Page 5 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

“Excuse me, miss?”

I barely have time to turn before a plate slams into my stomach, the chill of the ceramic bleeding straight through my shirt.

It sinks deep, bone deep, an accusation I can’t outrun.

My breath catches, not from the weight, but from the way her eyes slice into me.

Sharp, unyielding, a blade she wields with a practiced hand.

“I asked for chicken. This has shrimp,” she says, voice clipped with irritation. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”

Her words aren’t just angry. They’re gleeful. Predatory. She’s waiting for me to flinch.

A slow, serrated breath in. My teeth grind together, molars pressing with the force of tectonic plates ready to rupture. A familiar heat prickles at the base of my neck—anger, humiliation, the searing urge to scream. But I bury it. I always bury it.

Her manicured fingers glitter under the restaurant lights, gold bangles chiming, each one a warning bell. “All my friends have already eaten. So I want mine to go. And I want it free.”

Of course she does.

The air turns heavy, thick with the cloying scent of citrus and spilled wine. My fingers tighten around the plate, nails biting into ceramic, desperate to anchor myself against the tide of fury clawing up my throat. Behind my eyes, pressure builds, the edge of a gathering storm.

I’ve dealt with worse. I’ve smiled through worse.

I force the sharp, bloody words shredding my throat back down, lock them behind my teeth, and stretch a brittle, practiced smile across my face. The same mask I’ve worn for years. One that hides the bruised pride, the exhaustion, the bone-deep ache of always having to be the bigger person.

“Of course, ma’am. I’ll have it out right away.”

Spinning on my heel, I stalk toward Cliff’s office, pulse hammering in my ears with the rhythm of war drums. I don’t knock. I shove the door open, the weight of my control barely keeping me upright.

Cliff’s head jerks up, brows furrowing at my sudden entrance.

Instead of hurling the plate across the room the way my blood demands, I set it down on his desk with deliberate, brutal care. My hands find my hips, fingers digging into bone, sharp and unforgiving.

“That is the third order Jackie has screwed up.” My voice is low, steel wrapped in velvet.

“I know she’s not exactly valedictorian material, but this is getting ridiculous.

Now this customer wants her order for free.

Jackie is trying her best to sabotage me because she happens to be best friends with the person I replaced. ”

Cliff leans back, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His brow arches, patient, expectant. Testing.

“What are you going to do about it?”

I open my mouth. Close it. The realization hits hard, a punch to the gut—a test. A deliberate, quiet calculation settles behind his steady gaze. He’s watching. Measuring.

The instinct to lash out flares hot and wild in my chest. Strangle Jackie. Quit. Walk out and never look back.

Old Candace would have folded. Swallowed it. Survived.

Not today.

I scrape for control, fighting for a clear breath, and shove past the wreckage inside me.

“She’s paying for both,” I say finally. “The mistake and the replacement.”

Cliff nods without fanfare, already returning to the papers scattered across his desk. “Sounds like a plan.”

I narrow my eyes, scanning for the trap. For the smug satisfaction, the condescension. There’s nothing. No hooks. No knives. Just a door he’s daring me to walk through. Clearing my throat, I pick up the plate and turn to leave, spine straightening inch by stubborn inch.

“If she gives you any trouble,” Cliff calls after me, “send her to my office.”

I pause in the hallway, the cool air licking at my sweat-slick skin. I stare down at the salad, searching it for answers. What if it’s bait? What if he’s setting me up to fail?

No.

I square my shoulders, fortifying the shaky ground beneath my feet, and push forward. The kitchen falls silent the moment I step inside. Every pair of eyes cuts toward me and Jackie, circling the inevitable.

Jackie’s in the corner, thumbs flying over her phone, smug and oblivious. But when I lock eyes with her—steady, unblinking—her smirk falters. She knows.

“Louis, make a chicken salad to go,” I call out, voice even, controlled.

Silence stretches. Long enough to feel like the crack before something gives.

I don’t look away.

She does.

My steps are slow and deliberate as I cross the floor, the weight of the whole kitchen pressing against my skin. They know. They’ve all watched. All let it happen.

Not anymore.

Without hesitation, I reach into the pocket of Jackie’s apron and rip out her server book.

“Hey!” she yelps, lunging, but I pivot easily out of reach. Flipping it open, I unzip the pocket where she stashes her tips.

