Chapter Five
THE SMELL OF smoke and broken plaster still hangs heavy in the air, even though the fire’s long gone.
I stand in the middle of what used to be my kingdom, Tattoos on the Bay, and all I see is ruin.
Broken glass crunches under my boots with every step, like bones snapping.
The neon signs that once bathed these walls in pink and blue light lie shattered, their wires sparking faintly in the corners.
I can almost see it the way it was—the way it should be.
Black marble floors polished to a sheen, raw wood walls that smelled faintly of cedar, shelves lined with everything that made this place ours: taxidermy foxes with sly grins, animal skulls bleached white, potted plants that Hazel used to fuss over, and books—God, so many books. The memory makes my throat tighten.
I built this place from nothing, just a dream and the boys.
When Joshua, Brenden, and Corver Slater showed up, everything changed.
I’d run into Brenden first, all six-foot-six of him, looking like he’d been carved out of stone.
Then his brothers—the quiet genius Corver with his watchful eyes, and Joshua with that wild streak you could smell a mile off.
They didn’t just help me put walls up. They made this place strong, safe.
My family of choice, before I even realized I’d accepted them.
I remember the day Hazel walked in, portfolio in her trembling hands.
She was barely out of her apprenticeship, green as hell, but I saw her talent in every line she’d drawn.
Her stars, her shading, the way she captured softness in her tattoos—I couldn’t say no.
Everyone told me I was stupid for hiring someone so new.
I told them to fuck off. Hazel was mine.
And I was right—she bloomed fast, faster than anyone I’d ever seen.
Clients lined up for her delicate work, and it wasn’t long before Inked magazine was calling us for features.
We weren’t just another shop anymore. We were the shop.
Now? The cabinets are splintered. The stations smashed beyond recognition.
My crystals are ground into glittering dust across the floor.
All the memories, all the late nights and belly laughs with clients who became family, all the blood and ink and stories poured into these walls—it looks like none of it ever mattered.
But it did. It still does.
I run my hand across one of the broken chairs, fingertips catching on jagged wood.
This was where Hazel tattooed her first full sleeve, hands shaking so bad I had to hold her wrist steady in the beginning.
This was where the boys, Hazel, and I toasted with whiskey after landing the first magazine spread, the five of us drunk on success and hope.
This was where I carved out a life I could be proud of, after all the shit I’d crawled through.
The bastards who did this don’t know me. Don’t know us.
This shop isn’t just walls and ink and neon. It’s blood. It’s family. And if they think they can scare me back into silence—they’re dead wrong.
Without any real answers, I agree to go home with Josh.
He has been my safe place for quite a while now.
But I haven’t told him. Not yet. I can’t.
I don’t want to ruin what we have now. Stolen glances, soft touches in the dark.
Something is there, but I’m too afraid to go forward with it.
And I know he is too, or else he would have said something by now.
Josh grabs my hand, leading me out to the Evo. This is Brenden’s favorite car, and I know he loves me if he let Josh drive it. He is reckless, not careless. But he is willing to push the boundaries on anything and everything.
“We will get this sorted, June,” he says to me as we trudge over broken pieces of my home.
“I know.” It’s all I manage to say. Because what else can I say? I really would like a drink. “Just take me home, Josh.”
He nods at me, and opens my door so I can settle into the supple leather seats.
I buckle my seat before he gets to his door and fire off a text to Hazel, see what the fuck is going on over there.
She tells me what the car looked like. I know Surry loved that car, and how big of a shock it would be to find it that way.
Especially in a place that was supposed to be so guarded.
We agree to check in later, Surry’s dad is just getting there now.
Josh puts the Evo in drive, and we take off at lightening speed toward the apartment to hunker down, and wait for this to be over.
The ride back is quiet at first. Josh doesn’t push, doesn’t prod—just keeps his hands steady on the wheel of the Lotus Evora, the engine purring low as we cut through the wet pacific north west streets.
The car smells like leather and faintly like him—cedar, smoke, and something warmer I can’t place.
My nerves finally start to ease, like the hum of the engine is pulling me out of my head.
I glance sideways at him. His jaw is tight, his knuckles flexing against the wheel, the dashboard lights cutting harsh shadows over his face.
He’s thinking—always thinking—but he doesn’t spill it.
Josh carries it, lets it eat at him until it shows in the set of his shoulders, the sharpness of his gaze.
By the time we pull into the garage, the silence has shifted from heavy to…
comfortable. Familiar, even. He kills the engine, and for a moment we just sit there listening to the tick of cooling metal and the steady rhythm of our breaths.
Then, without a word, he’s out of the car and around to my side, opening the door.
He is always like that. Always a gentleman, even when his whole body looks like a storm barely held in check.
Inside, the tension thins. He tosses his keys on the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and disappears down the hall.
When he comes back, he’s holding a plain black T-shirt, worn soft from too many washes.
He doesn’t make some joke or ask if I need it—just hands it over, his eyes holding mine for one beat too long.
Like he knows I’ll take it. Like he knows I’ll wear it.
I slip it on in his bedroom, the hem brushing my thighs, the fabric warm from his hands. It smells like him, too, and for a second I have to press my pointer fingers to my temples, steady myself. It’s ridiculous—how something so simple, so small, can feel like more than it is.
When I walk back out, he’s already on the couch, remote in hand, scrolling through channels like he’s trying to find anything that won’t remind us of blood, fire, or loss. When he lands on some half-forgotten sitcom rerun, he doesn’t look at me, just pats the spot beside him.
I curl into his side without hesitation.
His arm comes around me automatically, solid and protective, pulling me close.
I’m tucked in under his arm, his hand resting at the junction between my thigh as ass.
The laugh track fills the silence, but neither of us are really paying attention.
My head rests against his chest, rising and falling with each steady breath.
His thumb traces idle, absent circles on my thigh, and I don’t think he even notices he’s doing it.
For the first time since I walked into the wreckage of my shop, I feel like I can breathe.
Like maybe we’ll be okay, if only for tonight.
That’s the dangerous part, though—how safe he makes me feel.
Safety like this is a luxury. It lures you in, makes you forget the world outside is made up of teeth and claws.
So I close my eyes, let the sound of his heartbeat and the warmth of his arm around me be enough. Just for now.