I hold Syvannah tighter. Not because she’s fragile, but because she chose me. Tonight, for the first time, I chose myself, too.
25
SYVANNAH
Tiny’s arms stay around me long after Church, as if he’s afraid that if he loosens his grip, I’ll disappear back into whatever darkness used to live under my skin.
His arms are firm around my shoulders, his chest warm beneath my cheek, and for a long moment, I let myself simply breathe in the scent of oil and soap, that clean, steady kind of safety he carries like a second skin.
I didn’t realize how much tension had been lodged in my bones until his confession lifted it. It unties knots you didn’t know were strangling you.
“I’m proud of you,” I whisper again, not because I need him to hear it twice, but because I need it to feel real.
Tiny dips his chin and presses a kiss to the top of my head, as if he doesn’t trust his own voice. I feel his breath deepen, the way it does when he’s holding something down. The kind of emotion he used to bury beneath grease and silence, back when he thought being strong meant being alone.
Now he lets it rise.
“Come inside,” he murmurs into my hair. His voice is low, rough around the edges. “I want you close.”
A tremor runs through me. Not fear this time, not the old reflex that used to flicker when men made demands. Tiny isn’t demanding. He’s asking in the only way he knows how, like it matters whether I say yes.
I pull back just enough to look up at him. His brown eyes are softer than they were months ago, but there’s still danger there, a storm held in check by discipline and devotion. His confession brought him peace, but it also left him with a kind of hunger, an aching need to reclaim life, to take what’s good.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Tiny exhales like he’s been waiting for that word all damn day. His huge, warm fingers close around mine and lead me toward the clubhouse with a gentleness that somehow makes everything feel even more intense.
Inside, the clubhouse smells of leather, whiskey, and lived-in brotherhood. The main room is quieter than usual. No party. No music. Just the low murmur of voices drifting from the kitchen and the faint clink of a glass set in the sink. The lighting is dim and soft, and it feels like the whole place is exhaling after Church.
We make it two steps into the hall before Torch’s voice carries. “Look at Tiny,” he calls, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Man looks like he just got adopted.” A few laughs ripple through the space like a warm wave.
Tiny freezes, his ears turning red fast, and I fight a smile because it’s absurd how intimidating he is until a brother teases him. Then he turns into a giant, flustered bear who doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
Daisy appears first, stepping out of the hallway with her hair pulled into a loose knot and one of Torch’s hoodies draped over her shoulder. She’s glowing in that way she does when she’s safe and loved, but her eyes remain sharp and observant. She takes one look at Tiny’s face, then mine, and her smile softens.
“You made it back okay?” she asks me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Therapy ran long.”
Daisy nods like she understands exactly what that means. “You want tea or something? Or do you want to pretend you don’t need anything and go straight to bed like every stubborn woman in this club?”
I laugh softly, the sound surprising me because it’s real. “Probably the second one.”
Torch leans into the doorway behind her, arms crossed, already grinning. “Tiny, you’d better keep her hydrated. Doc Daisy says it’s important.”
“Get fucked,” Tiny mutters automatically.
Torch’s grin widens. “That’s what I’m hoping, brother.”
I choke back a laugh. Tiny’s hand tightens around mine, and I feel his pulse beneath my thumb. He’s trying to stay calm, but the blush creeping up his neck makes it clear how close to the edge he is.
Daisy swats Torch’s chest without even turning. “Go parent your children.”
Torch groans dramatically. “They’re asleep.”
“That doesn’t mean you stop being responsible.”
Torch mutters something about betrayal and shuffles away, still laughing under his breath.