Page 53 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

I don’t need to see her to know Candace is at the bar.

I can hear her. Laughter, loud and unfiltered.

That sharp little squeal Ruby always makes when she thinks she’s onto something.

Frankie’s voice cutting through the noise as sharply as a buzz saw.

Sloane gasps, Darla deadpans. A whole chorus of chaos.

And beneath all of it... Her. That voice.

Low. Soft around the edges. Unbothered. Dangerous.

It curves through the wall, smoke from a lit match, sultry and untamed.

The kind of sound that crawls under a man’s skin and stays there.

I don’t move from my seat in the back room.

Just lean back in the chair, arms draped across the sides, a toothpick between my teeth as I listen to her pretend she isn’t glowing.

The scent of oil and aged whiskey clings to the air, but beneath it, I swear I catch a wisp of something sweeter, vanilla, maybe citrus. Hers.

Knox looks up from the table, tightening the strap on his rifle. “She sounds suspiciously… happy.”

East, in the corner cleaning his knives with the patience of an assassin, doesn’t even look up. “Unsettling, ain’t it?”

Nash gives me a long, suspicious look. “You tell her?” I don’t say anything. He pushes, grinning now. “About the plan. You tell her?”

“No,” I say. Calm. Even. “Didn’t tell her anything.” Even though part of me wants to. Wants to hear her thoughts. Wants to see that fire catch behind her eyes. But I don’t. Can’t risk her trying to fix what isn’t hers to carry.

East snorts. “Then why’s she smiling the way someone does after winning a fight nobody else knew was happening?

” I let the silence hang for a second too long.

That pause is its own confession. The way her legs wrapped tight around me still echoes in my bones.

Her fingernails dug crescents into my back.

Her mouth was on my throat, her voice in my ear, low, desperate, ruined.

That’s when James speaks again. Casual, but with that dad-tone he pulls when he already knows the answer. “You didn’t tell her,” he says. “But you definitely distracted her.”

That gets them. East barks a laugh. “Fucking hell. You hit it again, didn’t you?”

I don’t react. Don’t need to. The image of her writhing on that workbench, legs around my waist, mouth on my neck, begging me not to stop, flashes uninvited across my mind.

I roll the toothpick between my teeth. She didn’t wear a hoodie when she showed up, but she left with mine.

I pulled it over her after, arms still shaking from taking her on the workbench in the garage.

My scent on her, hers on me. Her hum, barely audible, just a breath against my shoulder, sticks in my head all day. A half-written melody.

Nash groans. “Man, we’re over here building the most calculated payback this club’s ever seen, and you’re too busy rearranging her guts to do recon?”

I shrug. “She wasn’t asking questions.”

“She couldn’t breathe,” East mutters. “Respectfully.” My eyes cut to him. He holds up both hands, still grinning. “Hey. Respectfully.”

Knox chuckles. “Well, we know it’s serious.

She’s got that post-coital ‘I own this place’ walk.

Wearing your hoodie, proud as hell.” She looks like war and want when she walks out.

Chin high. Eyes gleaming. Even Frankie raises a brow.

Darla smirks. And me? I watch her go, every step tightening a coil low in my gut.

“She’s glowing,” James says. “The kind of glow you see on someone who just conquered a man and a small nation.”

Which, yeah. She kinda does. And I don’t mind. I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees. The weight of the room shifts, attention turning toward me.

“She knows it’s coming,” I say. “She’s not stupid.”

East raises a brow. “So she’s just... okay with it?”

“She’s not trying to stop it,” I say. I think about the look in her eyes this morning. Barefaced. Tired. Soft. But not scared. Not distant. That gaze landed with the weight of a bruise; aching, quiet, full of a thousand unsaid things.

Nash tilts his head. “She into it?”

I look up. Meet his eyes. Voice low. “She’s into it.” And fuck, isn’t that the part that scares me? That she’s all the way in—and that means I am too. No matter how deep I bury it, how steady I keep my voice, some part of me already handed itself over the moment she whispered my name, a secret.

James lets out a slow whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

They all stare at me for a second too long.

