PROLOGUE: BONNIE
Fuck.
I wince at the sight of the purple fingerprints circling my throat like a goddamn choker. I dab some concealer over the worst spots, my steady hands working the makeup brush with the same care I use when shading a tattoo.
My reflection glares back from my vanity mirror—wild auburn curls that refuse to stay in the fancy updo the hairdresser spent two hours creating this morning, green eyes the color of sea glass blazing with pure fury, full lips pressed into a hard line that could cut diamonds.
My skin is pale as moonlight, freckles scattered across my nose like constellation stars. High cheekbones, inherited from my Irish grandmother, and a stubborn jaw from my dad’s side of the family. The bruises stand out like purple paint splattered on a white canvas.
They’re fresh.
Three hours fresh, to be exact.
This morning, I was grabbing coffee from Murphy’s Diner—the last normal thing I wanted to do before my arranged marriage today—when I spotted some dickhead in a tornPatriots jersey shoving around old Mrs. Kowalski outside on the sidewalk. She’s maybe ninety pounds soaking wet, clutching her worn brown leather purse like it held the crown jewels, while this asshole twice her size screams about her walking too slow and blocking his path to his beat-up Honda.
Mrs. Kowalski has lived on this block my whole life. She runs the corner market, always gives me a sad smile when she sees the bruises I can’t quite hide, slips an extra candy bar in my bag when Dad’s crew gets too loud outside her store.
She’s a good person in a neighborhood full of assholes. She doesn’t deserve some roided-up dickhead taking his bad day out on her.
My coffee cup slipped from my fingers, hot liquid splashing across the concrete as I crossed the street.
Six quick strides, and I was in his face. My fist connected with his jaw before his pea brain could catch up to what was happening, and my knuckles exploded with pain as they met his lip and jawbone.
Ghost taught me that move during one of our training sessions behind the clubhouse. Strike fast, strike hard, end it before they know what’s happening. The moron stumbled backward, blood spurting from his lip, staining his already-dirty jersey.
“What the hell, you crazy bitch!”
He lunged for me, meaty hands reaching for my throat. Got his fingers wrapped around my neck before I drove my knee straight up into his balls with everything I had.
Titan always said to target the soft spots—throat, groin, solar plexus. Make them hurt so bad they can’t think about fighting back.
The asshole dropped like a stone, whimpering on the cracked sidewalk while Mrs. Kowalski shuffled away muttering prayers in Polish and crossing herself repeatedly. She paused at thecorner, looked back at me with tears in her eyes, and nodded once before disappearing around the building.
Worth every goddamn mark on my skin.
I blend more concealer into the purple handprints. My bedroom smells like vanilla candles and the faint trace of tattoo ink that clings to everything I own. Afternoon sunlight streams through windows I’ve stared out of my entire life, hitting the posters on my walls—motorcycle designs, tattoo flash art, band posters from concerts I snuck out to attend.
My wedding dress hangs from a hook on the door behind me like a ghost I haven’t decided to believe in. It’s styled in some high-fashion designer’s idea of what an outlaw’s bride should look like. Ruffles and lace and bullshit innocence.
Dad bragged about the price tag, as if he were buying me a trophy instead of a prison. Hundreds of seed pearls hand-sewn into the bodice, fancy French lace, and silk that probably came from some royal fucking silkworms.
I’m getting dressed alone because Mom’s been dead since I was twelve, and Dad’s secretary isn’t exactly the maternal type. The club girls offered to help, but I’d rather do this myself than have them fussing over me.
The dress will cover everything that makes me who I am.
I trace the phoenix tattoo on my right shoulder blade, feeling his needle work under my fingertips. Rising from bright orange flames, wings spread wide in defiance, fierce and unbroken and absolutely refusing to stay down. He inked it six months into my apprenticeship, said I reminded him of the mythical bird that burns and rises stronger.
“You torch everything in your path and come back deadlier,” he said, tattoo needle buzzing as it danced across my skin in perfect lines. “Don’t let anyone clip your wings, kid. You were born to fly.”
Looks like someone’s about to try.
Snake’s been my mentor since I turned seventeen and walked into his shop with my first design sketched on a napkin. He didn’t laugh at it like I’d expected. Instead, he saw a raw talent that just needed guidance and endless practice.
I wanted to learn because ink tells stories in this world. Every brother’s skin is a roadmap of where he’s been, what he’s survived, who he’s lost.
I wanted to be the one creating those stories, marking the moments that matter. Making art that means something instead of just pretty pictures on rich girls’ ankles.
My fingers drift to the thorned roses wrapping around my left wrist. Each petal perfectly shaded from deep crimson to soft pink, each thorn sharp and black against my skin. It took Snake eight hours over two sessions to complete, my wrist swollen and tender by the end.
