“You planning to seduce men or stab them with those roses?” he’d asked, wiping away excess ink.
“Why not both?”
He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his needle gun. “That’s my girl. Beautiful on the surface, dangerous underneath.”
The tattoo shop feels like home in ways this clubhouse never has, despite growing up here. The constant buzz of machines working, the sharp smell of antiseptic mixed with black ink, clients trusting me to mark their stories permanently on their skin. I’ve been apprenticing for almost two years, building my reputation one perfect design at a time.
My sketchbook sits in my closet in my bedroom, overflowing with original artwork that gets better with every page. Dragons breathing fire, sugar skulls decorated with intricate patterns, and realistic portraits that capture souls in black and gray ink.
I had five appointments lined up for next week. Miller wanting a memorial piece for his dead mother. Jake is finallyready for that full sleeve he’s been planning for months. Mrs. Liu—getting her first tattoo at sixty-five to celebrate beating cancer.
They’re all canceled now. Snake had to call them personally, explain that his apprentice was getting married and moving away.
Snake’s been teaching me everything he knows—color theory, line work, how to read a client’s vision and translate it into reality. The business side too. Ordering supplies, booking appointments, and handling difficult customers who think they can haggle over prices.
Now I’m about to become Mrs. Marcus fucking Stone.
At least I got one night that was mine.
Ash’s hands on my hips. Ghost’s tongue on my clit. Titan’s grin before he fucked me like he’d been thinking about it for years. The cabin, the bed, all three of them proving I wasn’t crazy for wanting what I wanted.
One perfect night before I have to spend the rest of my life wishing I were dead.
I grab the wedding dress from its hook, silk whispering against itself like secrets being shared. Can’t think about them right now. Can’t think about what I’m walking away from, or I’ll never make it through those doors.
The fabric feels cool and alien against my skin, nothing like the comfortable cotton and denim I prefer.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and work it deep into the dress’s built-in corset before finishing the buttons. If I’m walking into hell, I’m keeping one connection to my real life, because I know someone will try to take it away the second I walk through those doors.
The long sleeves stretch from shoulder to wrist, covering every inch of ink on my arms. Can’t have the Savage Legion seeing their new princess has tattoos covering her skin like aroadmap of rebellion. Might give them ideas about what kind of girl they’re really getting.
The skirt weighs more than my motorcycle leathers, layers upon layers of silk and tulle designed to make me look virginal and helpless. I can barely walk in this thing, let alone run if I need to escape.
Bass thumps through the wooden floorboards from the party happening downstairs in the main bar. My father’s crew is drinking beer and shooting pool with Savage Legion members like they’re old friends celebrating a happy occasion instead of attending my funeral. Because that’s what this is—the death of Bonnie McKenzie, tattoo apprentice and fighter of bullies.
Dad couldn’t even be bothered to stick around for his nineteen-year-old daughter’s wedding. Had to fly out to Phoenix last night for some urgent club business that couldn’t wait another day.
Laughter carries down through the ceiling, male voices getting louder as the alcohol flows. They’re probably telling stories and comparing scars while I get ready to be handed over like a peace offering to end their stupid war.
I apply my lipstick, bloodred to match my current mood. While the makeup artist did decent work this morning, giving me smoky eyes rimmed with black liner and sharp cheekbones highlighted with powder, I knew I was going to do my own final touch-ups.
The mirror in front of me reflects a stranger wearing my face, but I don’t linger on the image for too long.
My diamond choker goes on next. Dad insisted on it during our shopping trip to the fancy jewelry store downtown. Said it would“complement the dress beautifully”and“show the Savage Legion we have class.”What it really complements is the fingerprint bruises I’m hiding underneath.
I take one last look in my bedroom mirror. Time to go face my future.
The narrow hallway reeks of stale Marlboro Reds and worn leather—forty years of MC life soaked deep into these walls. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, with that annoying buzz that makes you want to punch something. A sickly yellow light casts shadows across framed photos of deceased brothers lining both walls.
Rodriguez, smiling next to his Harley. Big Jim, with his arms around his twin daughters, died in a car bomb meant for Dad. Reaper, Spike, Diesel. They’re all gone. Their faces haunt this hallway like ghosts demanding justice I can’t deliver.
I’m halfway to the main room when something vibrates against my ribs.
Fuck! I forgot to silence the goddamn thing.
I stop dead in the hallway, glancing toward the noise coming from downstairs. If anyone heard that…
The phone buzzes again, more insistent this time, vibrating against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. Panic shoots through me as I back toward my bedroom door, praying no one downstairs noticed the sound over their drinking and laughing.
