“Without Fredrick and me looming over you, you’ll thrive there,” he quickly says, rushing to speak over the thoughts tearing through my mind. What did I do wrong? Does he not feel the same way I do? Wyatt shifts closer, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t trust himself to. “Avery, I want you to dance and graduate. I want you to party and be happy, and justlive.”
“I thought we weren’t going to separate anymore,” I murmur, struggling not to feel the sharp sting of rejection. “Not after everything.” Wyatt’s jaw tightens, and I know he’s fighting with himself, fighting the part of him that wants to be selfish. But he’s already made up his mind.
“If you still want to come back after, I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere. But I won’t have you resenting me, all of us in fact, later down the line.” I’m shaking my head, lips parted with an argument, but Wyatt holds up his hand. “You’ve spent so long cooped up inside, hoping that the world will forget about you. But you’re meant to be seen, Angel. I see you, and you’re fucking incredible. Now it’s time to spread your wings, and if you feel like coming back afterward, you know where to come.”
“I will come back,” I vow without needing to even think about it. I know what I want out of life, and Wyatt is part of that. Squaring my shoulders, the stubborn part of me decides I’ll show him. I’ll make a cute freaking vision board, and he’ll be pinned right in the middle of it. At least I’ll have the rest of my men with me, keeping me on the right path.
“I’m staying too,” Axel announces, his voice quieter than Wyatt’s but just as resolute. My head whips toward him. The silence is so tense, it could be snapped clean in half. This time, it’s Garrett who starts to argue, seemingly caught off guard too.
“Axel,” he frowns, so serious that I could cry for him. For us, because I feel exactly the same. Axe strokes Garrett’s arm gently, but he struggles to meet his lover’s gaze.
“I’ve been through a lot, and I need time. I need to heal without athousand eyes on me. Space to breathe and to go through therapy without feeling like I have to hold myself together for everyone else.” His gaze flickers away for a moment, his throat working as he swallows hard. “It won’t be pretty, but I want to heal. Please let me do this without…”
“Without me,” Garrett groans, realizing who and what exactly Axel needs space from. He loves Garrett; there’s no question about that. But some things can’t be solved with a sarcastic joke or a quick fuck. Distracting him from the issues isn't helping to confront them. Axel exhales sharply, forcing a weak smirk.
“Plus, I’ve been looking at switching my major to psychology. There’s an option to study remotely, and honestly, that’ll be better for me.”
“I don’t understand why we can’t all do that,” I mumble quietly. In fact, I do understand. I can see the opportunity that Wyatt is giving me. I just don’t know if when the time comes, that I'll actually be able to walk out of the door and leave them behind. But this isn’t just about me. Wyatt and Axel have demons they want to face and ideas of the men they want to become. I can’t hinder that, but I’m also going to be a whiny little bitch about it until I leave.
Garrett clearly isn’t happy, but for now, the subject is set aside. Hux and Dax are listening to the conversation from behind, keeping their opinions to themselves. Wyatt takes hold of the door handle, exhaling all of the tension from his shoulders.
“But before you go back, there’s a certain right we need to wrong. Something that you can remember us by.” Wyatt offers a small smile and his hand.
I tentatively take it and brace myself as the door swings open. Inside, the office has been shifted around to accommodate a tattoo artist who is already setting up, placing ink bottles in neat rows along the desk. A chair sits before her, empty and patiently waiting. I blink, my heart skipping a beat. Turning to Wyatt, I find him watching me closely, something unreadable in his gaze.
“You’re a Shadowed Soul, Angel. You need your ink.” A breath catches in my throat. Of all the things I expected, this wasn’t it. Tears prick at my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I just stare at him, at the manwho has broken and bled for me, who would tear himself apart if it meant I could be whole.
Wyatt leads me into the well-lit room, his hand a firm weight against the small of my back. The scent of antiseptic and ink lingers in the air, punctuated by the snap of gloves being pulled onto the artist’s hands. A lamp casts a focused glow on the transformed workstation, illuminating the prepared equipment, the gleam of the machine, and the sketch laid out across the wood.
My breath catches.
Wisps of curling smoke rise from the base of a skull, its hollows deep and endless. A whisper of everything I’ve endured, every version of myself I’ve buried and let die. Resting atop the skull is a queen’s crown, tilted slightly as though it belongs to someone who hasearnedit. My throat tightens as I reach out, brushing my fingertips over the paper, imagining how it will look inked into my skin.
“You like it?” the artist asks, her face tilting up. She is covered in ink herself, the red hair on her neck pulled back by a bandana, and metal studs forming dimples in her cheeks. I swallow hard.
“It’s perfect.” She’s pleased, beaming as she asks me to choose where I want it and sit accordingly. I remove the hoodie, baring my inner forearm. I want it somewhere I can see it every day and wear it like a piece of armor. I never want to forget the trials I’ve been through and the woman I’ve become. One who is loved by five amazing men, who are all currently looking at me as if I’m their entire world too.
“Fitting, isn’t it?” Axel murmurs to no one in particular, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“She’s been our queen since day one.” Huxley agrees. With Dax and Gare close, I settle into the chair, shifting slightly as the artist preps my arm, cleaning the skin before pressing the stencil into place. The coolness of the transfer makes me shiver, but when she peels it away and I glance down at the purple outline, something fierce blooms in my chest.
This is theirs as much as it is mine. This is for every drop of blood, every night spent sleepless, every time we’ve fought, fallen, and risen again. This is their brand, a declaration that I am one of them and that I have always belonged.
The machine hums to life. Wyatt crouches in front of me, his handsbracing my knees, his thumbs tracing absentminded circles over my skin. “You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks, searching my face for any lingering hesitation. I meet his gaze and smile.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” My response makes Wyatt grin wider, and my heart trips over itself. His grin is something I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to, but every time I see it, I get butterflies all over again. Nodding, Wyatt shifts to the side, out of the artist’s way. “If at any point it starts to hurt too much, you can use Garrett’s balls as a stress reliever.”
I snort a laugh as the first press of the needle stings—a sharp, buzzing pain that quickly dulls into something rhythmic and grounding. I breathe through it, letting my eyes flutter shut, letting the sound and sensation of it settle into me, etching their trademark into my skin. The Souls don’t speak much, but I feel their steady presence at my side. Dax leans across the table to hold my hand, and Huxley soothingly holds my shoulder. Garrett is leaning lazily against the wall but watching with rapt attention. Wyatt stays in front of me the whole time, his hands never leaving my knees.
Minutes bleed into an hour. The pain never fades, but it transforms, shifting from discomfort into something else entirely. A mark of endurance. A testament to survival. When the artist finally leans back, wiping my arm clean with a damp cloth, I inhale sharply, blinking against the sting of antiseptic. She angles a mirror toward me, and I take in the sight of it. The deep blacks, the shading that makes the skull look hauntingly real, the delicate but powerful linework of the crown. It looks meant to be there, as though it has always belonged on my skin. I exhale slowly, the pride in my chest swelling so large it nearly chokes me.
“Holy shit,” Garrett and Dax mutter in unison.
“It’s perfect for you,” Axel nods.
“You wear it well, Swan.” Hux’s gaze darkens with approval.
Wyatt doesn’t say anything, but his fingers tighten slightly on my knees, his jaw working as though he’s swallowing down words he would rather give me in private. I trace a careful finger around the fresh ink, already imagining the way it’ll heal, the way it’ll sit beneath my skin for the rest of my life. I belong to them. And now, I carry it for the world to see.
