Chapter Twenty-One
The shop looked different in daylight.
Tess stood in the parking lot, coffee in hand, and tried to reconcile what she was seeing with the destruction that had haunted her nightmares for the past week.
The front windows—shattered by Darko's crew—had been replaced with fresh glass that caught the morning sun.
The door hung straight on new hinges. Even the hand-painted MAHONEY'S sign had been touched up, the letters crisp and bright against the weathered wood.
"Stockyard and Scout got here at six," Lakeshore said, coming up beside her. "Wanted to get the heavy work done before you saw it."
"They didn't have to—"
"They wanted to." He nodded toward the building. "Go look inside."
She went.
The floor had been swept clean of glass and debris, every shard collected and disposed of like the violence that caused it had been erased.
The rod racks were still down—she could see them stacked against the far wall, waiting to be rehung—but the display cases had been repaired, the broken shelves replaced, the bones of her father's shop ready to be rebuilt.
Stockyard emerged from the back room, a power drill in one hand and a level in the other.
"Racks go back up today," he said by way of greeting. "You want them in the same spots, or we changing the layout?"
Tess blinked at him. "You're asking me?"
"It's your shop."
Three words. Simple, declarative, delivered in that flat tone she'd learned meant Stockyard was done discussing it. But underneath the gruffness, she heard something else.
Respect.
"Same spots," she said. "My father had them arranged by type and weight. It worked for thirty years—no reason to change it now."
Stockyard grunted and got to work.
The morning passed in a blur of activity.
Tess directed the rebuild like a general commanding troops, pointing brothers toward tasks and correcting their work with the same authority she'd used to run her father's shop since she was sixteen.
Scout rehung rod racks while Stockyard reinforced the shelving.
Lakeshore handled the heavy lifting, moving boxes and display cases wherever Tess indicated.
Nobody questioned her orders. Nobody complained when she made them redo something that wasn't quite right. They just worked, steady and efficient, turning the skeleton of a destroyed shop back into something functional.
"The reels go on the left wall," Tess said, watching Scout position a display. "Spinning reels at eye level, baitcasters higher. Beginners grab what they can reach—we want them starting with the easier gear."
"You've thought about this."
"I've been thinking about this since I was twelve." She helped him adjust the angle. "My father used to quiz me on merchandise placement during dinner. Said if I was going to inherit the shop someday, I needed to understand why everything was where it was."
"Smart man."
"The smartest." Her throat tightened, but she pushed through it. "He'd be proud of this. Seeing it come back together."
Scout's hand landed briefly on her shoulder—a surprising gesture from a man who usually kept his distance. "He'd be proud of you. Not just the shop."
Before she could respond, the rumble of a truck engine cut through the morning quiet.
Tess stepped outside to find a flatbed trailer backing into the lot, a boat strapped to its deck. Not just any boat—a sixteen-foot skiff with a fresh hull and a new outboard, the exact model she'd lost when Darko sank her fleet.
"First replacement," Lakeshore said, appearing beside her. "Two more coming next week."
"How did you—"
"Razor knows a dealer who owed the club a favor." He watched the trailer position itself near the dock. "We negotiated a bulk discount."
"Negotiated."
"Strongly negotiated."
She should probably ask what that meant. Should probably care about the implications of accepting boats that had been acquired through intimidation or worse.
Instead, she walked to the trailer and ran her hand along the hull.
Clean fiberglass. No patches, no repairs, no evidence of the kind of neglect that came from rental fleets and rough customers. This was a new boat—genuinely new—and it was hers.
"I need to inspect the engine," Lakeshore said, already climbing onto the trailer. "Make sure they didn't cut corners on the mechanical work."
"You know boat engines?"
He shot her a look that reminded her who she was talking to. "Eight years on the water. I know every engine Yamaha ever made."
She watched him work—checking connections, examining the prop, running his hands over components with the ease of long practice.
This was a side of him she hadn't seen before.
Not the enforcer, not the killer, not even the lover.
Just a man who understood machinery and took satisfaction in making sure things worked properly.
"It's solid," he announced, climbing down. "They did good work. Should run for years without major maintenance."
