Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
SAVANNAH
We pull up to Black Iron Tattoo on the edge of Jackson just as the last of the streetlights slice through the early winter dusk.
The small northern town is dead quiet this time of night, snow flurries drifting slow under the orange glow, the main drag mostly dark except for the diner’s neon and the faint red pulse of the tattoo shop’s sign. Lucky kills the engine.
I slide off behind him, legs still shaky from the cold ride and the sting of defeat.
My cheeks burn, not just from the wind, but from the way I’m still replaying Quiztopher Nolan’s perfect streak getting snapped by The Reaper-cussions in that final lightning round.
Riot’s victory yell is still echoing in my skull. Cheaters.
Lucky swings his leg over, stands, and immediately reaches for me, big, gloved hand curling around my waist, tugging me against his side to shield me from the February bite.
His thumb finds the bare strip of skin where my jacket’s ridden up, warm even through the layers, and that small touch sends heat curling low in my belly despite the chill.
“You still mad?” he asks, voice low and amused, breath fogging between us as he presses his lips to my temple through my knit hat.
I huff, crossing my arms even as I lean into his warmth. “Furious. You and your cheating-ass team ruined my undefeated run.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. “You’re cute when you’re competitive.”
“I’m not cute. I’m plotting.” I tip my head back to glare up at him, snowflakes catching in my lashes. “Next Thursday I’m bringing color-coded flashcards, a buzzer app, and maybe that retired history teacher from the high school. You won’t know what hit you.”
His grin widens, slow and predatory, the kind that makes my stomach flip even in twenty-degree weather. “Looking forward to it, firecracker. But tonight…” His hand slides lower, palm flattening possessively over my hip through my jeans. “Tonight you pay up.”
Heat blooms despite the cold. I swallow, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yeah. About that.”
He doesn’t give me time to backpedal. He steers me toward the door, one arm locked around my shoulders, and pushes it open with his free hand. The bell jingles, and the familiar smell wraps around me, ink, antiseptic, and leather.
Cole’s already behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, black gloves snapped on like he was waiting.
He looks up from the sketchbook, smirks when he sees us bundled in winter gear, and sets the pencil down.
“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes flicking between us.
“Reigning trivia champs. Or… wait.” His gaze lands on me, teasing.
“You lost tonight, didn’t you, Sav? Riot called ahead, said the Reapers took it clean. ”
I groan, dropping my forehead against Lucky’s shoulder, the leather of his cut cold against my skin. “Don’t start. I’m in mourning. And freezing.”
Cole laughs and comes around the counter. “Private room’s ready. Same setup as when I did that flame on your arm last week, Lucky. Clean lines, good saturation. She’s in good hands.”
Lucky guides me down the short hall, past the open bays where the other artists are finishing walk-ins.
The private room is small but bright, black walls, adjustable chair, overhead lights already on, the low hum of a machine warming up.
Cole flips the switch, and the room fills with crisp white light.
I stop just inside the door, heart hammering. Lucky’s behind me, chest to my back, hands sliding to my hips. “You nervous?” he murmurs against my neck.
“A little,” I admit. “It’s… permanent.”
“Yeah.” His voice drops, rough and warm. “That’s the point.”
Cole clears his throat from the doorway. “Alright. Where we putting this?” He glances at Lucky.
Lucky’s hand slides to the front of my hip, fingers hooking just inside the waistband of my jeans.
“Right here.” He presses his thumb into the soft dip where hip meets panty line, low enough that I’ll have to slide my jeans down a few inches to expose it.
“Small. Clean. Black only. No color. Same size as the flame you put on me last week.”
I blink, waiting for more, but he doesn’t give it. Just that spot. His eyes meet mine, steady and intense, like he’s asking for trust without words.
Lucky leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Trust me?”
I search his face, those dark eyes, that quiet certainty, and nod. “Yeah. I trust you.”
He presses a soft kiss to my temple, then jerks his chin toward the doorway. “Cole. Side.”
Cole follows him out into the hall. The door stays cracked. I can hear their low voices, too quiet to make out words, but the tone is serious, deliberate. Lucky’s gravelly rumble, Cole’s occasional nod. A minute stretches into two. My pulse kicks harder. What the hell is he planning?
They come back in. Cole’s got a fresh stencil in hand, but he doesn’t show it to me yet. He looks at me, really looks, and asks, quiet, “You sure about this, Sav? No peeking until it’s done.”
