Page 63 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

The door clicks shut behind the men, a gun cocking, final and loud in the quiet space they leave behind.

My heart stutters once, then picks up a new, uneasy rhythm.

It’s always tense when they head into the war room.

Tension thick as fog. The weight of what they’re walking into presses against my skin, a bruise waiting to form.

A bruise that hasn’t bloomed yet, but I can already feel it under the surface, pulsing in warning.

I grip my coffee mug tighter and retreat to the couch, curling into the corner where I can see the hallway but not be seen from it.

Malachi’s hoodie swallows most of me, sleeves pulled over my hands, the soft fabric brushing against my lips every time I exhale.

It smells like him, leather and smoke and something warm beneath it all.

The scent wraps me in comfort. It makes it a little easier to breathe.

The warmth of the coffee doesn’t reach my chest. Not really.

It tastes burnt. Bitter. I take another sip anyway, hoping this time it’ll do more than scald my tongue.

Ruby’s voice cuts through the silence first, always the one to break it. “I swear, if Malachi doesn’t come out of there with a plan to blow something up, I’m gonna be disappointed.”

Darla snorts, tossing a pillow at her. “You’re deranged.”

“Takes one to know one, sugarplum.”

Frankie hums thoughtfully. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, pen tapping against her lip. “Something’s shifting. I can feel it in my teeth.”

The sound of her tapping echoes oddly loud in the room, bouncing off something unseen. I glance at her, a chill brushing down my spine. She’s always been strange, but lately... there’s something else. Something older. She hears things the rest of us can’t.

Sloane raises a brow from her seat beside Maggie. “That’s… concerning.”

Frankie shrugs, still tapping her pen. “It’s a witch thing. Probably.”

I manage a smile, but it feels like it doesn’t belong to me. Their voices are distant, muffled by the ache beneath my ribs. My mother is alive. Alive. Breathing. Moving through the same world I am. And she left me. On purpose.

She didn’t die. She disappeared. Watched me. Counted down the days. Let my father fall apart and me with him. There’s a tremor in my chest that won’t settle. Like something vital inside me got knocked loose.

Maggie meets my gaze across the room, her eyes warm, steady. She doesn’t say anything, just nods once. That nod cracks something in me. I press my sleeve against the corner of my eye, trying to catch the grief before it spills.

It helps. A little. I sip the coffee. It’s gone lukewarm. Still bitter.

“You okay?” Sloane asks gently, turning toward me.

I nod. Lie. Ruby doesn’t buy it. She shifts closer, bumping her shoulder against mine.

“You don’t have to say it, you know. You don’t have to be okay just because we’re here.”

The tears threaten, hot and unwelcome. I swallow hard.

“She’s alive,” I whisper. “All this time, I thought she was dead. I told myself she had to be. Because if she wasn’t… if she left me on purpose—”

“Then she’s worse than dead,” Frankie says softly. “Because she made the choice.”

I nod, unable to speak. The clubhouse feels too still. The murmur of voices beyond the hallway door is low, too quiet to make out. But I know Malachi’s in there. I can feel it in my bones. The storm under his skin. The way he holds too much inside and never lets it break.

He kills for this club. Protects it with a reverence that borders on sacred. Treats it as the only thing left that’s worth bleeding for. Now he’s bleeding for me too.

The thought should comfort me, but it terrifies me instead.

Because I don’t know what it would do to me if something happened to him.

The idea of Malachi hurt—of him bleeding, broken, or worse—makes my chest seize.

I can’t picture a world without him in it.

I won’t. I won’t let him burn himself out for everyone else the way I’ve seen others do. Not for me. Not for anyone.

I press the mug to my lips, close my eyes, and pretend the heat seeping through the ceramic is enough to hold me together. That the women around me can anchor me with their jokes, their stillness, their fire until the storm inside me settles.

But deep down, I know better. The storm isn’t passing. It’s just getting started.

Somewhere inside me, a lyric stirs. I tap my fingers once, twice, against the side of the mug in a rhythm I don’t recognize until I feel it sync with the beat in my chest. I stop before it becomes something real. Before it turns into a melody I’ll have to face.

The war room door cracks open not long after, and James steps out alone.

He walks into the main room with his usual quiet presence, but there’s something weighted in the lines of his face.

