Then, slowly, he eases us onto our sides and pulls me against his chest.
My skin is warm, my limbs loose and heavy, and I feel boneless in the best way. Tiny’s fingers trace slow circles over my bare shoulder, my arm, and the curve of my back, as if he’s mapping me by touch, memorizing every inch in case the world ever tries to take me from him again.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I tilt my face toward his throat, listening to the steady thunder of his heartbeat. “I’m more than okay,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
Tiny’s arms tighten like he understands the difference. His lips press to my temple, lingering. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
For the first time, those words don’t feel like a cage. They feel like home.
In the quiet afterward, temptation stirs the way it always does. Soft, insidious, whispering promises of numbness and escape, of turning down the volume on feelings that burn too bright. I recognize it instantly. The old reflex. The easy lie. But Tiny’s arm tightens around me, his breathing slow and steady against my back, and the whisper loses its power. There’s nowhere for it to land. His warmth anchors me in my body, in this moment, in the undeniable truth that I am safe, wanted, and awake. For the first time, temptation doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like something I’ve already outgrown.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly.
Tiny’s hand tightens around my waist. “Of tomorrow?”
I nod.
He presses his mouth to my hair. “You don’t gotta forgive her,” he says. “Not for anyone else. Not for the club. Not even for me.”
“I know.” My voice shakes. “But I want to. I think… I need to.”
Tiny’s silence isn’t judgment. It’s respect. “I’ll be there,” he says finally. “Every step.”
I close my eyes and breathe him in again. Tomorrow, I will stand over Pearl’s coffin and confront the part of my life she tried to poison. Tomorrow, I will decide what mercy looks like in aworld that taught me cruelty. But tonight, in Tiny’s arms, I feel something like freedom.
Morning comes softer than I expect. Not gentle, but steady. As if the world decided not to punish me for surviving.
Tiny wakes after I do, his arm still heavy across my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. I lie here a few seconds longer than necessary, letting myself feel his weight, the certainty of his presence.
When I shift, he stirs instantly.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah,” I say. And for once, it’s true without conditions.
He kisses my shoulder, slow and reverent, then rolls out of bed and pulls on his jeans. Watching his strong, unhurried, grounded movements feels like watching a man who finally believes he belongs somewhere.
I dress in a black dress without thinking too hard about it. Simple. No makeup beyond what makes me look awake. The white rose waits on the dresser, stark against the dark wood.
Tiny watches me pick it up, his expression unreadable. “You ready?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I’m going.” Together we leave our peace and head into the chaos.
The clubhouse is already awake. Coffee brews in industrial quantities. Danyella stands near the island, clipboard in hand, a pen tucked behind her ear, issuing orders. Monica checks arrangements on her phone, her jaw tight with focus. Daisy is pouring coffee into travel mugs, already dressed in black, her hair pulled back in a low braid that tells me she didn’t sleep much either.
Nadia stands near the sink, hands wrapped around a mug she hasn’t touched, her shoulders tight with restraint, as if holding herself together by will alone. She volunteered to help with the planning, not because anyone asked, but because sheneeded to feel useful. Standing still would mean thinking too hard about Pearl, about the warnings she missed and the chances she took when she shouldn’t have.
Nadia looks up as I enter, guilt and resolve tangled in her expression, and offers me a small, tentative nod. There’s no defensiveness in it, only quiet accountability.
Capone stands near the door, cut on, posture sharp. Red checks feeds on his phone, eyes constantly scanning. Bones and Dagger linger outside, smoking, watching the perimeter with the quiet vigilance of men who’ve seen too much to trust a peaceful morning.
The chapel is fifteen minutes away, tucked between tall eucalyptus trees and an old stone wall. It’s small, private, and rented under a shell name. No press. No outsiders. Just the club. Just closure.
The motorcycle ride there is quiet. Engines rumble low and respectful, the formation tight but restrained. The sky hangs gray overhead, thick with the promise of rain that never quite falls.
When we arrive, the chapel feels… still. Like it’s holding its breath.