Chapter 17
Two nights after Craig Driscoll died, Colleen finally stopped shaking.
Not from fear. Not from trauma. From the weight of everything she'd lost and the impossibility of what she'd gained.
She sat on Anchor's bed, watching him move around the room. He'd just come from the shower, towel slung low around his hips, water still beading on his shoulders. The memorial tattoo gleamed on his chest—his father's name, her work, permanent as the bond building between them.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm appreciating."
His mouth curved. "That so?"
"Come here."
He came.
Colleen reached for him as he sat beside her, running her hands across his shoulders, tracing the muscle and scars she'd memorized over weeks of proximity. He was warm beneath her palms. Solid. Real.
"Talk to me," he said. "You've been quiet all day."
"Thinking."
"About?"
She leaned her forehead against his chest, breathing him in. Leather and soap and something underneath that was just him.
"Independence Ink," she said. "What it was. What it meant."
His arms came around her, pulling her closer. "I'm sorry. I know how much—"
"Don't." She pulled back to meet his eyes. "Don't apologize. Warren Driscoll burned my shop. You didn't. And I've been sitting here for two days, trying to figure out why I'm not more devastated."
"You are devastated."
"I should be destroyed." She shook her head slowly. "Six years of my life went up in flames. Every piece of flash art I designed. Every client record. The chair where soldiers sat while I put their stories on their skin. And all I can think is—"
She stopped. Breathed.
"All I can think is that it was just a building."
Anchor's expression softened. "Colleen—"
"The work wasn't in the walls, Michael." She used his real name deliberately, watching it land. "It was in my hands. It's still in my hands. Warren took the structure, but he couldn't take the skill. Couldn't take the art. Couldn't take me."
Something fierce flashed in his eyes. Pride, maybe. Or love.
"No," he agreed. "He couldn't."
"I'm going to rebuild." The words came out steady, certain. "New location. Better equipment. Same hands, same art, same stubborn refusal to quit. Independence Ink isn't dead—it's just relocating."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet." She traced the lines of his memorial tattoo. "Somewhere in Fishtown. Somewhere Warren's shadow won't reach. Somewhere I can start over."
"Not alone."
It wasn't a question.
Colleen looked up at him, at this man who'd killed for her and held her and let her see every broken piece of himself.
"No," she said softly. "Not alone."
He kissed her.
Different from before. Not desperate like the rooftop. Not exploring like their first time. This kiss was knowing—two people who understood each other's depths, choosing to dive in anyway.
Colleen pulled him down onto the bed.
They moved together with the ease of familiarity, no fumbling, no hesitation. She knew what he liked now. Knew the spot below his ear that made him groan. Knew how to arch against him to drive him crazy. Knew the exact pressure of her teeth on his shoulder that made his control fracture.
And he knew her.
God, he knew her.
"Tell me what you need," he murmured against her throat.
"You." She pulled his face back to hers. "Just you."
He undressed her slowly. Deliberately. Each piece of clothing removed with careful attention, like he was unwrapping something sacred. Colleen let him take his time, watching the firelight play across his features, feeling the reverence in his touch.
This wasn't adrenaline. Wasn't survival.
This was choice.
"I love you," she said as he settled over her. "Whatever happens tomorrow. Whatever Warren does. I love you."
"I love you too." He kissed her forehead. Her cheeks. The corner of her mouth. "Every stubborn, brilliant, beautiful piece of you."
"Michael—"
"I'm here." His body covered hers, warm and solid and present. "I'm not going anywhere."
She pulled him closer and showed him what that meant to her.
The intimacy built slowly, layers of sensation stacking on each other like colors in a tattoo design.
His hands mapping her body with the patience he brought to everything.
Her fingers tracing the scars on his palms, the ink on his chest, the hard planes of muscle that had protected her through firefights and assassinations.
The sounds they made—sighs and gasps and murmured words that meant everything and nothing.
"I want to watch you rebuild," he said, moving inside her with a steadiness that made her tremble. "Want to see you create something new from the ashes."
"You will." She arched into him, chasing sensation. "We both will."
