Page 55 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

The room is quiet now. It’s the kind of quiet that sinks into your bones and makes you notice things; the way the sheets still smell of soap and leather, or how his breath brushes the back of my neck every time he exhales.

The quiet hums, low and weighted, steeped in secrets I haven’t said out loud.

Malachi’s behind me, warm and solid. One arm draped heavily across my waist; even in sleep he refuses to let go. The weight of it should make me feel trapped. It doesn’t. It’s the only thing keeping me grounded. An anchor that doesn’t drag me down, just keeps me from drifting too far out.

I stare out into the dark, the faint glow of the hallway light slipping beneath the door, casting soft shadows across the room.

The chaos of karaoke night feels centuries behind us.

But it lingers. The way they all looked at me after I sang.

The way he looked at me. As though I cracked the sky open and dropped something sacred on their heads.

As though I’m not just a girl with damage and deflection.

I’m worth hearing. The memory crackles in my chest. Shy, terrifying, electric.

I press a hand to my chest, right over the place that’s been aching for years.

The ache’s still there, but softer now. Not gone.

Just… not gnawing the way it used to. Not since him.

Since this. The silence hums against my ribs, echoing a second heartbeat.

A song with no name. Just breath and skin and a closeness that undoes me.

One leg nudges against mine as he shifts behind me, his arm tightening just enough to make me suck in a breath.

I swear he’s not even awake, but he knows I’m here.

His body does, at least. It remembers the shape of me, the temperature of my skin, the exact way I breathe when I’m trying not to feel too much.

A chill prickles at the back of my neck.

Not from cold. From knowing I’m not alone in this bed.

Or maybe for the first time in my life, I’m not alone in myself.

It’s ridiculous how good he smells. Smoke and pine.

Sweat and everything I shouldn’t crave. My fingers itch to trace the ink across his chest, to feel the ridges of every scar he’s ever earned.

I know the muscles beneath that skin. I’ve seen them flex in a fight, stretching under pressure.

But it’s the quiet power that gets me; the way he’s strong even in stillness.

Steady. Unshakeable. Something I’ve never had.

And he’s beautiful. Not in a clean boy-next-door way.

But ruined. All sharp edges and coiled energy, a wolf wearing the skin of a man.

I spent so much time trying not to notice it.

Trying not to want him. Trying not to fall.

But I’ve already fallen. Somewhere between the way he says my name and the way he watches me, intent and unraveling, like a riddle he wants to solve.

Somewhere between every time he pushed and I pushed back and we both pretend it isn’t flirting when it obviously is.

Somewhere between that first stupid nickname, Sour Patch, and tonight, when he looked at me with that fire-starting stare that promised he’d burn for me, burn with me.

My fingers move restlessly against the sheet, tapping out a quiet beat without meaning to. Three soft taps and a pause. A rhythm I’ve used to calm myself since I’m little. A silent metronome. The kind of thing I usually only do when I’m writing lyrics. Or trying not to break.

I twist slowly, careful not to wake him.

Just enough to see his face. Even asleep, he looks intense.

Not fully at peace. Or maybe his demons are quieter now that I’m here.

His jaw is clenched, brow furrowed slightly, straddling the edge of dreaming and surviving.

I want to smooth the worry lines away with my fingertips.

I want to press my mouth to the corner of his and whisper things I haven’t said out loud since I was a kid—back when I still believed in things like safety and promises.

But most of all, I want to keep him. That thought terrifies me more than anything else.

Because I never wanted to belong to anyone.

Never wanted to owe anyone anything. I built my whole life on staying sharp, staying untouchable, making damn sure no one could crack their way inside.

Then Malachi walked in already holding the key.

The thing is… falling for him doesn’t feel like jumping off a cliff.

It feels like exhaling. I’ve been holding my breath for years, and he’s the first place I feel safe enough to breathe.

How the hell did that happen? How did I go from hating him to this? From glaring across parking lots and fantasizing about kicking him in the teeth… to lying in his bed and memorizing the sound of his heartbeat against my spine?