Waiting for me to crack. To shrug. To say it doesn’t mean anything.

But I don’t. Because I’m not going to lie about her.

Not to them. Not to myself. Let them tease.

Let them plot. Let them think this is some game.

Because Candace? She’s not a game. She’s mine.

The guys eventually move on, talking strategy, throwing out new ideas for how to hit the girls back in this war they’ve started, but my mind doesn’t follow.

I keep thinking about the garage. The way she came at me that first time. Sharp, curious, pretending to hunt for answers, but already vibrating with tension. I saw the shift in her shoulders the second she stepped inside. She came looking for intel. I gave her everything but that.

She let me pull her apart with my mouth and hands instead.

Let me show her how much I want her wrecked, worshipped, and undone.

She gave it right back. Wrapped her legs around me and lost her damn mind in my arms. I did too.

She doesn’t even know it, but she owns me in that space now.

That garage. That damn workbench. Every inch of it smells of her.

Feels of her. It’s hers now. Just like I am.

Then she came back. Bold, smug, and glowing. Still scheming, still chasing her angle. But underneath it, she came back for more. Back for me. And that should scare me. Should make me pull back.

But when I told her I loved taking care of her, I saw it. The shift. Her mouth parted just slightly, caught off guard. No one has ever said those words and meant them. Not the way I do.

Maybe she doesn’t know it yet, not fully, but I meant every fucking word.

Taking care of her isn’t a job. It’s a privilege.

The clubhouse has settled. Most of the guys are gone or passed out in the lounge.

A few low murmurs come from the corner where someone is losing money over a game of pool, but otherwise, it’s the kind of quiet that only comes later, after the chaos, when the world finally takes a breath.

That hour where even the hardasses let down their guard.

The music is off, the lights dim, and the only thing threading through the air is the faint scent of sugar from the leftover cookies, smoke from earlier, and lemon from the cleaner she always uses behind the bar.

I lean in the doorway, watching her. Candace is behind the bar, back to me, drying glasses without hurry.

Her movements are slow, rhythmic, as though she isn’t just cleaning—she’s grounding herself.

She’s taken her hair down. My soft hoodie still swallows her frame.

Even in the dim light, I can see the curve of a smile tugging at her lips.

She’s humming. Quiet. Almost tuneless. But not quite.

There’s a beat to it. A rhythm tucked between breaths.

A hum that lives in her bones and slips out only when she forgets to be afraid.

It reminds me we still have a karaoke night to host. Things paused with what happened to Darla and Chuck.

But hearing her hum now? It sounds like maybe she wants to sing again. Just not for anyone else yet.

I stay where I am, just listening, until she turns and catches me standing there. Her eyes widen a little, but she doesn’t jump. Doesn’t brace herself or go stiff the way she used to. She just smiles. Not big. Not teasing. Just… honest. A smile that settles between us without threat.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey.” Her voice always lands in my chest, curling slow and smoky. Now it settles more gently, closer to a song I almost remember.

I cross the room slowly, letting the silence stay easy between us.

Her hands are still moving, wiping down the counter just to keep them busy.

Her fingers brush across the same spot twice.

Maybe three times. A motion that doesn’t want to let the moment go.

One that holds memory. The garage. The hallway.

The way her nails tore down my back when she came, the way she clung to me, gripping hard like I was the only thing in her world holding still.

My eyes roam over her; bare legs, my hoodie swallowing the rest of her, hair loose down her back. Her cheeks flush under my gaze, just enough to let me know she’s remembering too.

Maybe what hits hardest isn’t the sex, isn’t the game we keep playing. It’s the way she blushes when I tell her I love taking care of her. The way she freezes, not in fear, but with the weight of something real. Something that means more than either of us is ready to say.

Because it does. To both of us.

“You’re working late,” I say.

“Felt nice. Didn’t want to go upstairs yet.”

I nod, leaning my forearms on the bar. The wood is still warm beneath my skin, the air between us humming with whatever this is—something delicate, unfinished. Like a chord still ringing out.

“The girls wear you out?”

“They tried.”