His eyes scan the room until they land on Maggie.

She rises immediately and walks to him, smoothing her hands down the front of his cut before reaching up to fix the collar of his shirt underneath.

“You heading out already?” she asks softly.

He nods. “Gotta get to the Holloway building. Early shift today.”

Her brow creases, but it’s fond. “Tell Lincoln I said hey.”

James smiles. “Will do. We’re all keeping an eye on Olivia. Victor asked us to. Donovan’s been seen near the building more than once since the wedding.”

The room stills.

“Creepy bastard,” Ruby mutters.

James’s gaze shifts to me. “He hasn’t made a move yet. Just... watching. Waiting. But that’s why I’m keeping close. Can’t risk him getting bold.”

My fingers tighten around the mug. Another thread in the web. Another piece that doesn’t make sense, but it’s starting to form a shape.

Donovan. He’s not just tied to Malachi’s past. He’s not just the man my father got mixed up with. He’s circling Olivia now too. Victor’s woman. Which means he’s getting reckless. Or he’s getting close.

Everywhere we turn, he’s there. And my mother—Alice. Tied to him by more than whispers. A partner, maybe. A ghost behind the curtain.

It’s too much. Too many moving pieces. All of them are orbiting around people I love.

What if we can’t stop him? What if he’s too far ahead, always three moves beyond what we can see?

A chill crawls up my spine. We’re not just up against a man.

We’re up against a system. And I don’t know if we can win.

James reaches out and touches Maggie’s face; gently, certain, making my chest ache. It’s not loud. Not flashy. It’s just real. It’s what I see starting to take root between me and Malachi.

We’re not perfect. We’re barely past the rubble. But there’s something strong forming between us, something worth holding on to.

I hope, when all this dust settles, we stand as solid as they do.

Then he turns to me. “You good, sweetheart?”

The question is simple, but it hits hard. I look up at him and nod. “I think so.”

He watches me a second longer, studying me with the kind of focus that might strip away the lie. Maybe he can.

“You’ve always had more strength than you think,” he says. “We saw it, even when you tried to push us away. Didn’t matter. We kept an eye on you anyway.”

My throat tightens. I don’t know what to say. So I just nod again. “Thank you,” I manage.

His expression softens. “You’ve got people now. Don’t forget that.”

Then he’s gone. The silence he leaves behind feels different than before. Not emptier. Just a little more grounded.

The war room door creaks open a few minutes later, and the tension in the air thins slightly.

One by one, the guys file out. Malachi comes out first, followed by Knox, East, Nash, and finally Kyle.

Then out comes Victor followed by a few patched members and prospects trailing behind, shoulders stiff, eyes sharp.

None of them linger. The group moves through the clubhouse with purpose already etched into their steps.

Every one of them has a job to do. We’re not told what, but the weight of it hums in the silence they leave behind.

Malachi meets my eyes across the room and offers the smallest of nods. But it’s more than enough. It’s a tether. A grounding wire.

My hand drifts to the hem of my hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric. I don’t know when I started craving that look from him, but now I feel the absence of it the way cold air stings raw skin.

“God, it’s like they’ve just returned from battle,” Ruby says dramatically, sprawling back across the couch in full fainting Victorian widow fashion. “Someone get me a fan and a mint julep.”

Darla snorts. “You’ve never even had a mint julep.”

Ruby gasps. “Don’t expose me in front of the others.”

Nash, without even looking up, says dryly, “You’d probably spit it out anyway.”

Ruby flips him off with a grin. “Please. I don’t spit. I swallow.”

The room goes quiet for half a beat before Darla groans and tosses a pillow at her head.

Ruby just laughs, catching it one-handed, already poised for the reaction.

But there’s a flicker of something warm in her eyes as she glances Nash’s way.

He catches it, doesn’t acknowledge it, but his mouth twitches, a faint response to something he might’ve felt too.

East plops down in the armchair with all the grace of a sack of potatoes and reaches for a cookie someone left on the table. “We lived, we plotted, we probably ruined some lives. Can I get a gold star or what?”

Kyle raises a brow. “You ate four of the planning snacks and made zero useful contributions.”

East takes a bite of the cookie and shrugs. “Morale is important.”

“I mean… he’s not wrong,” Frankie chimes in, twirling her pen.