The artist lifted it, brows rising. “Nice. Any placement in mind?”
Shamrock hesitated.
For the first time all night.
He touched the upper part of his left chest, fingers brushing the place over his heart where the skin was warm. “Here.”
Fly glanced over, surprised. Bolt’s playful smirk faded a little. Than looked at him the way only Than could—gently, with an understanding that felt like being seen too clearly.
The artist nodded. “You sure?”
Shamrock swallowed. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
The needle buzzed to life, sharp and steady, and Shamrock braced himself as the first bite of pain tore across his skin. He didn’t flinch. He’d grown up learning not to. Pain had been part of his life long before he chose it, back when voices were raised for the wrong reasons, back when he and Pia hid behind a thin bedroom door and prayed their father’s temper didn’t find them that night.
But this pain was different. This pain felt like claiming something. Like taking back a story that hadn’t been his to control.
The burn deepened, spreading through muscle and bone, sharp enough to steal breath, steady enough to force honesty. He didn’t say anything, not that he ever talked about the things that mattered, but the silence worked its way through him in ways he didn’t expect.
He thought of his twin sister, Pia, the firebrand with a mouth sharper than his and a heart twice as fierce. She’d covered for him more times than he could count. Hid him from Nico’s frustration. Sat beside him when his breaths were shaky, when their father’s rage echoed down the hall, when Shamrock swore someday, he’d make something better of himself than the men in their family ever had.
The needle pressed in deeper, and he let it anchor him.
He thought of Nico, his older brother, the one who wore a badge like he’d been born to it, the one who refused to let Shamrock slide into the chaos waiting in every Southie alley. Nico had given him one chance.
One.
Shamrock had grabbed it like a drowning man grabs a life ring. He was on the cusp of a new life, a career that would span years, all because his brother cared enough to lay down boundaries and ultimatums. He’d wanted to go home and shove his success in his face, but now he just wanted to thank him for the hard, merciless shove into reality, into his future.
The artist wiped away ink and blood, the cloth warm against his skin.
He thought of BUD/S—the unrelenting, unforgiving grind that stripped every weakness out of a man and left either steel or dust behind. He remembered the nights he cursed the bell, not for the temptation to ring it, but in defiance of ever letting it toll for him. The moments when anger was the only fuel that got him through, and Nico’s voice the only thing that made him humble until he’d stepped on the Grinder. The seconds when he continued only because he’d rather die than prove his father right about the kind of man he’d be.
Then the men around him.
The ones who saw him clearly, the shenanigans, and all.
The ones who didn’t see a bad neighborhood or a broken home or a boy who learned to fight too early.
They saw Cormac Kavanaugh, teammate, sniper, smartass, brother.
The needle finally quieted, the sudden stillness thick in the air. The artist stepped back. “Take a look.”
Shamrock sat up slowly, the sting sharp and real, and angled the mirror toward his chest.
A bold black Celtic knot shaped into the four leaves of a clover, sharp, strong lines braided together in a pattern that looked ancient, almost warrior-born. No softness. No delicate green shading. Just solid, unbreakable ink. A mark that didn’t beg for attention so much as declare its right to exist.
His Gran’s voice slipped through the quiet of his mind, soft and sure. There’s always one, Mac, my little lad.
Aye, Gran, ’tis true.
It suited him: Irish roots tied in knots, luck forged in pain, strength drawn from a history he rarely spoke of. A reminder not of chance but survival. A reminder he carried where it mattered most.
It was him.
A mark of luck, yes, but not the kind given by chance or fate or stars. This was earned luck. Hard-won luck. Luck carved out of pain and perseverance and the stubborn refusal to break.
Homesickness washed over him so hard, he almost doubled over. He closed his eyes, seeing his sister’s face, his two brothers, and he ached to show them who he really was inside, what the beaches and sand, water and instructors forged out of steel had tempered.
