She nods, though I can see the concern in her eyes. "I'm worried about James. Walsh doesn't make idle threats."
"We'll handle it," I assure her, more confidently than I feel. "The club's got our backs. James will be protected."
She places a hand on my chest, directly over my heart. "We'll protect him, Dice. The club, you, me… We won't let anything happen to him."
Her confidence steadies me somewhat. "He's survived this long," I say, trying to convince myself as much as her. "James is tough. Adaptable. Whatever's coming, he'll make it through."
"Of course he will," she agrees. "He's a Thompson. And from what I've seen, Thompsons are pretty damn hard to kill."
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. "Damn right we are."
She rises on tiptoes to kiss me lightly. "We'll figure this out. Together."
And somehow, when she says it, I believe it. James will be okay. We'll face whatever's coming as a unit—the club, Maddie, me. And somehow, we'll all come out the other side.
For the first time since Knight woke us this morning, I feel like I can breathe again. There are still threats looming, still dangers to face, but we'll face them together.
And really, that's all that matters.
Epilogue - Maddie
Five Years Later
"Kayla Marie Thompson, if you put that marker anywhere near your brother's face again, we're going to have words." I don't even look up from my sketching as my three-year-old daughter freezes mid-motion, the purple Sharpie hovering dangerously close to her sleeping brother's cheek.
"But Mommy," she protests, all wide-eyed innocence, "Daddy says art is 'bout spression."
"Expression," I correct, finally looking up to fix her with my best mom-stare. "And your father meant on paper, not on Sam."
Kayla sighs, a perfect miniature of her father when he's denied something, and stomps back to her coloring books. Samuel, blissfully oblivious at ten months old, continues his nap on the play mat, chubby fist curled around the stuffed motorcycle Dice insists on calling his "first bike."
I return to my sketch, working on a custom design for tomorrow's client at Brooks Ink, my tattoo shop in downtown Pine Haven. Five years ago, I never would have imagined this life—a business, a home, a family. Back then, I lived out of a suitcase, trust was a luxury I couldn't afford, and the only constant in my life was the adrenaline rush of the next score.
Now, my biggest rush comes from watching Kayla master a new word or Sam take an unsteady step. Well, that and the way Dice still looks at me like I'm the greatest heist he ever pulled off.
The rumble of motorcycles outside announces their arrival. Kayla's head pops up, her previous artistic frustration forgotten.
"Daddy and Uncle James!" she squeals, racing for the door.
I scoop up Sam, who's now awake and babbling excitedly at the familiar sound. Through the window, I watch as Dice and James pull into our driveway, their matching Outlaws cuts gleaming with the club's patches in the afternoon sun. The brothers park their bikes side by side, a habit they've maintained since James patched in three years ago.
Kayla bursts through the front door before they can even dismount, launching herself at Dice, who catches her mid-air with ease.
"There's my little outlaw," he grins, spinning her around until she shrieks with laughter.
James follows behind, that crooked smile that runs in the Thompson genes firmly in place. "Where's my favorite nephew?" he calls, spotting us in the doorway.
"Still your only nephew," I remind him as he takes Sam from my arms, bouncing him gently.
Dice approaches with Kayla perched on his shoulders, leaning down to give me a kiss that still makes my heart skip after all these years. "Missed you," he murmurs against my lips.
"You were gone four hours," I laugh.
"Four hours too long." His eyes, still full of that mischievous light, scan my face with obvious appreciation. "Got something for you."
"If it's another stray dog, the answer is still no," I warn him. Our backyard already houses two rescue pit bulls, courtesy of Dice's inability to say no to animals in need—a trait our daughter has unfortunately inherited.
"Better." He sets Kayla down and pulls an envelope from inside his cut, presenting it with a flourish. "For you, Mrs. Thompson."
