"Yeah." Grace is still staring at where the bandage covers my name. "Thank you."
"Your turn," Rook says to me.
I take Grace's place on the table.
She's sitting beside me now, holding my hand like I held hers.
Rook applies the stencil to my ribs.
GRACE in the same cattle brand style, positioned below my Shotgun Saints ink.
"Good?" he asks.
I check the mirror. Her name. On my body. Forever.
"Perfect."
The needle starts, and yeah, ribs fucking hurt. But I've had worse.
Taken worse. Knife wounds that went deeper, bullet grazes that burned hotter.
And this? This is worth every second of pain.
Grace is watching the letters appear with this look on her face—wonder and possession and love all mixed together.
Like she can't quite believe this is real.
That I'm marking myself as hers just as permanently as she marked herself as mine.
"How does it feel?" she asks quietly. "Having my name on you?"
"Like I should've done this years ago."
Her smile is soft, genuine. "We just got together. Like this, I mean."
"Doesn't matter. You were always going to be mine, Grace. From the moment Shiver asked me to watch over you, you were mine. This just makes it official."
The needle keeps buzzing. G. R. A. C. E.
My wife's name. Permanently marked on my skin.
When Rook finishes, cleans it, and bandages it, I sit up carefully and look at Grace.
"We match now," she says.
"Yeah. We do."
And something about that—the matching tattoos, the matching rings, the matching commitment—settles something deep in my chest.
We're bound now. Completely. In every way that matters.
Rook gives us the same aftercare instructions, and we pay him.
Shiver's waiting outside, leaning against his bike.
"Got the ink?" he asks.
Grace lifts her shirt slightly, showing the edge of the bandage. "Yeah."
