Page 65 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

Smoke clings to the air, thick with regret. Coating my tongue and lungs in something too close to memory. The taste reminds me of burnt flesh and old failure. It carries the weight of the night Cornelius died; the air choking with everything I couldn’t stop. Donovan.

My boots crunch over broken glass as we sweep through the lower garage of the Holloway building, every breath ragged with urgency. The blast site is chaos. It’s twisted steel, scorched concrete, and flickering overhead lights that buzz the way dying insects do.

The lights stutter above us, casting everything in pulses; bodies, blood, broken metal. The scene can’t decide if it’s over or still unraveling. We were too late to stop the explosion. But not too late to catch the bastard behind it.

Victor’s still crouched where Olivia had been, blood on his hands and in his eyes.

Lincoln is helping move the injured, dragging bodies to safety.

Some ours, some not. Arden moved like a damn shadow, faster than anything human, grabbing Leo when he went down with a shot to the neck and vanishing into the smoke with him.

The way Arden moved—silent, deliberate, otherworldly—sent a cold ripple down my spine, even in the firelight. Death in motion. I still hear Olivia’s scream echoing through the haze, but she’s gone. Arden got her out.

And Donovan, Donovan fucking Castiel, is bleeding out on the cracked concrete, courtesy of Victor’s bullet.

I watched it hit. Center mass. The kind of shot you don’t come back from.

My heart should be steady. But it isn’t.

The air buzzes, my hands itch. I’ve waited years for this. So why does it feel wrong?

Victor exhales hard, wiping his face. “He’s dead,” he mutters.

I want to believe him. I really do. Because if Donovan’s dead, this ends. But it doesn’t feel over. Something ancient coils in my ribs. The whisper Frankie would call a warning. The quiet before a worse kind of storm.

I crouch beside the body, where blood pools thick and metallic, hot in the already suffocating air. It still steams, warmth rising in faint curls. Too warm. The scent clings to my nostrils—rust and ash, sharp and lingering.

But I can’t ignore the whisper in my chest, the instinct that’s never steered me wrong. Not yet.

Victor curses and glances around the smoke-choked garage. “Arden got her out,” he says, more to himself than to anyone else. His eyes are wild with the need to see it for himself. “But I’ve gotta make sure she finds a medic.”

He takes off before I can reply, cutting through the chaos with single-minded purpose. His boots slip on blood, but he doesn’t stop. That kind of love doesn’t. I make a mental note. Olivia’s out, but Victor needs eyes on her. Needs to be sure. We all do.

“Go,” I call after him. “We’ll finish this.”

He nods, eyes scanning the chaos, committing every detail to memory. I stand. Turn.

“Check the perimeter,” I bark at Nash. “Secure exits. Nobody walks unless we say so.”

Knox and East are already moving bodies, gathering weapons. Kyle jogs past with a comm in his hand, shouting for backup and medics. The echo of sirens now curls in from outside—thin, delayed, useless. The air vibrates with the tension of something unfinished.

“Malachi!” I whirl at the shout. It’s Kyle, voice sharp. “He’s still got a fucking pulse!”

Time slows. The garage seems to inhale all at once. My breath catches. My stomach flips. I cross the space in four strides, drop to my knees beside Donovan. My hands are shaking. I don’t let anyone see it.

He should be dead. Should be. But there it is. Faint. Unsteady. A fucking pulse.

Rage flares so hot in my blood I think I might burn. My teeth grind and my fists clench. My vision goes narrow and red at the edges.

“Get me cuffs. Zip ties. I don’t care,” I snap. “We are not losing him. Not this way.”

Nash tosses a pair over. I bind Donovan’s hands myself. Every twist of the plastic is a promise. Every cinch, a vow.

Because this? This changes everything. He’s not dead. He’s going to talk. And when he does? We’ll finally get all of it. The auctions. Alice. The society. What really happened to Cornelius that night. Where my siblings were taken. And maybe—just maybe—a way to burn it all down and bring them home.

I rise, blood on my hands, the weight of war in my chest. My fingers are sticky, red down to the nail beds. It drips onto my boot, soaking in. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now but the truth.

“Get him in the van,” I say. “We’re not done yet. Not even close.”

As East and Kyle move Donovan’s body, Knox appears beside me, already on the same page. “You want me to call Sloane?”

“Yeah,” I grunt, wiping my hands on a torn rag that only spreads the blood around. “Tell her we’ve got Donovan. He’s not dead. We’re bringing him to the basement. She’s gonna have to keep him alive.”

Knox nods, already dialing. “She’s not going to be thrilled about this.”

“She doesn’t have to be. She just has to help us get the bastard to talk.”

