“Whatever this takes,” I say quietly. “He doesn’t get anywhere near our families again.”
Mason meets my gaze. “That’s non-negotiable.”
The room hums with agreement, not loud, not theatrical. Just men who know exactly what they’re willing to do to protect what’s theirs.
The game just changed. And this time, we’re the ones moving first.
TWENTY-TWO
BROOKE
The bellover the door at Black Iron Tattoo chimes when I step inside, and the smell hits me immediately. Sharp and unfamiliar. Clean but metallic, with something medicinal layered underneath it. My nose wrinkles before I can stop it, lungs adjusting as I take a cautious breath. The hum of machines vibrates faintly through the floor. I’ve never been in a tattoo shop before, and my body notices every new detail.
A couple of artists glance up when the bell over the door chimes. One of them straightens when he spots me, recognition flickering across his face.
“Morning, Brooke,” he says easily.
I slow a step, brows knitting together before I can stop myself. “Do I… know you?”
His mouth quirks into a knowing smirk. “Nah. But I know you. You’re Rev’s old lady.”
The words still land warm in my chest, a quiet spark of belonging I’m not used to yet. “Yeah,” I say, smiling a little. “I am.”
He wipes his hands on a towel and steps closer, respectful and unhurried, like he’s giving me space without making me feel like an outsider. “Name’s Cole,” he adds, extending a hand. “I’m patched in with the Reapers. I run a chair here most days.”
I take his hand, his grip firm but gentle. “Brooke.”
He smiles like he’s already been briefed on that part. “You okay? You look a little keyed up.”
I let out a soft laugh and roll my shoulders once, trying to loosen the nerves I didn’t even realize were sitting there. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m just a little nervous. I’ve never done this before.”
“Fair,” he says easily. “First one always hits different.”
His calm settles me more than I expect.
“So,” he says, folding his arms loosely. “What can I do for you?”
I glance around once more, grounding myself in the space. The steel chairs. The bright lights. The low hum of machines. The quiet focus in the room. This isn’t my old world. This is Javier’s world.
And I’m choosing it.
“I want a tattoo,” I say, meeting his eyes. “Something small. Something that means something.”
His expression shifts into quiet attention, professional and present. “Alright. Let’s talk about it.”
“Rev doesn’t even know I’m here.”
That earns a nod of approval. “Good.”
I take a breath and tug the side of my hoodie just enough to indicate the area along my ribs, tucked beneath my chest. “I want it here. Somewhere private. Somewhere that feels… ours.”
His gaze stays professional, assessing placement and skin tone without lingering. “That’ll hold clean. Are you good with something you’ll mostly see when you’re changing or in bed?”
“That’s the point,” I say without hesitation.
“And the design?”
I pull my phone out and slide the image across the counter. His name, written in a soft script. Beneath it, a date. “That’s the day he saved me,” I say quietly. “Not just physically. Everything after that felt different. Safer. Clearer.”