I glance at Lucky. He’s watching me with that same steady intensity, hand still resting warm on my lower back. I swallow, then nod. “I’m sure. Whatever it is… I trust him.”
Cole exhales, nods once. “Alright. Let’s do this.”
I slide my jeans down just enough, past my hips, bunching them mid-thigh, so the area’s exposed.
The vinyl chair is cold against my ass as I lie down, heart pounding.
Lucky perches on the rolling stool beside me, one hand resting heavy on my stomach, thumb tracing slow circles over my skin like he’s anchoring me.
Cole preps the area, shaving a small patch, wiping with alcohol, pressing the stencil down without letting me see the transfer. When he peels it back, he angles it away from my line of sight.
Lucky’s hand tightens on my stomach. “Eyes on me, firecracker.”
I lock onto his gaze and breathe through the anticipation.
Cole fires up the machine. The first buzz makes me tense, but Lucky’s hand slides higher, cupping the side of my breast through my sweater in a slow, distracting stroke, thumb brushing my nipple through the fabric.
“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
The needle hits skin, sharp sting, then heat, then the addictive pull of it sinking in.
I grip Lucky’s forearm, nails digging into his sleeve, but I don’t flinch.
Cole works fast, steady, wiping excess ink every few passes.
Lucky keeps talking to me, low, rough promises about what he’s going to do once we’re home, about how strong I am, about how this mark is going to remind me every single day that I’m unbreakable.
By the time Cole finishes and wipes me clean, I’m flushed, breathing hard, and buzzing with nerves and heat.
Cole steps back, peels off his gloves, and finally turns the small hand mirror toward me. “There you go.”
I look down. A single, elegant phoenix in clean black line work, wings half-spread, tail curling like flame, rising from a faint swirl of ash at the base. Small, fierce, perfect. Rebirth. Strength. Fire that doesn’t die.
My throat tightens. It’s not his name. Not club property. It’s me, the way he sees me. The way he’s always seen me. I blink fast, eyes stinging. “Lucky…”
He leans over me, thumb brushing my cheek. “You like it?”
“I love it.” My voice cracks just a little. “It’s… it’s perfect.”
He kisses me slow, deep, cold lips turning warm against mine, tasting like snow and something deeper, something that feels like forever.
Cole clears his throat, already packing up. “I’ll leave you two.” He slips out, door clicking shut behind him.
Lucky’s gaze rakes over me, sprawled on the chair, jeans still low on my thighs, fresh ink on my hip, chest rising and falling fast under my sweater.
He stands slowly, looming over me, hands braced on either side of my head.
“Looks good,” he rasps, thumb brushing the edge of the fresh tattoo through the film. “Looks like you.”
I reach up, fist his cut, pull him down until his mouth crashes into mine again. “Take me home,” I whisper against his lips. “I want to feel you everywhere tonight. Including right over this new mark.”
He growls low in his throat, scoops me up off the chair, jeans still half-down, legs wrapping around his waist, arms around his neck.
We step out of Black Iron Tattoo into the cold February night, snow flurries thicker now, swirling under the streetlights like ash from a dying fire.
My jeans are back up, zipped, but the fresh ink on my hip throbs faintly under the clear film.
Cole’s careful work, the phoenix rising in clean black lines, still warm from the needle.
Every step reminds me it’s there. Every brush of fabric against it reminds me why Lucky chose it.
He walks us straight to his bike, gloved hand firm around mine, and swings his leg over first. When he looks back at me, eyes dark under the brim of his beanie, there’s no question in them. “Get on,” he says, voice low and rough. “We’re not going to your house tonight.”
My pulse kicks hard. “Your place?”
He nods once. “My place.”
I don’t argue. I climb on behind him, thighs bracketing his hips, arms wrapping tight around his waist. The leather of his cut is cold against my chest, but his body heat seeps through immediately.
He fires up the engine, deep, throaty rumble that vibrates straight through me, and pulls out of the lot without another word.
The ride to his house is short, Jackson’s small enough that nothing’s far, but the cold wind bites at my face, makes my eyes water, makes every inch of exposed skin sting.
I press tighter against his back, chin tucked to his shoulder, breathing in leather and smoke and him.
The phoenix on my hip pulses with the bike’s rhythm, like it’s alive, like it knows what’s coming.