In the meantime, we rebuild.
The clubhouse is patched up. Perdition is standing again, walls reinforced, cameras everywhere, security tighter than it’s ever been. From the outside, it looks like we bounced back.
From the inside, nothing is the same.
We’re back in Jackson, but it feels wrong. Like the town lost its pulse when she disappeared. Bella walks around like she’s made of glass, sharp edges barely holding together. Brooke tries to be strong, but her eyes are hollow, like she’s bracing for news she’s already convinced herself is coming.
The house is too quiet without Bri’s voice cutting through it.
The laughter is gone.
The light is gone.
And every time I look at Bella, every time I see the way she flinches at loud noises or freezes when a phone rings, something ugly twists in my chest. I’m supposed to be able to fix this. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.
But I can’t fix the waiting.
Mason keeps us focused. Dagger keeps us sharp. Orders get given. Moves get made. Enemies get closer. We’re hunting, slow and patient and lethal, because rushing gets people killed and I’ve already lost too much.
Still, some nights I have to lock myself in the garage just to breathe.
I lean against cold metal and let the anger roll through me, hot and violent and endless. I think about the hands that touchedher. The voice that lied to her. The way someone thought they could take her and live with it.
They were wrong.
I don’t know where she is yet, but I know this. She’s alive. I feel it in my bones. In the way my chest refuses to let go of her. In the way the world still feels unfinished without her back in it.
And when I get her home, when I finally put my arms around her again and know she’s safe, I’ll deal with whatever she throws at me. Her anger. Her fear. Her exhaustion. Her tears. All of it.
Because I’m not losing her again. Not to them. Not to the dark. Not to anything.
The chair creaks beneath me as I settle in, vinyl cracked and familiar, the smell of ink and antiseptic hanging heavy in the air. The buzz of the machine hums low and steady, filling the room like a heartbeat.
This isn’t some random shop. This is Black Iron Tattoo. Iron Reapers territory. Iron Reapers blood. The walls are covered in club ink, old and new. Patches. Memorial pieces. Names of brothers who didn’t make it home. Symbols that don’t mean a damn thing to anyone outside these walls, but mean everything to the men who walk in here knowing exactly what they’re asking for.
The guy standing over me isn’t just a tattoo artist. He’s family. Cole patched in years ago, long before he ever picked up a machine full-time. He knows how to keep his mouth shut, how to listen without asking questions, and how to make something permanent when it matters. His hands are steady as he presses the stencil into place on my forearm.
He looks at me once. Just once. “You sure?” he asks.
I meet his eyes. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes.
“No regrets,” he says quietly, and then the needle hits.
Pain sparks sharp and immediate, and I don’t even flinch. The chain takes shape first, heavy black links running along the inside of my forearm. It isn’t decorative. It’s brutal. Industrial. Every line thick and solid, like it was meant to hold something that fought like hell. Because it was. Midway up my arm, the chain snaps. Not clean. Not pretty. Metal torn apart under pressure, frozen in the exact second it failed. And growing through the shattered links is a wildflower. Not delicate. Not ornamental. A stubborn bloom, petals slightly torn, stem wrapped tight around the broken metal like it refuses to be pushed aside. The roots are visible, clawing into the breaks, forcing their way through iron like the chain never stood a chance.
Cole wipes away excess ink, jaw tight, eyes focused. He doesn’t rush this part. Above the flower, just beneath my elbow, he inks her name. BRIANNA
No script. No softness. Just clean block lettering, bold and unyielding. The kind of name that doesn’t apologize for existing.
My chest tightens when I see it settle into my skin.
Below the broken chain, closer to my wrist where I’ll see it every day, he adds the final line.STILL BREATHING
The machine shuts off. The silence feels heavy.
Cole leans back, studies his work for a long moment, then nods once. “That one’s gonna hurt more later,” he says quietly.
“Good,” I reply.