"I want to be there. Every step. Helping where I can, staying out of the way when you need space." His forehead dropped to hers. "I know I'm not an artist. My hands are built for violence, not beauty. But maybe—"
"Your hands are good for more than violence."
She grabbed his wrists, pressed his palms flat against her skin, let him feel the way her body responded to his touch.
"Your hands held me when I watched my shop burn," she continued. "Your hands killed men who threatened me. Your hands—" She kissed his scarred palm. "Your hands built me back up when I thought I was broken."
His breath caught.
"Colleen—"
"Independence Ink was always about the work," she said. "Not the walls. The work was using these hands—" She lifted hers between them. "To create something beautiful. To take grief and turn it into art. To help people carry their stories on their skin."
"And now?"
"Now the work is bigger." She pulled him closer, feeling every point where their bodies connected. "Now the work is building something with you. A life. A partnership. Whatever comes after Warren is gone and the war is over."
He stilled above her, eyes searching her face.
"You mean that."
"I've never meant anything more."
Something cracked open in his expression. Not the raw vulnerability she'd seen before—something deeper. Something permanent.
"I was so afraid," he said quietly. "Of becoming my father. Of watching something I love disappear and being too weak to stop it. Of drowning in loss instead of fighting through."
"Michael—"
"You cured me." His voice was rough, stripped bare. "Not of the fear—that's still there. But of the paralysis. The certainty that I'd fail. Because you refused to break. Watched your shop burn and talked about rebuilding before the flames were even out."
"That's not courage. That's stubbornness."
"It's strength." He kissed her, deep and claiming. "And it made me believe I could be strong too."
Colleen felt tears prick her eyes. Blinked them back.
"We're both strong," she whispered. "Together. That's how we got this far."
"And that's how we'll finish it."
She pulled him down into her, and words gave way to sensation.
Later—much later—they lay tangled together in the dark.
Colleen's head rested on Anchor's chest, ear pressed to his heartbeat. Steady. Constant. The rhythm she'd learned to depend on.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly.
"Tomorrow."
"Warren won't go easy. He's cornered, desperate. That makes him dangerous."
"I know." She traced lazy patterns on his skin. "But we've already taken everything from him. His enforcer. His operations manager. His nephew. All that's left is the man himself."
"And whatever scraps he can scrape together."
"Let him scrape." She tilted her head to look at him. "We've survived worse."
"You've survived worse." His arm tightened around her. "I'm just trying to keep up."
She laughed softly. "You're the one who killed three people in my defense."
"Four," he corrected. "Craig counts."
"Four, then." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "My violent protector."
"Yours," he agreed. "Always."
The word settled between them like a vow.
"After tomorrow," she said. "After Warren. What do you want?"
"What do I want?"
"For the future. For us. For whatever comes next."
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful. Deliberate.
"I want to help you rebuild Independence Ink," he said. "Not as a biker standing guard, but as a partner. Handling the business side, maybe. The things you hate dealing with—permits, contractors, all the bullshit that keeps you from doing what you're actually good at."
"You want to be my business manager?"
"I want to be useful." His hand found her hair, threading through the strands. "My grandfather taught me that work has meaning. That building something matters. I've spent years tearing things down—rivals, operations, threats. I want to build something for once."
Colleen's heart clenched.
"Michael—"
"I'm not my father," he said, and it sounded like something he'd been practicing. "I'm not going to drown when the work changes. I'm going to adapt. And if that means learning how to be a partner instead of just a protector—"
She kissed him.
Hard. Fierce. Full of everything she couldn't put into words.
"Yes," she said against his mouth. "Yes to all of it. The partnership. The rebuilding. The whatever-comes-next."
His exhale shuddered through both of them.
"Together," he said.
"Together."
The compound was quiet around them. Tomorrow waited with all its violence and uncertainty. Warren Driscoll was still breathing, still dangerous, still a threat that needed ending.
But in this room, in this bed, wrapped in each other's arms—none of that mattered.
They had plans. They had a future.
They had each other.
And that was enough to face whatever came next.