Something cracks open in my chest. Something that's been locked tight for a long time.
I didn't think I'd ever have this. Didn't think I deserved it.
Maybe I still don't. But I'm keeping it anyway.
Later, we're lying in my bed. Her head on my chest, my hand resting on the curve of her hip. The clubhouse is quiet around us—late enough that most of the brothers have cleared out or crashed in their rooms or gone home.
"It's over," I say. "You're safe."
She's quiet for a moment. Processing.
"How do you know?"
"Trust me. It's handled."
She doesn't ask what that means. I see the question flicker across her face—there and gone—but she doesn't ask. Maybe she doesn't want to know. Maybe she already does.
"What happens now?" she asks instead.
"Whatever you want." I keep my voice steady, even though something in my chest is bracing for impact. "You could leave. Go back to your old life. Open your flower shop somewhere new, start over fresh." I swallow hard. "No one would stop you."
She lifts her head. Looks at me with those dark eyes that saw something in me no one else ever has.
"Is that what you want? For me to leave?"
"No." The word comes out before I can stop it. Raw. Honest. "That's the opposite of what I want. But I'm not going to trap you here. You came to me running from a man who thought he owned you. I'm not going to be another cage."
She studies my face for a long moment. I don't know what she's looking for. Don't know what she sees.
Then she smiles. Slow and warm and so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
"I want to stay," she says. "With you. Here. Whatever that looks like."
Something releases in me. Some tension I've been holding since the moment I pulled over on that desert road and saw a woman in a wedding dress who looked at me like I might be salvation.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She settles back against my chest. "You're stuck with me now."
I pull her closer. Press a kiss to the top of her head.
"I can live with that," I say.
And for the first time in a long time, I actually believe I can.
EPILOGUE - THREE MONTHS LATER
"You sure about this?"
Fleur grins at me from the tattoo chair, all sunshine and certainty. "You've asked me that three times."
"It's permanent."
"That's the point."
I shake my head but don't argue. She's stubborn as hell when she's made up her mind about something. I learned that early.
Ink's shop is quiet this afternoon—just us and Ink himself, setting up his equipment with the focused precision he brings to everything. The buzz of the needle fills the silence as he tests it, and Fleur's eyes track the movement.
