Page 75 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

I don’t know what just happened, but I know what I saw. Malachi’s face cracked open, as if someone was tearing out his ribs and reaching straight into his heart.

He hasn’t moved. His hand has gone slack in mine, fingers still curled around something already lost. His eyes are pinned to the hallway where they disappeared, his stare willing her to come back.

But she won’t. Not unless we chase her.

I squeeze his hand hard. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t argue. Just nods once, jaw clenched, and lets me pull him forward.

The hallway is narrow, industrial. It’s the kind of place where secrets get dragged through the walls and left to rot behind locked doors.

The overhead light buzzes, flickering, warning us in static. I ignore it.

I don’t care if we’re not supposed to be here. Or if this place was built for men meant to rule and not women who demand answers. I will burn it to the ground if it means getting answers.

Our boots echo off the concrete, quick but careful. The scent of sweat and blood still lingers from the fights, but beneath it there’s something colder now. The adrenaline has turned to smoke. We’re walking into a memory that was never ours but still cuts like it is.

I glance at Malachi. His face is stone. But his hand is gripping mine tighter now. Fierce. Like if he lets go, he’ll unravel. Or I’m the only thing anchoring him to the ground. Maybe I am. My heart thuds louder as we walk.

“You really think it was her?” I whisper.

He swallows hard. “I-I don’t know. It’s been years. But... yeah. Yeah, I think it was.”

My stomach twists. That woman, she didn’t say a word. Barely even looked at us. But there was something in her movements, every step carrying muscle memory she couldn’t shake, even if her mind had tried.

If that was Amelia, if she’s alive and here, with him, the man who bought that girl last night, then we’re in deeper than I thought.

We reach the corner where they vanished, and I slow my steps, checking for movement, voices, shadows. Nothing. Just another empty stretch of hallway leading to a locked door with a keypad and a rusted metal exit sign flickering above it. Locked.

Malachi exhales sharply, one hand bracing against the wall to keep himself standing. “She didn’t even look at me. Not really. But I swear to God, I felt it. I felt her.”

I place my hand on his back. Solid muscle, tight with restraint. The heat rolling off him is different now, quieter. Desperate. His grief has started coiling beneath his skin, clawing for a way out.

“Then we keep going. We don’t stop until we find her.”

He glances down at me, something raw in his eyes. “You don’t have to do this, Sour Patch.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I snap, because I’m angry and terrified and protective all at once. “You found her once. We’re not losing her again.”

He nods. Once. Sharply. But his throat works, swallowing down everything he doesn’t know how to say. I get it. Because if that had been someone from my past, someone I lost without warning, without answers—

I push the thought away before it finishes forming.

We turn and keep moving, deeper into the maze of corridors, past locked doors and abandoned storage rooms. Every shadow holds the potential for secrets. Every corner feels primed to snap back with the truth.

The silence stretches, heavy as the weight of what we just saw. My heartbeat becomes the only music in my head. Steady, repetitive, dull percussion against the inside of my chest. I breathe to the rhythm.

But I won’t let it win. Not tonight. Not after everything we’ve fought through just to get this close.

Just a few steps down the corridor, enough for the buzz of the warehouse lights to shift pitch, enough for the scent of sweat and motor oil to thin into something cooler, when a voice cuts through the air with precision, sharp as a well-placed hook.

“Hey.” We both stop.

The man stands near the padded door, half-shadowed, but there’s nothing casual about him.

He’s tall, wiry, older, in his forties maybe, with graying hair swept back and a jaw made for bad news.

His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, arms lean and roped with muscle.

A tattoo of a coiled snake winds down one forearm, and his eyes land on us with a fighter’s assessment.

“You fight to prove something,” he says to Malachi, his voice low and even. “And you”—he glances at me—”you’re hunting.”

Malachi doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. But I feel the shift in him. The quiet coil of instinct, of warning. I can feel his tension in the air between us. Charged. Waiting.

“I’m Rex,” the man continues, tipping his head toward the door behind him. “You want answers?” he says. “Step inside.” Rex opens the padded door, the hinges creaking low.

My heart ticks faster, but I square my shoulders. Malachi glances at me. That flicker of uncertainty in his eyes again. He’s thrown. Off-kilter. Still chasing the ghost of a girl he hasn’t seen in over a decade. The possibility of her.

So I nod. Grab his hand. “We’re not leaving without something,” I murmur. “Let’s go.” He follows.

Rex steps aside, letting us into a room that smells faintly of leather, chalk dust, and time.

It’s cleaner than expected. Neat, intentional, almost curated to feel safe.

The walls are dark but freshly painted, the lighting soft despite the overhead bulb.

A worn bench lines one wall, and a metal table sits beneath a mounted shelf stacked with files, gloves, and a half-empty bottle of water.

In the corner, a locked cabinet hums faintly; surveillance or something close to it.

The contrast to the brutal world outside the door is jarring, a sanctuary constructed for secrets.

I get the feeling this room has heard things it’s not supposed to. And kept them. Rex closes the door behind us with a soft click. Then he looks at Malachi again. Measured. Curious. Maybe even a little cautious.

A door I hadn’t noticed, next to a locked cabinet, opens.

Then he steps out. Still in black. Still dangerous.

Behind him, just barely visible in the shadows, the woman.

The one who moved with the ease of someone trained to disappear.

The one Malachi tracked with his eyes the way a man watches someone carrying pieces of himself.

Malachi goes still. So still it hurts to look at him.

Rex doesn’t flinch. Just steps aside, following a script already written. I feel Malachi inhale. A slow, sharp breath, as if something ancient just cracked open inside him.

The man’s gaze sweeps the room. Doesn’t settle on us at first. But I see the flicker when it does. Maybe he was waiting for us.

Then Malachi whispers, so low only I hear it. “Amelia.” His voice breaks on it. I turn slowly toward him. He’s pale. Frozen.

My heart stutters, but not for the same reason. My pulse spikes because the man, him, he’s stepping further into the light now, and I can see him clearly for the first time. That jaw. Those eyes. The mouth that curled around six million with terrifying ease.

Even though I’ve never seen him before last night, never heard his name, something in me knows. It’s not a memory. It’s deeper. More primitive. A thread pulled taut inside my bones.

I’m staring at a truth sharp enough to gut me, and cold rushes through my limbs before I can brace for it. The man steps fully into the room, and silence stretches taut between every breath.

He stops in front of us, eyes locked on Malachi, flicking to me only briefly. Measuring, calculating.

And I know. Even before anyone speaks, I know this man is tied to me. Tied to everything I’ve tried not to remember, everything I thought I buried too deep to resurface.

Malachi still hasn’t moved. Still hasn’t breathed. So I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his and gripping tight.

Because whatever he’s feeling? I’m already bleeding with it.