Back at the clubhouse, everything moves fast. Prospects open the doors before we hit the brakes.

Maggie and Frankie are clearing space in the basement.

Darla’s hauling down the first-aid kits.

Ruby grabs towels without being asked. The place buzzes with the charge of a live wire, all instinct and grit and brotherhood.

Candace is the first one down the stairs, hair pulled back, eyes burning with the same fire I’ve come to recognize, fierce and unrelenting. Her chest rises and falls too fast, breath forced through cracked ribs in an attempt at calm.

She doesn’t wait for instruction. Just moves. Efficient. Focused. She carries the look of someone born to see this bastard bleed. Our eyes meet for a split second. Hers full of fury and unspoken questions, mine weighted with everything I can’t say.

She’s still wearing my hoodie. There’s blood on the hem now, right where it hits her thigh.

My breath catches. I don’t know if it’s possession or pride, but I feel it deeply.

It’s not just personal anymore. It never was.

Sloane—scrubs on, sneakers tight, gloves snapping against her wrists—is already in motion, barking orders with the precision of a field medic in a war zone.

There’s sweat on her brow, but her hands don’t shake. Not once.

“What the hell did you bring me?” she growls, eyes sharp.

“The reason we’re going to blow this entire thing wide open,” I say, voice raw and rough as gravel.

She mutters something under her breath, equal parts curse and prayer, and checks Donovan’s vitals, assessing the damage. Her hands are fast, sure. Tourniquet. Gauze. Chest seal.

“Through-and-through. Missed the heart by inches. Lucky bastard,” she grits. The room is full. Too full. Everyone crowds in, watching. “If you’re not helping, get the hell out!” Sloane barks. “Out. Now.”

No one argues. Not even Nash. We all file out, but I hover in the doorway, watching her fight to keep Donovan breathing.

There’s a war inside me, torn between wanting him alive and wishing I had pulled the trigger myself.

My jaw aches from clenching. My nails have bitten into my palm. But I don’t move.

Donovan groans. Sloane pauses, eyes narrowing. “He’s waking up.”

I move fast, crouch beside him, lean in close. His eyelids flutter. There’s blood in his teeth. A rattle in his chest. The smell of it is iron-thick and wrong.

“Talk,” I growl. “You’re not dead yet. And you don’t get to die until I say so.”

His lips twitch, barely. Then a rasp, almost too soft to catch. “She’s already here.”

My stomach sinks. A cold claw wraps around my spine. “Who? Who’s here?”

He coughs, blood bubbling in the corner of his mouth. A weak, ugly smile follows. “The queen… always moves first.” Then he passes out.

My blood goes cold. Not fear. But something older. Something buried. Something that remembers. My phone rings. Victor.

I answer it on the first buzz. “Tell me.”

“It’s her,” he says. “It’s Alice. She’s in town. She was working with Donovan.”

The words slam into my chest with the force of a second explosion. A third. A fourth. The night Cornelius died is still detonating inside me. Alice. Candace’s mother. The woman who disappeared, who watched her daughter grow up in ruin and did nothing.

My hands clench into fists. Not just rage. Betrayal. For Candace. Olivia. For the ones who didn’t get a choice.

Behind me, I hear soft footsteps. Arden. Silent as death. His presence cools the air by ten degrees. He doesn’t speak to me. Just moves to Frankie, then murmurs something I can’t make out. Her face changes. Tightens. She nods once, mouth grim, and they vanish up the stairs.

No one asks. No one breathes.

The scent of blood lingers, but something else rides beneath it. Old. Cold. Ancient. Something’s shifting. And nothing will ever be the same again.

Victor’s place smells of antiseptic, leather, and grief. The kind that settles in your chest and doesn’t move. I step inside, boots tracking dust across polished hardwood, and immediately clock the tight circle of Outsiders in the dining room. East, Kyle, Nash. All alert. All silent.

The air feels heavier here. It carries the weight of war’s aftermath. We’re all braced, waiting for the next shot to land. Knox stayed behind with Sloane and the women, keeping the clubhouse locked down tight.

Victor’s off to the side, one arm curled around Olivia, holding her with the desperate grip of someone afraid she’ll vanish. Her skin’s too pale. Her eyes haunted. But she’s alive. That counts for something.

He hasn’t asked about Donovan. Not directly. And I haven’t volunteered the truth. Because the truth is a razor. After the hell they just walked through, I’m not sure either of them needs to bleed more. Not yet. But the blade’s in my pocket, ready.

“Heard Leo didn’t make it,” I say, voice low.

Victor’s jaw ticks. “No. He didn’t.”