Page 52 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

I replay the last hour in my head on a loop.

The way Malachi looks at me. The sound of his voice when he said I love taking care of you.

It lands with absolute certainty. A truth spoken plainly.

No one ever has, and he doesn’t mind being the first. Maybe that’s why it hits harder than it should. Because no one ever has.

I know it started as a distraction. His way to derail me before I asked too many questions. I came to the garage looking for intel. Intel about whether the guys are planning their own revenge in this ridiculous prank war we’ve kicked off. But he doesn’t give me anything. Not a single answer.

Instead, he gives me his hands. His mouth. His body. I don’t mind. Not even a little.

Now I’m behind the bar, still wearing his hoodie, still flushed from everything he’s done to me, and all I can think about is how badly I want to return the favor. How much I want him trembling. Desperate. Begging.

“Someone’s got a glow.”

I jump, nearly knocking over a glass. Frankie leans across the bar, clearly having watched me spiral in silence for the last ten minutes. Behind her, Ruby, Darla, and Sloane file in, each one carrying iced coffees and matching expressions of suspicion.

The bar smells faintly of lemon cleaner, espresso, and the lingering traces of last night’s whiskey and smoke.

Outside, the heat presses against the windows, trying to get in.

But in here, the air is thick with something else.

Curiosity. Mischief. That low, electric buzz right before someone drops a secret.

“Jesus,” I mutter, tossing the towel aside. “You move like hyenas.”

“We are hyenas,” Ruby says brightly. “Sexy, deadly hyenas on a mission.”

Sloane hops onto a stool. “We want intel.”

Darla gives me a knowing look. “Don’t play dumb, Firecracker.”

I sigh. “About what?”

Frankie narrows her eyes. “About the boys. The revenge plot. Don’t pretend you haven’t been embedded behind enemy lines.”

My stomach flips, but not because of them. Because I can feel him. Malachi. He’s standing by the doorway to the hallway that leads toward the back rooms, half in shadow, arms crossed, shoulder leaned against the frame, taking his time watching me squirm.

He’s watching. Eyes on me, steady and unreadable. No smirk. No judgment. Just… there. Solid. Present. Quiet in the way that makes your skin hum.

My pulse skitters. The back of my neck flushes, heat rising beneath my collar under the weight of his gaze. The world narrows until it’s just the low thrum of music playing from the speakers and the gravity of him holding me in place. A tether I didn’t know I needed.

I try not to look. Try to act normal. I meant to ask him if the boys are planning a retaliation, but he touches me and I forget everything else.

“I got… distracted,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

There’s a beat of silence. Then chaos.

Frankie bursts out laughing. Ruby squeals like she’s just won a game show. Sloane gasps and nearly drops her drink. Darla just grins and covers her mouth, clearly holding in something dangerous.

“YOU DID NOT—” Ruby shrieks.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to!” Frankie shouts, slapping the counter.

Sloane leans forward, scandalized. “How distracted are we talking? Basic kiss distracted? Or—”

“She’s wearing his hoodie,” Darla deadpans, sipping her coffee.

I groan, bury my face in my arms. The fabric of the hoodie is too warm now. Too soft. It still smells of him. Cedar, smoke, something darker underneath I haven’t figured out yet, and I hate how comforting it feels.

“I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Ruby sing-songs. “You’re in looooove.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Frankie cuts in. “And it’s gross. I love it.”

“I am not in love,” I say, sitting up straight and scowling. “I’m just… in trouble.”

Sloane snorts. “The good kind?”

I bite my lip. They all scream again.

Just past them, still watching, I see Malachi shift. Barely. A tilt of his head. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. And something else beneath it. Pride. Not cocky. Just quiet certainty. He knows exactly what they’re teasing me for. He knows he’s the reason I can’t stop smiling.

I hate how warm that makes me feel. How my stomach does this soft, traitorous flip like I’ve swallowed the first line of a song I didn’t mean to write.

“Okay, okay!” I hiss. “I got distracted, alright? I didn’t ask him if the guys were planning revenge because I was too busy—”

“Getting railed,” Ruby says casually.

“Ruby!”

“What? You were! I can see it on your face!”

I give up. Throw the bar towel at her. Laugh, despite myself. It bursts out before I can stop it. Real, sharp, and almost painful, like my ribs don’t know how to stretch for joy anymore.

