Page 64 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

I know what they’re doing. All of them. Cracking jokes.

Tossing jabs. Making light of the pressure building in our chests.

They’re not just trying to entertain—they’re trying to keep us from splintering apart.

And I love them for it. Their laughter is armor, even if it’s bruised and a little bent out of shape.

It holds us together when nothing else can.

Ruby suddenly claps her hands and sits bolt upright. “Game night!”

Darla squints at her. “Ruby, the sun is literally still out.”

“So? Joy knows no curfew.”

A chorus of groans and muffled laughter answers her.

“No. Absolutely not,” Nash says flatly.

“We’re doing it,” Ruby insists. “Pictionary. Charades. I don’t care. We need joy. I demand joy.”

Knox sighs, the sound weary with the heaviness of too many lost battles. “Someone hide the markers before she tries to reenact Die Hard again.”

“That was ONE TIME,” Ruby shouts. “And my Bruce Willis impression was flawless.”

“It ended with you somersaulting into a coffee table,” Sloane deadpans.

“Which was committed acting, thank you.”

Malachi slides in beside me on the couch, his arm draping around my shoulders. His lips brush the side of my temple. “You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod slowly, still smiling as Ruby starts drawing on a napkin and shouting, “Is it a sword? A rocket? A confused snake?!”

My breath hitches. The brush of his mouth against my temple lingers, heat left behind from a brand. His body radiates warmth where it touches mine. I feel the weight of him beside me, not crushing, not smothering. Just solid. Steady. Real.

I shift slightly, pressing into him, letting my side mold to his without hesitation. His arm tightens just enough around me to say he feels it too, and he welcomes it. Whatever hesitation was left between us, it slips away in the silence, replaced by something quieter, deeper. A choice.

“Please tell me that’s not a phallic mushroom,” Frankie says, peering over Ruby’s shoulder.

Ruby gasps. “You saw a mushroom? This is clearly a fire hydrant in distress.”

East leans forward, squinting. “If that’s a fire hydrant, I’m a ballerina.”

Darla throws her hands up. “Okay, girls versus guys. Pictionary. First to ten points wins. Losers clean the bathrooms.”

Groans erupt around the room, but no one actually says no.

“Candace,” Ruby calls. “You’re with me. We need your trauma-fueled accuracy.”

I blink. “What?”

“Girl, you draw like someone who’s seen some shit. We need that.”

I laugh, despite myself, and take the marker. “Fine. But I’m not doing anatomy.”

Ten minutes later, the game is absolute chaos. Nash is surprisingly good at drawing cows. East keeps guessing “threesome” no matter what’s on the board. Kyle is red-faced and trying not to laugh as Sloane acts out childbirth in charades.

“I’ve never been more disturbed and impressed,” Knox says as Sloane pretends to scream-push while Ruby acts as the midwife.

Frankie casually sketches what might be a demon eating a croissant, and the girls cheer when Darla guesses it instantly.

Then Maggie steps up to the board, grabs a marker, and starts drawing with slow, deliberate strokes. For a moment, everyone leans forward trying to figure it out.

“Is that… a banana?” Kyle hazards.

“No, wait, it’s a wrench,” East offers.

Frankie squints. “A very excited wrench?”

Then Maggie adds two very distinct shapes and everyone goes dead silent.

“Is that—” Ruby starts.

“Boobs,” Malachi says flatly.

“With a smiley face?” Nash blinks.

“It’s clearly a pair of joyful tits and a very lucky hand,” Maggie announces proudly.

The room erupts. Laughter crashes through the walls in a wave.

“Maggie!” Knox chokes out, half laughing, half shocked.

“What? Life doesn’t stop when you hit thirty. Or fifty,” she says with a wink, sauntering back to the couch, the picture of someone who just dropped the mic.

Malachi’s actually blinking in disbelief. “I’m both horrified and deeply impressed.”

Ruby cackles. “Maggie’s on our team. We win by default.”

Malachi watches me from his spot on the couch with that steady, smoldering look. But when I nail exploding chicken in under five seconds, he actually claps. I grin. He grins back.

Something soft slips into place. Not loud.

Just present. A thread winding tighter. This might not fix anything.

The world’s still burning. But in this moment—laughing, yelling, drawing wildly inappropriate interpretations of farm animals—it feels like we’ve carved out something good.

And I’ll hold on to that with everything I’ve got.

This strange, wild, loyal little family might actually survive the storm.

The laughter’s still hanging in the air when the mood shifts. It’s not gradual or subtle. The change hits all at once, stripping the oxygen straight from the room.

Malachi’s phone buzzes on the table beside him. Once, sharp and insistent. He glances down, still smiling faintly, but that smile dies the second he sees the name on the screen. James.

