Page 67 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

We head out less than ten minutes later, the rumble of motorcycle engines cutting through the tension with the precision of a blade.

East falls in behind me, Kyle and Nash flanking us as we carve through the quiet streets.

Getting out of the neighborhood is a maze.

Roads are blocked off near the blast site, detours winding us past scorched pavement, melted signage, and flashing barricades.

Ash still floats in the air, catching in the headlights and clinging to my jacket, proof the day isn’t done burning.

The scent of smoke seeps into my lungs, gritty and bitter, laced with something metallic. The streets feel haunted, the asphalt bearing the memory of what it swallowed. A bitter reminder that this war we’re in isn’t over. Not even close.

When we finally reach the warehouse district, the silence is wrong.

Thick. Unnatural. Even the wind feels hesitant, brushing past rusted siding with a kind of fear, unwilling to disturb whatever still lingers here.

Lights flicker above rusted doors. The old crane creaks in protest, its sound the groan of something trying to stay asleep.

The air reeks of salt, oil, mildew, and something older. Something dead.

We fan out, boots echoing off crumbling concrete.

Footprints scatter through the dust, broken by long drag marks across the floor where someone unwilling had been hauled in.

Blood streaks through it. Dried but still dark enough to make my stomach tighten.

A smear glints beneath a swinging chain, the metal creaking softly, carrying the echo of weight it once held.

Olivia’s, maybe. Maybe not. I crouch, fingers brushing the metal. Cold. Damp. It smells of rust and old grief.

Everything inside me coils tight. Fury thrumming under my ribs, steady as my heartbeat. This place... it’s not just a scene. It’s a statement. A promise that this isn’t over.

My phone buzzes, the vibration slicing through the stillness. Sloane.

I answer. “Talk to me.”

“He’s awake,” she says. “Donovan’s awake.”

The air thins. My grip tightens. Time folds in on itself. The warehouse fades, replaced by the ghosts of a night I’ve spent years trying to piece together. My sister’s scream. My brother’s silence. The trail that went cold, a body abandoned in the snow.

“I’ll be there soon.”

I end the call and turn to Nash and Kyle.

“Keep digging,” I order. “Find something. Anything. If there’s a trail, I want it. Don’t leave until you’ve turned this place inside out.” They nod without question.

I swing onto my bike, East right behind me, engines growling to life with the same fury burning in my veins. The cold night air hits my face, but it doesn’t clear the static in my head. Just sharpens it. Donovan’s awake. And it’s time to get answers.

The ride back to the clubhouse is a blur of asphalt and fury.

My engine roars under me, eating up the distance between the warehouse and the truth I’ve been chasing for years.

East rides at my flank, his presence a steady hum beside the chaos building in my chest. The streets are still half-blocked near the blast site, charred barricades, melted signage, the echo of sirens in the distance, but we wind through the mess as fluidly as smoke.

The sound of my breathing fills my helmet. Shallow. Focused. Deadly.

When the compound gates come into view, my stomach knots. Not from fear. From purpose. Donovan’s awake. He’s going to give me answers.

The moment we roll in, prospects are already moving, alerted by the rumble of our bikes. One nods and opens the door leading to the basement.

Sloane’s voice echoes up the stairs before I’m even inside.

“Vitals are stable, but you need to make it quick. If he crashes again, I won’t bring him back.

” The basement is dim and smells of blood, sweat, and antiseptic.

A single overhead light buzzes faintly, casting long shadows that flicker across Donovan’s face. He’s pale. Worn. But not dead.

Candace sits in the corner, her arms crossed and eyes burning with the intensity of fire, aimed straight through his skull. Sloane works quickly, adjusting bandages, checking the IV line. She doesn’t look up.

“He’s lucid, but fading. Get what you need.”

I move in front of him and crouch, eye level. “You remember me?” I ask.

Donovan coughs, his breath wet and shallow. But the corner of his mouth twitches in a mockery of a smile. “Hard to forget the bastard who ruined my favorite coat.”

I grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer. “You’re going to tell me everything. About Alice. About Cornelius. About the night my siblings disappeared.”

He wheezes a laugh. “Still clinging to that old ghost, huh?”

My fist clenches. I don’t hit him. Yet.

“You think this ends with you bleeding out on our floor? Nah. You don’t get that kind of mercy. You’re going to choke on every secret you kept.”

His eyelids flutter, but he fights to keep them open.

“I remember that night,” he mutters. “Alice was the one who called it off. Said the girl, your sister, was too valuable to waste. Said the boy might still be useful to someone else.”

A chill rolls down my spine. “She handed them over?” I growl.

He nods slowly. “To someone bigger. A buyer with connections. I wasn’t part of the trade. She kept that one close.”

“Where?” I bark. “Where were they taken?”

His lips part. “She never told me. Only that the girl would be groomed for something... important. The boy, he was resistant. Needed breaking.”

My stomach turns. Rage threatens to explode.

“But I know one thing,” he whispers. “Your sister... she’s not lost. She’s been hiding in plain sight.”