Behind them, Malachi hasn’t moved. But his gaze burns hotter now, fixed on me, focusing in a way that makes the rest of the room fall away. Because I’m his now. Whether we say it or not.

And maybe… I don’t hate that at all. Maybe the hoodie feels safer than it should. Maybe the way he’s still watching, even with the girls erupting around me, says more than any touch ever could. It’s in the way he’s anchored to me already. Ready to burn things down if he has to.

A flicker of music shifts in the background. Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” humming low from the speakers. My fingers twitch on instinct, drumming the bartop edge in a soft, familiar beat.

One-two, one-two-three. I stop myself before it becomes something more. Before the lyric I scribbled yesterday in the margin of a receipt rises to the surface. I don’t let it out. I never do. Not in front of anyone. Especially not him.

But it’s there. Always there.

Frankie eventually wanders off, mumbling something about needing to open her shop before the rush.

Darla and East gravitate toward the pool table, and within seconds I hear her daring him to lose to a girl.

Sloane joins them, dragging Knox with her, though the tension between them buzzes like static. Still, he follows.

Ruby slides behind the bar, snags a handful of pretzels before sidling up to Nash with a wicked grin. “Dare you to stand in front of the dartboard,” she says. To my absolute shock, Nash actually smiles. Just a little. But it’s there.

I wait. Count down the beats until the room is distracted enough. Then I slip away.

The hallway is dim. Quiet. Just far enough from the noise that every footstep sounds louder. I don’t knock. Just find him at the far end, leaning against the wall, knowing I’ll come looking.

“I knew you wouldn’t stay away,” Malachi says, voice low and smug.

I don’t answer. Just step into him, breath catching as his hands catch my hips and spin me against the wall.

“Quiet now, hellcat,” he whispers. “Unless you want them all to hear how needy you are.”

His mouth finds mine before I can bite back a reply. Slow, commanding, filthy. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t need to.

He presses against me, pins me to the wall with his body, one hand slipping between us to slide up under the hem of the hoodie I still haven’t taken off. His fingers dip beneath the waistband of my shorts, teasing, never rushing, steady with cruel intent.

I whimper when he finds me soaked. Already aching for him. He pulls back just enough to murmur against my mouth, “Yeah, you are. Knew you’d come to me desperate.”

He makes quick work of my shorts, drags them down just enough to give him access.

I hear the sound of his zipper, then feel the thick, hot press of him against me as he shoves his jeans low on his hips.

Then he lifts me, just like that, strong hands gripping beneath my thighs as he pins me higher against the wall.

My breath catches. My legs wrap around his waist on instinct, clinging to him, anchoring us both.

His hand braces beside my head as he rocks forward, just the tip, slow, teasing, barely there. Torture in the best way. I’m suspended, surrounded, caged by him.

“Not yet,” he whispers. “You’re gonna feel every inch, hellcat. But not until you beg again.”

He pulls out and pushes in again with shallow, torturous strokes that drive me mad. My nails dig into his back, breath catching, every nerve raw with need.

“Please,” I gasp.

“Shh,” he says, voice a low growl. “You gotta be quiet, hellcat. You want them all to know I’ve got you stuffed full in the hallway?”

I bite down on his shoulder, hard, trying to stifle the moan building in my throat as he thrusts deeper, grinding slow circles inside me until I’m trembling.

His breath hitches against my neck, jaw clenched. “So fucking tight,” he rasps, voice ragged. “Always wound up for me.”

His pace stays slow, too slow. Every roll of his hips hits deep, angled perfectly until sparks curl through my belly and I shatter with a cry I barely manage to bite down.

My body clenches around him, pulsing, and he groans low in his throat, burying his face in my hair to keep from losing it right there.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. He keeps moving, keeps grinding just right until the pressure rebuilds, sharper, meaner, impossibly good.

“Come for me again,” he growls. “I’m not done with you yet.”

I do, helpless, shaking, breaking around him while he holds me up with ease.

His mouth drags along my ear, breath hot. “You feel that? That’s me losing every bit of control I’ve got when it comes to you. And I fucking love it. I love taking care of you, hellcat.”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes because it isn’t just want, it’s need. His and mine. Matched. Consuming.

When he finally comes, it’s with a groan muffled in my shoulder, arms wrapped so tight around me I can’t tell where I end and he begins. I don’t want to.

He still doesn’t tell me what the guys are planning. I still don’t care.