Page 46 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

She doesn’t flinch when the shot rings out.

Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t cry. Just stands there in the hallway, holding the weight of her whole damn life on her shoulders.

For once, she isn’t buckling. Her shoulders don’t twitch.

Not even a blink. Her silhouette is carved from grief and grit, backlit by flickering overhead lights, smoke still curling in the air, a ghost that hasn’t left yet.

I holster the gun slowly. Steady. No one says a word when I step out.

Not Nash. Not East. Not the women holding the line behind her.

Frankie has her arms crossed, jaw tight.

Ruby’s eyes burn, but she doesn’t say anything.

Sloane looks ready to tear a wall down if Candace so much as sways.

The tension is thick—metallic in the air, sweat on skin.

I can hear the distant buzz of a neon light, the soft shift of gravel under boots.

No one dares move. They’re all watching her.

But she doesn’t sway. She just looks at me. Not a monster. Not a hero. Eyes fixed on mine, green and unflinching, hitting harder than the recoil still humming in my palms. No fear of what I’ve just done. Nothing uncertain. Only expectation. Maybe even need.

“You shouldn’t have to carry that,” I say, voice low. It’s the only thing I can give her that doesn’t feel stolen. The words catch in my throat, rough-edged, blood-warmed. I taste ash. Hers or mine, I can’t tell.

Her chin lifts, eyes shining, but not with tears. With something more dangerous. Something stronger. She nods once. “Thank you.” There’s something in her voice, raw and stripped bare, that cracks through me. Gratitude that tastes of survival. Not sweet. Sharp.

And that? That does something to me I’m not ready for.

It cracks a piece of the armor I didn’t know I still wear.

She doesn’t owe me gratitude. I don’t expect it.

But the way she gives it, quiet and raw and real, hits harder than anything her father could’ve thrown.

The sound of it settles into my bones, a vow. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just permanent.

I move closer, slow enough that she can stop me if she needs to.

She doesn’t. She lets me stand there, close enough that if she needs to fall, I can catch her.

I swear I feel it; the second her weight shifts just slightly.

Her body remembering something her mind hasn’t let her want.

Rest. Her breath hitches, barely audible, lungs uncertain how to breathe air that isn’t laced in fear.

Her fingers twitch at her side, unsure how to grab hold.

She leans. Not much. Just her shoulder against my chest. The exhale she hasn’t known she’s fighting to release.

A tremble in her fingers that finally lets go.

I don’t wrap my arms around her. Don’t press her close.

I just stand there and let her choose me.

Her scent—vanilla, citrus, and sweat—hits me with the heaviness of a buried memory.

And I stand still. A statue waiting for a storm.

For the first time since she walked back into my world—fury in her bones and grief carved into every word—she lets herself lean.

I breathe her in. Not a man taking. A man remembering.

That stillness is holy. It’s every fight she’s ever survived finding somewhere to land. And fuck me, she chooses to land here.

“You did good,” I murmur, the words slipping between us in wisps of smoke. “You didn’t let him win.” My hand itches to touch her face, to trace the line of her jaw, to anchor myself in the proof that she’s still here.

Her voice is a whisper against my chest. “I wanted him to beg.” There’s no regret in it. Just the ghost of a song unsung. Rage with nowhere left to go.

“He would’ve. Eventually.”

“I didn’t want to hear it,” she says. “I just wanted to be the one walking away.”

“You were,” I say. “You are.” Her weight stays against me. Not collapsing, choosing. I let her stay there for as long as she needs. Maybe longer.

When her head tilts slightly and her breath hitches against my chest, I give in. I wrap my arms around her—tight, steady, grounding. Not to hold her up. Just to hold her. She leaned into me. Trusts me. That trust is something I can’t let hang in the air unanswered.

She’s still for a long time. The warehouse behind us is silent, the others waiting without pressing.

The club knows grief. It knows vengeance.

It knows what it means to let someone burn and still be the water they need when the fire’s out.

I feel the weight of every brother watching.

Feel the quiet oath in their silence. No one here will let her fall again.

She shifts then, just enough to look up at me. “I don’t know what comes next.” Her voice cracks on the edge. A voice never built for asking, forced to anyway.

