Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
BLADE
Six weeks.
Six fucking weeks since I’ve seen her. Since I’ve felt her in my arms, kissed her lips, heard her laugh in the same room as me instead of inside my head like a ghost that won’t shut the hell up.
Six weeks since I knew, without question, that she was protected.
I’m losing my goddamn mind.
I wake up every morning with my jaw clenched so tight it aches, my hands already curled like I’m ready to grab someone by the throat.
I sleep like shit, when I sleep at all, and when I do, she’s there.
Always her. Wrapped up in me, crying, calling my name, or smiling like nothing ever went wrong.
Sometimes she’s hurt. Sometimes she’s just gone.
I wake up reaching for her and there’s nothing but cold sheets and the echo of my own breathing.
Every. Single. Night.
I think about her at all hours of the day.
When I’m working. When I’m riding. When I’m sitting in rooms full of men who are supposed to feel like brothers and still somehow feel empty without her presence grounding me.
She’s everywhere. In my chest. In my head.
In every quiet second that stretches too long.
When I get her back, I’m never taking my eyes off her again.
I already know how this is going to go. I’m going to hover. I’m going to watch every exit, every shadow, every man who looks at her too long. I’m going to touch her constantly just to make sure she’s real, that she’s still breathing, that she’s still mine to protect.
She’s going to get tired of my shit.
And I’m going to let her.
Because that’s the cost.
It doesn’t matter that she isn’t the reason I’ve gone without her for a month and a half. It doesn’t matter that she fought, that she survived, that none of this is her fault. No. These are the consequences of someone touching what’s mine.
And she’ll deal with them.
She’ll deal with me.
Fuck.
I need her.
We’ve done everything. Turned over every rock. Followed every lead until it bled dry. Burned through money, favors, patience. The operation is real, and it’s big, and it’s buried deep enough that tearing it apart takes time we don’t have.
In the meantime, we rebuild.
The clubhouse is patched up. Perdition is standing again, walls reinforced, cameras everywhere, security tighter than it’s ever been. From the outside, it looks like we bounced back.
From the inside, nothing is the same.
We’re back in Jackson, but it feels wrong. Like the town lost its pulse when she disappeared. Bella walks around like she’s made of glass, sharp edges barely holding together. Brooke tries to be strong, but her eyes are hollow, like she’s bracing for news she’s already convinced herself is coming.
The house is too quiet without Bri’s voice cutting through it.
The laughter is gone.
The light is gone.
And every time I look at Bella, every time I see the way she flinches at loud noises or freezes when a phone rings, something ugly twists in my chest. I’m supposed to be able to fix this. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.
But I can’t fix the waiting.
Mason keeps us focused. Dagger keeps us sharp. Orders get given. Moves get made. Enemies get closer. We’re hunting, slow and patient and lethal, because rushing gets people killed and I’ve already lost too much.
Still, some nights I have to lock myself in the garage just to breathe.
I lean against cold metal and let the anger roll through me, hot and violent and endless. I think about the hands that touched her. The voice that lied to her. The way someone thought they could take her and live with it.
They were wrong.
I don’t know where she is yet, but I know this. She’s alive. I feel it in my bones. In the way my chest refuses to let go of her. In the way the world still feels unfinished without her back in it.
And when I get her home, when I finally put my arms around her again and know she’s safe, I’ll deal with whatever she throws at me. Her anger. Her fear. Her exhaustion. Her tears. All of it.
Because I’m not losing her again. Not to them. Not to the dark. Not to anything.
The chair creaks beneath me as I settle in, vinyl cracked and familiar, the smell of ink and antiseptic hanging heavy in the air. The buzz of the machine hums low and steady, filling the room like a heartbeat.
This isn’t some random shop. This is Black Iron Tattoo.
Iron Reapers territory. Iron Reapers blood.
The walls are covered in club ink, old and new.
Patches. Memorial pieces. Names of brothers who didn’t make it home.
Symbols that don’t mean a damn thing to anyone outside these walls, but mean everything to the men who walk in here knowing exactly what they’re asking for.
The guy standing over me isn’t just a tattoo artist. He’s family.
Cole patched in years ago, long before he ever picked up a machine full-time.
He knows how to keep his mouth shut, how to listen without asking questions, and how to make something permanent when it matters.