He ruined me. In the best, most irreversible way. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t know it. My eyes sting suddenly, the weight of the truth finally settling in, as if it’s been waiting for me to slow down long enough to notice. I love him.

Not the idea of him. Not the way he looks on a bike or how he fights like he’s got something to prove.

Him. The stubborn, reckless, infuriating, loyal, protective man who saw all my cracks and never once asked me to fix them.

He’s the only thing in my life that doesn’t feel temporary.

For the first time in… maybe ever, that doesn’t scare me. It feels like home.

I lean in and press the softest kiss to his shoulder.

Just a whisper of lips and breath. He doesn’t stir.

But I do. Inside, something settles. Something locks into place.

I curl closer, resting my head beneath his chin, and breathe him in.

And quietly, finally, I let go. Of the fear.

The fight. Of the distance I keep like armor.

Because I’m his now. Even if I never say it out loud.

Even if he doesn’t know it yet. I’m already his. And I never want to be anything else.

I don’t sleep. Can’t. Not with him this close.

His body is heat, gravity, and all the things I swear I don’t need.

But now? I crave him the way I crave air.

Not just the way he touches me, but the way he holds still with intent, the way he makes space for me.

The way he already knows I’m not going anywhere tonight.

I shift slowly, careful not to jolt him awake; at least not yet.

My fingers find the edge of the blanket, tugging it down just a little, just enough to see the sweep of ink across his ribs, the dip of muscle below his stomach.

The man’s a work of art. And somehow, he’s mine.

At least for now. I bite my lip, heart kicking up as I reach out—just barely—to trace one of the tattoos with the tip of my finger.

He murmurs something in his sleep. Low. Almost a growl. Then he moves. Just slightly.

A shift in his breath. The faintest twitch of his hand. But I feel it. The change in the air. As if the room just tilts on its axis and I’m sliding straight into the center of him. His voice is rough, gravel-dragged, and half-wrecked. “Sour Patch…”

My pulse stumbles. “Did I wake you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, deep and slow, still surfacing from sleep. His arm tightens around me, dragging me closer until my thigh brushes his. “No,” he says finally. “Been dreaming about you.” A shiver licks down my spine.

“What kind of dream?” I ask, barely a whisper.

He shifts again, slow and deliberate, and now we’re flush. My chest against his, his thigh between mine, his hand skating up my back with patient precision, seeking all my breaking points. “The kind where you kiss me first,” he murmurs. I shouldn’t. But I want to.

My breath catches as I press a kiss to his collarbone—slow, lingering—feeling his skin jump beneath my mouth. “Like that?” I ask.

He huffs out a laugh, but it’s dark and low, full of heat. “You keep doing that and I’m gonna forget I was trying to behave.”

I lift my head, meeting his eyes for the first time since he woke up. They’re barely open, but burning. I strike a match in him, and there’s no putting it out.

“I don’t want you to behave,” I whisper.

Something shifts in him then. The teasing drops away, replaced by something heavier. More dangerous. His hand slides into my hair, slow but firm, tilting my head until our mouths are just a breath apart.

“Say that again.”

“I don’t want—”

His mouth crashes into mine. And it’s not soft. Not slow. It’s everything we’ve been holding back. All the nights we bit our tongues, all the times we looked but didn't touch. It’s teeth, tongues, and a low, desperate sound from the back of his throat that sets fire to my nerve endings.

He rolls on top of me, one hand pinning mine above my head, the other gripping my hip with hunger. “I’ve had you,” he growls against my mouth, voice all gravel and heat, “but not like this. Not slow. Not with nothing in the way.”

The words hit low in my stomach, molten and heavy. Because he’s right. Every time before is fire and friction, anger twisted into want, tension snapping hot and fast. We never let ourselves feel it. We take. We burn. We run.

But this? This is different. His mouth softens against mine, almost reverently now, and it makes something deep inside me ache. Because he’s not just trying to consume me. He’s letting himself need me. And I need him, too.