“You don’t have to,” I say. “I’ll hold the line until you do.” My throat burns with the truth of it. My chest tightens, body already committing to the promise before I speak the words aloud.

Her eyes search mine, scanning for a catch.

A trick. But I don’t offer one. Just the truth.

She leans in again, this time closer. Letting me be the place she can finally fall.

When she does, I feel it. The slow unraveling.

The kind of surrender you don’t come back from.

And I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t dare ruin it.

The door clicks shut behind us, but neither of us moves.

The room feels too quiet. Too still. One wrong breath and the world might tilt again.

But she’s here. She stays. The scent of blood still clings to her skin, threaded through her shirt, faint but sharp.

A reminder of how close I came to losing her again.

I stand in the doorway a second longer, as if stepping farther might break the fragile thread tying her to this space.

Candace stands in the center of my room unsure what to do with herself now that no one’s watching.

No fire left to burn. No battle to win. Just the hollow space where survival used to live.

Her fingers curl into the hem of her shirt, knuckles white.

The overhead light paints shadows under her eyes, the hollows of her cheeks sharper than they’ve been yesterday.

She resembles a girl who’s outrun a storm only to realize the quiet scares her more.

She looks… small. Not weak, never that. But the kind of small you get when the armor finally drops and your skin remembers how to feel.

The kind of small that begs someone to just see it and not flinch.

And I don’t. I can’t. I take her in the way a man starved would.

Her, bruised and breathless and here. Alive.

I want to fall to my knees and thank whatever brutal god lets her make it back to me.

I cross to her slowly, giving her space to stop me. She doesn’t. Every step feels like walking into something sacred. Being trusted with a relic too fragile to hold and too dangerous to leave untouched.

She looks up at me, eyes soft and unsure.

“I thought it would feel better. Saying it. Walking away from him.” Her voice cracks on the edges, a lyric left unfinished.

Something raw and half-sung. Her eyes shimmer.

Not with tears, but with confusion. A girl who wins the fight but still can’t find peace.

“It will,” I say. “Maybe not tonight. But it will.” I want to promise her everything—healing, sleep, peace. But all I have is this moment and the weight of my own hands, itching to hold her again.

She nods, even though I can see the ache still curling in her shoulders. Her body’s trying to remember it doesn’t have to carry anymore. Not here. Not with me. Her spine is straight, but her breath betrays her. It’s uneven and shallow, each inhale still costing her something.

“I was afraid I’d regret it,” she says. “Not hitting him harder. Not screaming more.” There’s steel under the words. But also shame. The storm she unleashed hasn’t been loud enough to match what she carries.

“You didn’t need to,” I say. “You were the storm without raising your voice.” And fuck if I don’t mean that. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t cry. Candace comes back swinging and doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left to fight but silence.

Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost. I reach out tentatively, brushing a piece of hair from her face. She doesn’t pull back. Her skin is warm. Soft. Real. My fingers barely graze her temple, and I feel the weight of her stillness shift. As if she isn’t sure if she should run or reach back.

“I thought you’d run,” I say, quieter now. “After.” My throat tightens around the admission. I didn’t realize how much I need her to stay until I watched her bleed for her freedom.

She looks up at me. “I almost did.”

I hold her gaze. “What stopped you?”

She steps closer until there’s no space left between us.

Her hands find my shirt, curl there, uncertain whether she’s holding on or letting go.

The fabric bunches beneath her fingers, clinging to the heat of her palms. I don’t breathe.

Don’t blink. Every nerve in me locks on that single point of contact.

As if the world narrows down to the way she touches me.

“You,” she whispers. Fuck, my knees nearly buckle. One word. And it shatters every wall I hadn’t realized I rebuilt since the last time she looked at me without fire in her eyes.

She presses her forehead to my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, the kind of embrace I’ve been waiting my whole life to be allowed to give.

No fear. No apology. Just us tangled up in something quiet and real.

Her body melts into mine, bones remembering what safety feels like.

I don’t hold her to protect her. I hold her because she lets me. Because she chooses to.

“I’m so tired,” she says into my shirt. “I don’t want to be angry tonight.”

“You don’t have to be,” I say. “You don’t have to be anything.”