Capone nods. “Then wear it.”
I shift slightly as he moves in front of me. I notice his hands steady as he presses the patch onto my cut and stitches it. The fabric pulls tight. The weight stabilizes. It feels as though it was meant to be there all along.
The brothers step forward individually, offering fists to their chests and then hands to shoulders with brief, quiet exchanges. There are no speeches or celebrations.
Torch grips the back of my neck and squeezes. “About damn time.”
Trigger smirks. “Try not to get soft.”
Aftermath nods once. That is enough.
Blayze meets my eyes. “You earned it.”
I sense Syvannah behind me before I turn. Her presence has become constant. It's not hovering or watching, just there. Her eyes shine with understanding and acceptance. Love that doesn’t demand anything from me except that I keep being myself.
Peanut meows loudly, as if to remind everyone she had a role in this, too. I huff a breath that might be a laugh.
Capone lifts his glass. “To brothers who bleed and still stand tall.”
The room responds together. Glasses are raised. Bottles clink softly. The sound feels firm and grounded.
I lift my gaze to Syvannah as I drink. She’s the only thing that ever made me feel whole without asking me to be anything else.
Not my cut. Not the patch. Not the road.
Her.
Peanut headbutts her jaw and purrs, a small, perfect reminder that life still finds a way forward, even when you come from broken places.
The night continues around us. Stories become louder, and laughter flows more freely as the tension eases. Cards slap the table, and someone begins a game they won’t finish. Meanwhile,others argue passionately about bikes, treating it as a matter of faith.
I stay where I am for a while, letting it wash over me. I’ve spent most of my life bracing for loss.
Syvannah and I take a ride. The road is calm. The air cools my skin beneath the helmet. The bike hums steadily beneath us, familiar and grounding.
I ride slower than usual. Not because I’m tired. Because I’m not running anymore.
We don’t go far. Just a short loop through town. Past dark storefronts. Past quiet streets. Past the places where my life used to feel smaller and sharper.
Syvannah’s arms stay wrapped around me, her body relaxed and trusting. Peanut shifts in her carrier, then settles again.
When I turn back toward the compound, it feels intentional rather than automatic.
The clubhouse comes into view, lights low, familiar in the dark. This isn’t a retreat or a return to chaos. It’s a choice.
We roll back in quietly, park our bike, and step inside together.
Once we’re inside our room, Peanut leaps from Syvannah’s shoulder and claims the couch like a throne. Syvannah kicks off her boots and curls beside me, her body fitting against mine like it always has.
I look down at my cut. At the new patch stitched into place.
Heart of the Bastards.
I think of the man I used to be, who believed violence was my only strength and that survival was the same as living. I think of the woman beside me, who chose me without needing rescue and never lost herself in that choice. I think of the club, of the brothers who stood when it mattered, and of a family that asks for loyalty, not perfection.
I rest my hand over the patch. I’m still dangerous. I’m still capable of destruction. But I’m also capable of love. Of steadiness. Of holding things together rather than breaking them.
Syvannah looks up at me, eyes soft. “What are you thinking about?”