closer, not touching, just standing near enough that if I start to fall, he can catch me. Maybe, just maybe… I’m ready to let him.