His hands are steady as he presses the stencil into place on my forearm.
He looks at me once. Just once. “You sure?” he asks.
I meet his eyes. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes.
“No regrets,” he says quietly, and then the needle hits.
Pain sparks sharp and immediate, and I don’t even flinch.
The chain takes shape first, heavy black links running along the inside of my forearm.
It isn’t decorative. It’s brutal. Industrial.
Every line thick and solid, like it was meant to hold something that fought like hell.
Because it was. Midway up my arm, the chain snaps.
Not clean. Not pretty. Metal torn apart under pressure, frozen in the exact second it failed.
And growing through the shattered links is a wildflower.
Not delicate. Not ornamental. A stubborn bloom, petals slightly torn, stem wrapped tight around the broken metal like it refuses to be pushed aside.
The roots are visible, clawing into the breaks, forcing their way through iron like the chain never stood a chance.
Cole wipes away excess ink, jaw tight, eyes focused. He doesn’t rush this part. Above the flower, just beneath my elbow, he inks her name. brIANNA
No script. No softness. Just clean block lettering, bold and unyielding. The kind of name that doesn’t apologize for existing.
My chest tightens when I see it settle into my skin.
Below the broken chain, closer to my wrist where I’ll see it every day, he adds the final line. STILL brEATHING
The machine shuts off. The silence feels heavy.
Cole leans back, studies his work for a long moment, then nods once. “That one’s gonna hurt more later,” he says quietly.
“Good,” I reply.
He wraps my arm carefully, respectful, like he knows this isn’t just ink. “She’ll come home,” he says. Not hopeful. Certain.
I don’t look away from my arm. “Yeah.”
This isn’t about faith. It’s about fact. She was taken. She was chained. They tried to break her. They didn’t. This is carved into me now, done by a brother, inside these walls, where promises mean something. This is me marking myself so I never forget what was stolen, and what I’m taking back.
When she’s home, when she’s safe, when her fingers trace the ink and her voice trembles when she asks why, I’ll tell her the truth.
It’s her name because she’s mine to protect. It’s the chain because it failed. It’s the flower because she didn’t.
The machine shuts off and Cole is wrapping my arm when my phone vibrates against the chair.
I don’t even look at the screen. I know who it is before I answer.
“Talk,” I say.
Riot’s voice comes through low and sharp. “We’ve got something.”
My chest tightens instantly.
“Fucking finally,” I growl. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I hang up before he can say anything else.
Cole looks at me, hope flashing across his face so fast it almost hurts. “Well?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I say honestly, pushing up out of the chair. “But it’s the first real lead we’ve had in weeks.”
He nods, claps a hand on my shoulder once, solid and grounding. “Bring her home.”
“That’s the plan.”
I shrug into my cut carefully, the fresh wrap on my arm pulling just enough to remind me it’s there, and step out of Black Iron Tattoo into the open air. The sun’s already dipping, the sky bleeding orange and red over Jackson like it knows something ugly is coming.
I swing a leg over my bike, fire it up, and the engine roars to life beneath me.
Ten minutes later, I’m cutting into the club lot hard and fast, gravel spitting under my tires. I don’t bother killing the engine gently. I shut it down and head straight inside.
Church is already in session.
Mason’s at the head of the table, arms braced on the wood, expression carved from stone.
Dagger stands to his right, calm and lethal, eyes tracking everything.
Piston and Tank are leaned back in their chairs, tense but quiet.
Switch is pacing near the wall, jaw tight.
Rev’s seated with his arms crossed, leg bouncing with barely contained rage.
Riot and Ghost are at the far end, heads bent together over a laptop and a spread of maps and printouts. Every conversation cuts off the second I walk in. I take my place at the table without a word. Mason looks at Riot. “Let’s hear it.”
Riot nods once and turns the laptop so everyone can see the screen. A satellite image fills it, gray and grainy.
“We’ve been tracking shell companies since the night Perdition went up,” he says. “One of them is a logistics front based out of St. Louis. On paper, it’s boring. Warehousing. Transport contracts. Nothing flashy.”
Dagger leans in. “And off paper?”
“The spending didn’t match the business,” Riot replies. “Company cards being used constantly, but not for freight or fuel. High-end hotels. Private floors. New city almost every night.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
Ghost speaks next, voice rough. “What made it stand out was the timing.”