Chapter 32
Malachi
Ilineupmynext shot, but my eyes drift. Again. She’s behind the bar, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp, lips pulled into that tight, focused line she does when she’s trying not to let on she’s nervous. Candace.
Kyle’s showing her the ropes, walking her through the chaos of a Friday night at the clubhouse. Loud music, louder laughter, bodies moving in and out in a tide of denim, leather, and smoke. There she is in the middle of it all, cool as hell. Fierce. Holding her own.
She fits. She doesn’t know it yet, but she does.
Nash breaks, clean and brutal, then sinks two stripes with focus that says he’s been waiting to show off. I don’t even react; barely notice, really. My cue hangs forgotten in my hand.
Then Frankie walks in. She always notices more than she lets on. One glance at me, one glance at Candace, and I already know what’s coming.
She heads to the bar, leans on the counter like she’s home, orders a drink, opens a tab. She and Candace talk for a few minutes. I can’t hear what they’re saying over the bass line and laughter, but Candace is smiling. Not just polite-smiling either. The real kind. The one that tightens something in my chest.
Frankie strolls over, takes a slow sip of her drink, and eyes me over the rim. “You finally got her to agree to work here.”
Nash snorts as he lines up another shot.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say, voice low, eyes still drifting back toward the bar. “She told me she was done with that country club job. Hated it. I just reminded her we still had a spot open. She made the call.”
“She’s doing great,” Nash adds, casual but not careless.
Frankie hums. “East said Kyle’s patching in soon?”
Nash takes the shot and drops another ball as if it’s nothing.
“Vote’s Monday,” I say, jaw ticking as I realize I’m already down by three. “Can you tattoo him that night?”
“Yep,” she says simply, sipping her drink again.
Prospects can’t get the ink until they’re voted in. It’s a rule. Tradition. Earned, not given. The patch is always on the left side of the chest. Same place the heart beats. The emblem depicts a lone, battle-scarred wolf howling toward a crescent moon, its posture both proud and haunted. Smoke and fire swirl around it, creating a chaotic yet powerful backdrop that frames the wolf in defiant isolation. One of its eyes glows a fierce red, while its face bears visible scars. Each mark a story of survival. Beneath the scene, a weathered banner curls around the flames, etched with the words: “For the Forgotten, By the Forsaken.”
Rendered in stark black and crimson ink, the design balances rage and resilience. A symbol of those who walk alone not by choice, but by necessity. It’s not just a tattoo. It’s a declaration. A vow. A warning.
I look at Nash’s chest, the edge of his tattoo peeking out from his shirt collar. Then I look back at Candace.
She’s laughing now at something Kyle said, maybe. The sound cuts through the noise, sharp and sudden, flaring bright in the dark.
I wonder how that ink would look on her. Just the banner. Not the wolf, Old Ladies don’t get the full emblem, but still. For the Forgotten, By the Forsaken.
Would she want it? Would she let me take her there to that place of permanence, of claiming, of belonging?
I don’t know. But I’m going to ask. Eventually. When she’s ready. When I am.
“Wethinkafamilykaraoke night’s the move,” Kyle says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s pitching something dangerous instead of a cookout and a few off-key duets. “Low-key. Easy to plan.”
East lights up brighter than a damn Christmas tree. “Oh, hell yes! I’m singing Achy Breaky Heart.”
I snort into my drink. “God help us all.”
“No one wants to hear that,” Nash mutters, not even glancing up from his phone. The tone is so dry it could crack concrete.
East clutches his chest, staggering a step as though he’s been shot. “You wound me, brother. That song raised me.”
“Explains a lot,” Knox murmurs, earning a few chuckles.
This is one of our full club meetings. We hold them once a month, every patched member present unless they’re dead or bleeding. We handle business and vote. Every once in a while, someone throws out a wild idea that actually sticks.