His whole body tenses. The kind of stillness that comes right before a storm. The room notices. Everyone quiets.

He answers. “Yeah?” Silence. His jaw locks. His eyes sharpen. “We’re on our way,” he says tightly and hangs up.

Everyone’s on their feet before he even speaks.

“Donovan’s car is outside the Holloway building,” Malachi says, voice low and hard. “James said he’s not alone this time. He needs us. Now.”

Everything inside me goes cold. The laughter drains from Ruby’s face. Darla’s expression tightens. Sloane stands, braced for impact. Maggie moves to grab her bag, already pulling her phone from her pocket.

Malachi turns to the girls, his voice calm but threaded with steel. “No one leaves this building. You’re on lockdown until we say otherwise.”

“Lockdown?” Ruby echoes, blinking.

“Not a drill, Rubes.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

He crosses the room and pulls me in by the waist, pressing his forehead to mine. His voice drops to a whisper. “Stay here. Stay safe. You hear me?”

The contact burns. I nod, throat too tight to speak. But I don’t let go of him right away. His breath fans against my cheek, and for a split second, I think he might kiss me. This time, he does. His lips press to mine, fierce and urgent. Not a goodbye but a promise. The kind you feel in your bones.

When he pulls back, my fingers are still curled in his cut. I let him go. Only because I have to.

He pulls back and signals to Kyle. “Get a couple of the prospects from the shop. I want eyes on every door.”

“Already on it,” Kyle says, moving.

Malachi turns back to us, eyes sweeping the room. “They protect you with everything. No questions. If anything looks off, you call me. You don’t try to play hero. Not this time.” His eyes find mine again. “Promise me, Sour Patch.”

“I promise,” I whisper.

He gives me one more look, something deeper than fear. A tether. A vow. Then he’s out the door, the other guys following in a rush of footsteps and steel.

The sound of engines tearing into the street rattles the windows. And just that fast… they’re gone. The silence that follows feels too loud.

Ruby exhales slowly. “Well. So much for game night.”

But no one laughs this time.

I move toward the front window, watching the bikes disappear around the corner. My hands are shaking. Not just because Donovan’s resurfaced. Not just because of what this could mean. But because this? This is our life now. Waiting. Watching. Hoping we all come home.

I press a hand over my heart, still feeling the echo of Malachi’s goodbye against my skin. Please come back to me. Please don’t let this be the time we break.

We stand there in the clubhouse, still tense, still waiting. No one’s talking anymore. The air feels thick with the kind of stillness that holds its breath with us.

Ruby paces by the window. Frankie’s tapping her pen against her thigh. Sloane’s arms are crossed, jaw tight. Darla keeps checking her phone, hoping a faster refresh might deliver good news. Maggie’s setting out mugs again, using warm drinks to anchor us to something real.

I’m still standing where Malachi left me, the echo of his voice playing on a loop in my head. Stay safe. You hear me? I do. But I hate this. This waiting, this helplessness. The knowing without the doing.

Then—BOOM.

The windows shake. Glass rattles in the frames. The floor beneath us gives a sickening lurch, the kind that hits deep and heavy, like something massive just tore through the earth.

One of the overhead lights swings on its chain. Ruby lets out a startled, “What the hell was that?”

Screams ring out from outside. A car alarm wails.

My ears are ringing. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Because I know, I know in my bones, that explosion has Donovan written all over it.

Then... all of our phones go off at once. That high-pitched blare. Emergency alert. My stomach drops as I fumble to pull mine from my pocket.

EMERGENCY ALERT: There has been a bombing. Please remain calm and remain where you are currently located. More details will be released soon.

“Oh my god,” Sloane breathes. Her hand flies to her mouth.

Maggie is already grabbing her phone, dialing someone. Frankie sinks into the arm of the couch, eyes wide but steady.

“Holy shit,” Ruby whispers, reading her phone. “This is real. This is right now.”

“What if they were near it?” Darla’s voice cracks on the last word. “What if—”

“They’ll be okay,” I say, but it feels more prayer than promise.

My chest is too tight. My pulse is everywhere; in my ears, in my throat, in the tips of my fingers. I sink down onto the edge of the couch, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop my phone.

The clubhouse feels too small. The walls are closing in. Please be okay, Malachi. Please, all of you, come back. Ruby drops next to me and grabs my hand without a word. Because that’s what this is now. No more charades. No more games.

This is war. I’m not sure we’re ready. But I know this. If he comes back to me, I’ll never let him go again. If he doesn’t? I close my eyes, gripping the phone with the desperation of someone clinging to a lifeline, and start to tap a beat against my leg.

One I don’t recognize. One that might become a song. One I hope I’ll never have to finish.