He slides a glance at me. “Come back tonight.”
“Ask me again later,” I say, but we both hear the yes in my tone.
I finish the coffee because he made it. He takes the mug from me and sets it aside, kissing me again. A promise of what’s to come.
By the time I leave to return to my duties, my body aches in all the right ways and I don’t mind. I think of Dante’s mouth at my ear, of the words he laid bare without asking for anything back. I’ll say it to him when I’m ready. Not now, not as a reflex. When I do, it’ll stick.
I ride toward the clubhouse. Toward the fight that’s to come. Toward whatever Dante and I are building between us. The roadunwinds, and for once, it feels like it’s taking me somewhere I chose.
Happy isn’t soft. It’s scars and steel, fire and flesh. It’s my patch, him, and the road ahead. And I’ll ride it, Hell or high water.
EPILOGUE
KATANA
The gym hums with life, every heavy bag thudding, every laugh sharp and real. Sweat slicks the mats, the sound of gloves snapping against pads rising over the music thumping from the speakers. This is what we built the Steel Roses Gym for: safety, strength, second chances. Tonight, it feels more alive than ever.
Dante’s on the main floor, barefoot in sweats and a worn black tee, working with Amber. She’s still not cleared for sparring after what Serrano’s crew did to her, but she’s heavier now, stronger, the hollow under her eyes gone.
I lean against the ropes, my knuckles curling around the coarse hemp, and watch him work. Watching him coax strength out of the girls, watching them stand taller because of it. The wall I’ve carried like armor since the day I patched in cracks open, and for once I don’t fight it.
Amber’s throwing jabs at the mitts he holds steady. He corrects, encourages, pushes with a patience I never thought he owned.
“Shoulder, not wrist,” Dante tells her, calm but firm. He nudges her elbow down, lines her feet up with a shift of his boot. “Drive from the ground.”
When she lands her jab clean, his grin flashes quick and genuine. It hits me hard, right in the chest.
He’s not just good with them. He belongs here in ways I didn’t let myself imagine months ago.
He hasn’t shut down his own gym, but he’s here more than he isn’t. Briggs runs his day-to-day operations, which leaves Dante here—with me, with us.
On the far side of the gym, Devyn throws a right cross that cracks loud enough to turn heads. Pride slides through me so fast it almost unsteadies me.
LC stands watch nearby, Diesel sprawled at her feet, tongue lolling, like always. When Amber finishes her round, she wipes sweat off her brow.
“Looking good, kid.” LC tosses her a towel. Amber almost smiles. Almost. The scars are there, but she’s turning them into fuel. That’s what this place does. That’s what we do. It’s a small win, but those are the ones that stick.
Mama Ru breezes through, her sharp eyes scanning the floor. She side-eyes Dante before cutting her gaze to me. The look says: I see you happy, child, and I won’t make a fuss because I like breathing.
Quinn comes in next, her cut slung casual over her shoulder. She scans the room, eyes sharp, weighing the noise, the order, the pulse. Her chin tips the barest fraction in approval. Then she drifts my way and bumps her arm against mine.
“How’s the head?” she asks, code for ‘how are your ghosts?’
“Quieter,” I say. And it’s true.
My ribs still ache when I breathe too deep, but that’s nothing new. Pain’s an old friend, just softer these days. I still think about Riot, but with Dante by my side the weight is lighter.
Quinn nods once, nothing more needed. Her gaze shifts back to the mat, to Dante with the fighters. “He’s good with them.”
“Yeah,” I answer, letting the word carry what I don’t sayhe’s good with me too.
Dante catches me staring, wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, and strides across the mat, his hair damp with sweat, shirt clinging to him. His gaze is hot, direct, that same unwavering fire that burned me from the first time I saw him.
When he stops in front of me, I can’t hold the words in any longer. I let them spill out, raw and unpolished, without a second thought.
“I love you.”
The words are stripped bare, but they’re mine, and I mean every syllable.
