Chapter 22
The compound had been transformed.
String lights crisscrossed the courtyard, turning the industrial space into something almost magical. Tables lined the perimeter, loaded with food and bottles. Brothers in clean cuts stood in loose formation, their women beside them, everyone watching the chapel doors.
Waiting for him.
Anchor adjusted his cut one more time, checking the new patch sewn above his heart. Property of Colleen. The words had been her idea—a reversal of the traditional old lady patch, a claim that went both ways.
"You ready?" Patriot asked, appearing at his shoulder.
"Been ready for weeks."
"Then let's do this."
The chapel doors opened, and Anchor walked into the courtyard.
Every eye tracked his movement. Brothers he'd bled beside, fought beside, nearly died beside—all of them here to witness what came next. The weight of it settled into his chest, heavy and sacred.
This was tradition. This was family.
This was forever.
He took his position at the center of the courtyard, facing the compound entrance. The crowd parted, creating a path, and then—
Colleen.
She stepped through the gates in a simple black dress, her arms bare to show the ink that told her story. Red hair loose around her shoulders. Green eyes finding his across the distance, steady and sure.
Mine, he thought. Finally, officially, permanently mine.
She walked toward him with the same confidence she'd shown facing down loan sharks and hired guns. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just a woman who'd chosen this life, this man, this moment.
When she reached him, Anchor took her hands.
"Brothers," Patriot's voice rang out. "We're here to witness a claiming. Anchor has proven himself to this club with blood and loyalty. Now he stands before you to claim his woman."
Anchor didn't look away from Colleen's face. Her eyes were bright, maybe with tears, but her chin stayed high.
"Colleen Brannigan," Patriot continued. "You've been tested. You've bled for this brotherhood, fought for this brotherhood, earned your place among us. Do you accept this man's claim?"
"I accept." Her voice carried across the courtyard, clear and strong. "He's mine. I'm his. Whatever comes next, we face it together."
Together.
The word hit Anchor like a fist to the chest.
"Anchor." Patriot turned to him. "Speak your claim."
He'd thought about what to say. Practiced it in his head, trying to find words big enough for what he felt. But standing here, holding her hands, seeing the future in her eyes—
The prepared speech vanished.
"I was drowning before I met you," he said instead. "Not in a bottle, like my father. In patience. In waiting for something that never came. In protecting everyone except myself."
Her fingers tightened on his.
"You changed that." His voice roughened. "You looked at me like I was worth seeing. You put your art on my skin and made me feel permanent. You stood beside me in a war you didn't ask for and never once flinched."
"Anchor—"
"I claim you." The words came out fierce, absolute. "Not because the club demands it. Not because tradition says I should. Because you're mine, Colleen. You've been mine since the first time you put a needle in my skin and saw something worth saving."
A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away.
"I promise to protect you," he continued. "Not because you need protecting—you've proven you don't. But because that's what loving you means. I promise to stand beside you, build with you, fight for you. Every day. Every night. For as long as you'll have me."
"Forever," she whispered. "I'll have you forever."
Patriot stepped forward, holding a leather jacket—not a cut, but something just as meaningful. A riding jacket with Sons of Liberty stitched across the back and Anchor's Old Lady below it.
"Welcome to the family," Patriot said, draping the jacket around Colleen's shoulders.
The courtyard erupted.
Brothers cheered, fists pumping the air. Old ladies rushed forward to embrace Colleen, pulling her into hugs and laughter. Music kicked on, loud and celebratory. The party that had been waiting exploded into life.
But Anchor only had eyes for her.
She stood in the chaos, wearing his jacket, tears streaming down her face, smiling like she'd found everything she never knew she wanted.
He pulled her against him and kissed her.
Not soft. Not careful. A claiming kiss, right there in front of everyone, sealing what they'd just declared. She grabbed his cut and kissed him back, both of them lost in each other while the brotherhood celebrated around them.
"Get a room!" Gunner's voice echoed across the courtyard.
Anchor pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
"He's got a point," he murmured.