A beat passes. She glances up at me then, and for a second, neither of us looks away. Her eyes hold steady. She lets me see her. Not just the fire. But the calm after it.

Then she smirks, head tilted just slightly. “But you did.”

The words hit clean in the ribs. Because they’re true, and she knows exactly what she’s saying.

I blink, caught off guard that she says it out loud. Even more surprised by how much I want her to say it again.

I lean in a little, smirk curling slowly at the corner of my mouth. “Careful, hellcat. Say things like that, and I’ll make sure you can’t walk tomorrow either.”

She raises a brow, smirking, voice low. “Big talk for someone who needed the wall to stay standing.”

I chuckle, leaning closer. “And yet, you’re the one blushing. Face flushed, eyes soft. Still feeling me in every breath.”

She bites her lip, softly, just for a second, and I catch the flicker of heat behind her eyes.

“You’re not wrong,” she murmurs. “I’m still sore.”

“Good,” I say, voice rough. “Means I did it right.”

Her laugh is breathy, quieter than before, but it curls between us in slow spirals.

“Wanna go again?” I ask.

She tilts her head, pretending to think. “You offering to help me not walk tomorrow?”

“Hellcat, I’m offering to make it impossible.”

We both smile. But hers softens after a second.

Then I ask, more gently, “You okay?”

She gives a small, almost shy shrug. “Yeah. Actually… yeah.” That cracks something in me. Because it doesn’t sound like a lie.

I can’t help it; my fingers brush against hers on the bar. Just a graze. Skin on skin. Barely there. But she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. Her fingers twitch once, like they want to follow mine. She looks down. Smiles. And that smile, small and crooked, feels like a sunrise.

“They’ll come for us,” she says, smiling again. “The guys. Payback for all the glitter, the rigged bikes, the haunted jukebox... every dumb prank we’ve pulled.”

“I know.”

I sit down on one of the barstools and grab her by the waist as she passes, pulling her between my legs. She blinks, surprised, but doesn’t resist. Her hands come to rest lightly on my shoulders, then tilts her chin just enough to meet my gaze.

“We deserve it.”

“You do.”

That earns me a quiet laugh, soft and breathy, and something about the sound makes everything in me settle. All the weight I usually carry slips off my shoulders when she looks at me that way. Not as the man who leads. But the one who stays.

We stay there in the quiet for a minute. Not talking. Just being. Her breath is steady. Her hands rub up and down my biceps, a small smile on her lips.

“Come on,” I say, voice low. “Let’s go up.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Just walks with me, shoulder brushing mine as we pass through the dark hallway, steps in sync, her hand finding mine halfway up the stairs. Not clinging. Not testing. Just there. The feel of her fingers curled against mine, simple and sure. No armor.

By the time we reach the landing, she’s already leaning into my side, warm and relaxed, her rhythm matched to mine. I open the door to our room, hold it for her. A rush of air meets us—leather, cedar, and the faint perfume she left on the blanket.

She walks in, slow and quiet, and turns to face me once we’re inside. I shut the door behind us. Neither of us says a word. Because we don’t need to. The silence between us doesn’t stretch. It holds.

She reaches for the hem of my hoodie and pulls it off, dropping it carelessly on the chair.

Then, with the same quiet ease, she pushes her shorts down her legs and steps out of them, left in nothing but her tank top and panties.

Her hair spills over her shoulders, curling from the heat of her skin.

She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look away. Crawls into the bed like it belongs to her. It does. Just the way I do.

When I follow her under the covers, she doesn’t ask what this means. She doesn’t push. She just curls into my side, tucks her face against my chest, and whispers, “I’m glad you stayed.” Her voice cracks on the last word. Barely. But I hear it. Feel it. Because she isn’t just talking about tonight.

My hand slides into her hair. Soft. Damp from the bar. Still carrying a hint of vanilla.

“I’m not going anywhere.” And she believes me. Finally.

The way she exhales into my chest, the way her thumb taps once against my side in a quiet, familiar rhythm. It feels like a promise. Not one she says aloud. But one I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to keep.