I fuck her hard. Deep. Steady. The sound of our bodies colliding fills the room—wet, hungry, relentless. But even in the frenzy, I watch her. Watch the way her mouth drops open in a silent moan, the way her brows pull together, the way she loses the fight to stay quiet.
I kiss her throat, her collarbone, the corner of her mouth, tasting something holy in a world that never should’ve had us.
“Malachi,” she gasps. “Harder.” I give it to her. “Faster.” Done. Then... “Wait—slow, I—” she chokes out. And I do that too.
I slow, cradle her jaw with one hand, slide the other beneath her to lift her hips, adjusting the angle until she cries out again, louder, rawer. Her whole body arches into me, needing this.
When I kiss her this time, it’s soft and reverent. It’s everything.
She breathes it into my mouth between kisses, her voice shaking but sure. “I love you.”
And I freeze. Not because I don’t feel it. Not because I don’t believe her. But because hearing it tears something wide open in me. She says them like they’re a truth that exists with or without my permission. Her body clenches again, holding on to me with everything she has.
“I love you,” she repeats, her eyes locked on mine. This time, I see it all. Every fear, every choice, every ache that brings her here. She’s not saying it for herself. She’s saying it for me.
Everything inside me shifts. It’s quiet and earth-breaking, a fault line I never noticed before just giving way. I can’t speak, not yet. The words catch somewhere between my chest and throat, too big to release. So I show her instead, through touch, through every breath I give to her, through every slow thrust that says all the things I’m not brave enough to speak yet.
With my hands, with my mouth, with every deep, controlled thrust that says... You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I’m never letting you go.
When we come together, it’s with a rush of heat and light that rips through me like wildfire. She clenches around me, pulsing and gasping, her body arching into mine with every last ounce of need. I bury my face in her neck, moaning into her skin as her nails drag down my back, trying to pull me deeper even though I have nowhere left to go. I feel her breath stutter against my ear, her soft cry swallowed by the closeness of our bodies, and all I can do is hold her tighter, thrust slower, feel everything.
She buries her face in my neck and whispers it again. “I love you.”
This time, I say it back because nothing has ever felt truer. I don’t just feel it; I speak it. Out loud. Ragged, raw, and real. “I love you, Candace.”
The words tear up from some place buried deep, beneath the blood, the silence, and all the years I spend believing I don’t deserve this. Saying them tastes like relief and redemption. Something sacred.
She freezes beneath me. Then she trembles. Not from aftershocks. Not from the weight of what we just do. But from something quieter. Deeper. Her breath hitches like she’s been waiting for this, for me, for far longer than either of us wants to admit. She looks up at me, eyes wide and glassy, mouth parted as she tries to catch her breath. Then something shatters inside her. Her fingers tighten in my hair. Her chest presses into mine like she needs the contact to stay grounded.
And fuck, that’s it. That look, that reaction, the way her breath hitches and her body trembles. The words crack something wide open inside her. Her fingers grip my shoulders, her chest rising hard against mine. Then the sob comes, soft and broken, buried in my neck where she’s trying not to let it be heard but can’t stop it either. I hold her tighter. Let her fall apart in my arms.
But it doesn’t feel like she’s breaking. She’s releasing something she’s carried for far too long, something sharp and buried deep that’s finally bleeding out. I feel her heartbeat pounding against my chest, wild and unsteady. Her tears warm my skin. Her breath catches again, but this time there’s no fear. Just truth. Just relief.
“I’ve been waiting to say that,” I whisper against her temple, lips brushing her skin. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to.”
Her head turns toward me, arms still tight around my neck, needing the weight of me to keep her grounded. For the first time, she’s not just surviving. She’s letting herself be held. And I hold her in a way that says I never want to stop.
Chapter 47
Malachi
Thelockclicks.It’ssubtle, but it’s a fucking thunderclap in the silence. My breath fogs in the early morning chill as I haul the heavy door up. It groans on its tracks, metal scraping metal, warning me not to look inside. Not to dig deeper. Not to keep chasing ghosts.
The sound scours down my spine, claws dragging across bone. Cold air hits my face, carrying the stale scent of rust and paper rot, proof the past never left, just waited for me to come back. My fingers ache from the bite of the steel, but I don’t let go. Can’t.
That’s never stopped me before. The dim light from the hallway stretches into the mouth of the storage unit, casting a spotlight, and I step in slowly. Dust swirls up around my boots, the air thick with the dry weight of neglect—old paper, fading ink, and the ghost of metal long since corroded. It’s been years since anyone has touched this place. Longer, maybe. But the moment I cross the threshold, I know I’ve been here before.
The floor groans beneath my weight. The bones of this place remember me. A chill runs up my spine, not just from the cold, but from the memory rooted so deep it burns. I haven’t stepped inside since that night. Haven’t let myself. Not in nine years. Because coming back meant remembering everything. And I wasn’t sure I could survive that.
But something told me I’d find something here, something buried. Something that never let go of me. So I forced myself through the door. Forced my feet forward when everything in me screamed to turn back.
Now the air tastes like ash and history. Regret never left. This place has been waiting. It hits me all at once; this is where it happened. The night Cornelius was killed. The night my siblings were taken. And the ghosts are still here. Waiting for me to finally look.
I move toward the shelves lining the back wall, my hand brushing over an old tarp. The fabric flakes away, dry skin crumbling to dust. Beneath it are crates, file boxes, and faded folders stamped with the Outsiders’ insignia. Some of this is club shit. Some of it... isn’t.
My breath hitches. The air’s colder now, or maybe it’s just me. The memory hits hard, straight to the bone, and suddenly I’m twenty-two again, blood pounding in my ears, the echo of gunshots somewhere deep in my chest.
I open one and freeze. A child’s drawing. Pencil outlines softened by time, colored in with care. Four people. One tall figure, shoulders squared with that familiar, quiet strength; that’s me. Two smaller ones beside me, their hair drawn wild and joyful, bright strokes for smiles, are Amelia and Jared. And the fourth is Cornelius. I recognize the way she always drew his beard, a rough triangle beneath a grinning mouth. It’s unmistakable.