"Later." She pressed her forehead to his. "Right now I want to enjoy this."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She smiled through her tears. "I've never been claimed before. Want to see what it feels like."
"It feels like mine." He cupped her face in his hands. "Forever."
The party raged for hours.
Brothers got drunk, danced badly, made speeches that ranged from heartfelt to obscene. Old ladies pulled Colleen into their circle, showering her with advice and champagne and the particular kind of welcome that only women who'd chosen this life could offer.
Anchor watched it all from the edge of the crowd, content to let her have her moment. She deserved this—the celebration, the acceptance, the joy of belonging somewhere.
His woman. His old lady. His.
"You did good, brother."
He turned to find Gallows beside him, rare words from the silent enforcer.
"Thanks."
"She's strong." Gallows watched Colleen laugh at something Grace said. "Doesn't break. The club needs more like her."
"The club's got her now."
"Good." Gallows clapped his shoulder once and disappeared back into the crowd.
By midnight, the party had mellowed. Brothers peeled off with their women. The music softened. The string lights cast everything in warm gold.
Colleen found him at the firepit, dropped into his lap, and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Take me to bed," she said.
He didn't need to be asked twice.
They slipped away from the remnants of the party, climbing the stairs to his room—their room now—with the urgency of people who'd been waiting all night.
The door closed behind them, and Anchor pressed her against it.
"You're wearing my jacket," he said against her throat.
"Your jacket, your name, your everything." She pulled his face up to meet her eyes. "I meant what I said down there. Forever."
"So did I."
He kissed her, and everything else fell away.
This wasn't like the first time—nervous and discovering. Wasn't like the rooftop—desperate and adrenaline-soaked. Wasn't even like the tender nights they'd shared since.
This was celebration.
He undressed her slowly, savoring each reveal, treating her body like the gift it was. The jacket came first—hung carefully on the doorknob because it meant something now. Then the dress, pooling at her feet. Then everything else, until she stood bare before him in the candlelight.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
"Yours," she countered.
"Yeah." He lifted her, carried her to the bed, laid her down like she was precious. "Mine."
He worshipped her.
There was no other word for it. Hands and mouth mapping territory he'd memorized but would never tire of exploring. Every gasp she made was music. Every arch of her body was triumph.
"Michael," she breathed, using his real name the way she only did in moments like this. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Everything. Give me everything."
He did.
They moved together with the ease of people who knew each other's bodies, but the intensity was different tonight. Every touch felt significant. Every kiss sealed promises. This wasn't just intimacy—it was communion. Two people becoming one in the aftermath of war and ceremony and forever.
"I love you," she gasped against his mouth.
"I love you too." He pressed deeper, felt her body respond, lost himself in the sensation. "My old lady. My woman. Mine."
"Yours," she agreed. "Always yours."
The climax built slowly, deliberately, both of them drawing it out because ending meant leaving this moment behind. But eventually even patience had limits.
She shattered first, his name on her lips, body arching beneath him.
He followed seconds later, pouring everything he was into her, claiming her one final time.
Later—much later—they lay tangled together in the dark.
Colleen's head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across his skin. The memorial tattoo. The dock hook scars. The places she'd left her own marks.
"Tell me something," she murmured.
"What?"
"How it feels. Tonight. Right now."
Anchor was quiet for a moment, searching for words.
"The river used to feel like it owed me something," he said finally. "Like there was a debt I could never collect. My father's death. My mother's house. All those years of watching the work disappear."
"And now?"
"Now it doesn't feel like that anymore." He tightened his arms around her. "You're the first thing that made the river stop owing me. The first thing that made me feel like I had something instead of losing something."
She pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Candlelight caught her features, soft and certain.
"I'll keep making you feel that way," she said. "Every day. For the rest of our lives."
"Promise?"
"Guarantee."
She kissed him—soft, sweet, permanent.
And Anchor held his woman close, finally understanding what home felt like.
Not the docks. Not the compound.
Her.
Always her.