Jackie’s breath stutters, panic flashing across her face. “What the hell are you doing?”

I pull out a crisp fifty-dollar bill and hold it up between us, letting the fluorescent lights gleam off the paper, sharp as a blade.

“The salad you deliberately screwed up? This covers it. And the new one being made? That’s on you too.” My voice cuts through the kitchen, sharp and undeniable. “Do it again, and we’ll start pulling from your paycheck. Got it?”

Her face flames red. “You can’t do that.”

I smile. Cold. Certain. “I just did.”

Snapping the server book shut, I shove it back into her shaking hands.

“I’m done with your games. Either get your act together, or there will be consequences.”

She glances past me, desperate for backup. For someone to step in. But no one moves. No one even meets her gaze. The kitchen exhales all at once—knives resume chopping, plates clinking, orders being shouted.

She’s alone now.

Her lips flatten into a bitter line before she turns and scurries out the door, tail tucked, all wounded pride and retreat. The adrenaline in my veins starts to taper, heartbeat slowing, blood buzzing under my skin as if an engine's cooling after battle.

Old Candace would have slunk away, apologized for making a scene. New Candace stood her ground and won .

“Salad’s ready, Candace,” Louis calls.

I stride over, lifting the lid to double-check there aren’t more mistakes, then bag it carefully. Exhaustion clings to my limbs, heavy and stubborn. Two hours left on my shift. Two hours of carrying the weight of this fight on my back.

Leaning against the server station, I let myself breathe for a few precious seconds. Ruby bounces over, practically vibrating with chaotic glee, her smile splitting wide across her face.

“Damn, Candy. You handed Jackie her ass on a silver platter,” she crows. “Honestly, if I wasn’t already in love with you, I’d propose. You need a trophy, a tequila shot, or a damn parade.”

I snort, the corner of my mouth twitching despite the exhaustion bleeding through me. “You’re ridiculous.”

Ruby leans in, stage-whispering as if she’s passing along state secrets. “By the way, the table in the corner? They asked for you by name. Not in a creepy way. Just had that weird ‘we-know-you’ vibe.”

I arch a brow. “Who is it?”

She shrugs, smirking. “No clue. Looked fancy though. Said they knew you.”

I groan under my breath. “Please don’t be another ex.”

Ruby cackles, delight shining in her eyes. “Well, if he is, he aged like fine whiskey.”

A laugh snags in my throat as I push off the station, my bones aching but my spine tall. I weave through the tables, bracing for awkwardness, but the moment I spot them, I freeze.

Ansley and Lincoln. Warmth blooms unbidden in my chest. Real, rare. Ansley waves me over with enthusiasm reserved for long-lost friends. Lincoln flashes a grin.

“Hey, Candace!” Ansley beams.

“What are you two doing here?” I ask, surprised and more relieved than I’ll admit.

Ansley practically bounces in her seat. “We came to celebrate. I just got the keys to my boutique!”

Pride cuts through the lingering exhaustion, bright and clean. “That’s amazing, Ansley. I’m so happy for you.”

They were some of the first kind faces I met here. The first ones who didn’t look through me.

“We heard you got promoted,” Lincoln says.

I nod. “Team lead. Still figuring it out.”

Ansley leans forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. “We have a friend who just opened a pub. He’s looking for staff. We figured we’d mention it.”

Something twists hard and fast in my gut.

“What pub?” I ask, throat already tight.

“Valentine’s,” Lincoln says easily.

Ice needles down my spine. Malachi .

The memory flashes before I can stop it—him leaning against the pool table, tattoos shifting over muscled arms, danger woven into the lazy smile he shot me, every inch of it a loaded weapon. My pulse spikes hot, shameful, unwanted. I shove it down, bury it under anger and survival instincts.

“No thanks,” I say quickly, voice hoarse. Chest tightening. Throat dry. The instinct to run tangles with the instinct to fight. “Cliff’s letting me barback. I’m getting experience here.”

I force a brittle smile, already retreating, already fortifying the walls. The last thing I need is more Outsider entanglement. More dangerous men wrapped in false promises.

Victor Valentine. Another one of them. Another wolf dressed in respectability. Just like Malachi. Just like the rest of them.

No. I’ll carve my own way out of this life. I’ll build my own future. Even if it kills me.