Capone nods once. That’s it. Approval sealed.
Torch throws his arms up. “DRINKS. SOMEONE GET DRINKS.”
“Not you,” Monica snaps.
Torch sighs. “Every time.”
Laughter breaks the tension like a wave, and suddenly the room is alive again. Hands clapping shoulders, quiet congratulations, a few shouted jokes. Syvannah stays close to me, fingers laced with mine, still grounding herself in what just happened.
I lean down. “You okay?”
She nods. “I feel… chosen.” The word hits harder than the yes did.
Eventually, the noise blurs into warmth, into brotherhood, hands on my back, into Torch shouting something about future babies that makes Syvannah choke on her drink.
Syvannah squeezes my fingers twice. A silent question. I nod once, and we slip away while the room is still laughing. Syvannah and I head to our room. She leans against the door after it clicks, breathless, one hand lifting automatically to her cut like she’s making sure the patch is still there.
“I’m an Ol’ Lady,” she whispers.
“You are,” I say.
She steps into me without a second thought. I kiss her slowly, deeply, my hands framing her face like I’m still checking she’s real. Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to tell me she wants this, wantsme.
Tonight isn’t frantic. It’s reverent.
We undress each other like there’s no rush left in the world, like nothing is chasing us anymore. Her cut stays on. She meets me with equal intent, learning me in return, steady and sure.
After, she curls into my chest, patch pressed between us, her fingers tracing the seam of her cut.
“Family isn’t blood,” she murmurs.
“It’s a choice,” I answer.
Peanut purrs between us, loud and satisfied. For the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m standing between two versions of myself.
I feel whole.
27
SYVANNAH
The clubhouse feels different tonight. Something warm and steady. Something that makes my chest ache. This is a promise made before witnesses who know the cost of breaking one.
Tiny’s fingers lacing through mine as if anchoring me to the moment. His thumb rubs slow circles into my skin, reminding me that I’m not alone in this moment. His skin is warm from the day, from the ride, from the life he lives so fiercely and still manages to make safe for me.
When I look at him, I see none of the violence he carries for the world. I see the man who stayed with me through shaking nights and hard truths. A man who never asked me to be smaller so he could feel bigger.
Tiny is looking at me, his brown eyes soft and intent, as if he’s still surprised I’m here, still surprised I chose him when I had every reason in the world to run. I don’t have every reason to run anymore. Not with him, not with this club.
The yard behind the clubhouse is lit by Harley headlights angled inward, forming a circle of fire. Bikes are lined up in a half-moon, their chrome glinting. Engines long since cut butstill tick as they cool. The sound is soothing, as if the bikes themselves are breathing.
There’s no crowd, no chaos. No club bunny laughter, no drunken shouting, no music spilling out the doors. Only the brothers, their Ol’ ladies, the kids, and me. It’s private, sacred. Intimate in a way I never thought a place like this could be.
The men stand in a loose circle, cuts on, patches catching the light. Some are stone-faced, like statues. Others watch Tiny with a look that feels like pride they would never say out loud.
The women are with them, close enough to witness, far enough to respect that this is ours. Monica’s gaze meets mine, her expression calm and supportive, as if silently telling me I am not alone in this.
Daisy’s hand rests on Torch’s lower back, grounding him the way I ground Tiny, the way love makes monsters human without making them weak. Danyella stands close to Capone’s daughter, Nina, her teenage scowl serious, as if she senses something important is happening and refuses to treat it any less seriously.