My heart stops. “What the hell does that mean?”

But he’s already fading. Sloane rushes back, checking his pulse. “He’s crashing,” she snaps. “Back off.”

I don’t move. My voice is low and lethal. “I’ll be back. You’re not dying until you give me names.”

As Sloane and a prospect rush to stabilize him, she meets my gaze. Just for a second. There’s something sharp in her expression, a look that holds the weight of an argument, a silent reminder she said she wouldn’t bring him back again. But she doesn’t say it. She doesn’t stop me.

In that one look, I see it. The contradiction. The quiet give. We both know this isn't about rules anymore. I nod once, and she turns her focus back to Donovan without a word.

Then I head back upstairs, my mind racing.

Hiding in plain sight. I need to know who she is.

Where they are. And how the hell this fits into the bigger picture.

Because if Donovan’s telling the truth, my brother and sister might already be in trouble.

If there’s even a chance they’re still alive, I have to find them.

I have to get to them before it’s too late.

I head for the bar without a word, shoulders heavy, throat dry.

The bottle of whiskey is already in my hand before I realize I’ve grabbed it.

I pour a double, no ice, and throw it back in one swallow.

The burn scorches down my throat, sharp enough to snap something loose in my chest. I pour another, slower this time, and force myself to sip.

I need a clear head. Need control. Because what comes next demands nothing less.

I hear footsteps behind me and don’t need to turn to know who it is.

Candace. She slides onto the stool beside me, not touching, but close enough that her presence curls into the space between us.

It’s grounding. Steady. Infuriating in a way I can't quite explain.

She doesn't speak at first, just sits there quietly, watching me drink, her silence saying more than words ever could.

Then she speaks, low and sure. “You owe Sloane big time.”

I huff a bitter laugh, the burn of whiskey lingering on my tongue. “Yeah. I know.”

Candace leans forward, elbows on the bar, hair slipping over her shoulder in a curtain of gold. “We’ll find the rest of the answers. Whatever it takes.”

I look at her. Really look. There’s no fear in her eyes, only fire, steady and sure. And something in me leans toward that heat, wanting to believe her more than I want my next breath.

The door opens with a creak that sets my teeth on edge. Heavy boots cross the floor, and when I turn, it’s Nash and Kyle. Both look drained, as if they’ve been dragging their way through hell.

Nash shakes his head once. “We combed the whole block near the docks. No sign of Alice. Whoever helped her move Olivia knew what they were doing.”

Kyle tosses a bloody rag on the counter, frustration bleeding out of every line in his body. “We checked the surrounding warehouses too. Nothing.”

Candace stiffens beside me. Her jaw tightens, and her knuckles go white around the glass she’s holding. She doesn’t say anything, but the way her eyes flicker betrays it all. She’s shaken.

I slam the glass on the bar harder than I should. “Son of a bitch.”

Candace flinches. That’s on me. I run a hand down her back, slow and firm, offering silent comfort where words would only bruise.

Her breath catches at the contact, and for a moment, she doesn’t move.

Then she leans into it, into me, allowing herself to fall apart for a second.

Letting it be okay. Trusting that she’s not alone in this.

I rise from the stool, every nerve in my body screaming. “We’re not done. She’s still out there. And Donovan’s going to start talking again if I have to drag the words out of him myself.”

Nash nods, but his eyes flick to Candace. “We’ll keep digging. You know we will.”

I know. And I’m not letting this trail go cold. Not when she’s this close.

Candace pushes off the stool. “I’m going to check on James.”

“No,” I say, sharper than I mean to. Her brows lift.

“We’re still on lockdown until I know for sure you’re safe. None of the women leave unless I say so.”

“I can take care of myself,” she snaps. “I don’t need anyone—”

I cut her off, my voice low but firm. “Yeah. I know. That’s your line, right? I don’t need anyone. I’m fine. I’m strong. And you are. But you’re also hurting. You’re scared. You’ve been holding it in so long, you don’t even know when you’re bleeding anymore.”

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

I take a step closer. “If you need to fight, we’ll spar. If you need to scream, I’ll listen. But you’re not alone in this anymore, Sour Patch. We’re in this together now. You don’t get to shove me away just because it’s easier than feeling it.”

She blinks hard, lips parting as though she’s going to argue. And this time, she does.

“You don’t get it,” she says, her voice tight. “I’ve survived worse alone. I don’t need—”

I don’t let her finish. I wrap both arms around her and pull her against my chest, ignoring how stiff she goes at first. She struggles for half a heartbeat, fists pressing into my ribs, then she crumbles.

Melts. Her fingers fist the back of my shirt, and her breath stutters, breaking something loose inside her.

The room shifts. I hear movement behind me. Nash, Kyle, even East stepping away, giving us space.

I tighten my grip. Not to restrain. To remind.

“You’re not alone anymore,” I murmur, low and steady. “You’re mine now. Let someone fight for you for once.”

She doesn’t say a word. She just holds on, clinging with desperation that says it’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Maybe it is.