"You sound almost disappointed."
"I like fixing things." He wiped his hands on his jeans. "Gives me something to do when my head gets too loud."
"I know the feeling."
They got the boat in the water together, Lakeshore backing the trailer down the ramp while Tess guided from the dock. The hull slid into Lake Michigan with barely a splash, and she felt something loosen in her chest as she tied off the lines.
Her fleet was coming back. Boat by boat, piece by piece, everything Gregor had tried to destroy was being rebuilt.
"Lunch?" Lakeshore asked.
"Starving."
They ate sandwiches on the dock with their feet hanging over the water.
The lake was calm today—flat and silver under a spring sky, the kind of day that brought out the recreational boaters and made Tess's fingers itch to take a boat out herself.
But there was something perfect about sitting here instead, shoulder to shoulder with Lakeshore, watching the water do nothing at all.
"I used to eat lunch here with my father," she said. "Every Saturday, rain or shine. He'd close the shop for an hour and we'd sit right here, talking about whatever was on our minds."
"What did you talk about?"
"Everything. School, boys, the shop. Whether the walleye were running, what the weather was going to do." She smiled at the memory. "He had opinions about everything. Strong ones. Couldn't just have a conversation—everything turned into a debate."
"I would have liked him."
"He would have hated you." She laughed at his expression. "At first, anyway. He didn't trust bikers. Said they were trouble waiting to happen."
"He wasn't wrong."
"No. But he also would have respected what you did for the shop. For me." She leaned into him, feeling the solid warmth of his shoulder against hers. "He believed in protecting what matters. Whatever it takes."
Lakeshore was quiet for a moment, watching the water the way he always did—like it held answers to questions he couldn't articulate.
"I want to meet him," he said finally. "When things settle down. I want to sit with him, even if he doesn't know who I am."
"I told you that before."
"I mean it more now." He turned to look at her. "He built something worth fighting for. I want to tell him it's still standing. That his daughter saved it."
Tess felt tears threaten and blinked them back. "He might not understand."
"Doesn't matter. I'll understand." His hand found hers, fingers interlocking. "And maybe somewhere in there, some part of him will too."
They sat in comfortable silence, eating sandwiches and watching the boats drift by. The shop hummed with activity behind them—Scout finishing the rod racks, Stockyard starting on the storage shed—but out here on the dock, the world felt small and manageable.
"The ceremony's this weekend," Lakeshore said.
Tess's heart stuttered. "What?"
"Claiming ceremony. Saturday night, at the compound." He squeezed her hand. "If you're ready."
"If I'm ready." She stared at him. "You're asking if I'm ready to be claimed in front of your entire club?"
"I'm asking if you want it to be official. Public. Something the brothers and the old ladies and anyone who cares to watch can see." His voice dropped, roughened. "I'm asking if you want to be mine in every way that matters."
"I'm already yours."
"I know. But this makes it permanent. Recognized. Part of the record." He met her eyes, and she saw something vulnerable beneath the calm. "I want everyone to know. I want the world to know."
She thought about everything they'd been through. The violence, the fear, the nights she'd wondered if either of them would survive. The mornings after, when she'd woken in his arms and felt safer than she'd ever felt anywhere.
"I knew," she said quietly.
"Knew what?"
"That this was where we were heading. That night on the loading dock, when you told me about the faces in the water and I didn't look away." She lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "I knew then. I just wasn't ready to admit it."
"And now?"
"Now I'm ready." She smiled at him, letting him see everything she was feeling. "Saturday night. In front of everyone. Make me yours, officially."
Something fierce and possessive flared in his eyes. "You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He kissed her—thorough and claiming, the kind of kiss that made promises without words. When they finally broke apart, she was breathless and grinning and more certain than ever that this was exactly where she was supposed to be.
"Saturday," he said.
"Saturday."
Behind them, Scout wolf-whistled from the shop doorway. Stockyard's voice rumbled something crude about getting a room. The afternoon sun warmed their backs while the lake lapped against the dock pilings.
And Tess sat with the man she loved, watching the water her father had given his life to, and felt the future stretch out ahead of them like the horizon.
This was home.
This was hers.
This was everything.