Chapter Thirty-nine
Hale
Two years later
I finish the last delicate highlights on the massive back piece I’ve been working on for the past six hours.
Today marks the third and final session, and I can’t help but step back to admire it.
A colossal dragon bursts through storm-dark clouds, flames pouring from its jaws, wings spread wide in a way that feels like motion and escape. Like freedom.
The client loves it just as much as I do, which never stops feeling unreal.
“That’s wicked,” Layla says, her voice edged with genuine awe.
I glance over my shoulder to find her leaning in the doorway. She’s still just as punk as she was two years ago—leather jacket, combat boots, sharp eyeliner—but now there’s a very noticeable baby bump rounding out her middle, unapologetically present.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling to myself as I look back at the piece. “It turned out pretty great.”
I walk the client through aftercare while gently wiping down his back, then send him up front to settle payment. The trust people place in me, letting me permanently mark their bodies with something I created, still hits me every single time.
When I step out of the room I use as my station, I pause and take in the waiting room of Siren Ink.
Cool ocean blues bleed seamlessly into fiery reds, a combination that shouldn’t work but somehow does.
A pool table anchors one corner, constantly occupied by hopeful walk-ins killing time in case a last-minute opening appears.
Across from it, deep leather couches line the wall, blood-red pillows thrown casually across them.
Tall bookshelves flank the space, crammed with everything from fantasy epics to trashy romance.
Near the entrance, a glass display counter showcases our merch and custom jewelry, positioned just in front of a heavy red curtain that shields the piercing room from curious eyes.
Every inch of this place carries us in it.
Eric. Layla. Aksel. Me. Our personalities are woven into the walls. From the day we opened, our books filled fast. Six months out, minimum, and still climbing.
I head down the long hallway, passing Eric’s room first. It’s stark and monochromatic, the walls covered in framed photos of greyscale masterpieces he’s completed over the past year. Next is Layla’s space, a riot of color. Rainbows, neon accents, and bold lines everywhere.
She tattoos women exclusively now. Turns out getting sued after kicking the absolute shit out of a disrespectful centaur who groped her mid-session will do that.
Layla has never been happier with a legal outcome in her life.
Next is my space, splashes of blue mingling with hot pink against mostly bare walls.
The only decoration hanging there is a massive canvas of our wedding photo, a gift from Eric last Christmas.
I hated it on sight, but between Aksel’s pathetic puppy-dog eyes and the undeniable persuasive power of his gigantic tentacle dick, it somehow survived and earned its place.
At the very end of the hall is Aksel’s workstation.
Matte black walls set off his breathtaking realism pieces, giving the room a warm, almost cocooned feel.
He started painting again after we moved into the apartment upstairs, and I surprised him with a fully stocked studio.
Some of his work he sells, some he gives away.
Most of it he keeps, slowly filling both our home and the shop with pieces that feel unmistakably him.
I pause in the doorway and watch him work, hunched carefully over a petite omega fairy.
A massive lion-shifter clasps the fairy’s free hand as he grits his teeth and whines softly as the needle works over delicate skin.
I grin at the scene, already knowing the big guy will more than make it worth his omega’s while later.
They’re regulars in Aksel’s chair, openly affectionate in a way that’s both sweet and a little obscene.
I clear my throat to announce myself and step closer, admiring the desert landscape taking shape on the fairy’s forearm.
Rolling sand dunes and barren trees stretch across his skin—an interesting choice, though I’m guessing his mate had a strong influence.
Aksel pauses to wipe the omega’s arm clean, then tilts his head back just enough to steal a quick kiss.
“Looks like you’ve still got a ways to go,” I murmur, careful not to distract him as he gets back to work.
He hums in agreement, focus settling back into place. I linger behind him until he pauses again to wipe the skin.
“Did you need something, Fylgja?” he asks, turning to give me his full attention.
That nickname still sends a shiver up my spine.
“I was going to order food while I work on inventory,” I say. “Anything you’re in the mood for?”
“I don’t have strong feelings about dinner,” he replies thoughtfully, then flashes me a grin. “But I know exactly what I want for dessert.”
The fairy swoons dramatically. My husband laughs, clearly pleased with himself. I don’t know why I keep asking when the answer is always the same.
“I might be able to whip something up for you later,” I say, winking as I back toward the door.
I order a couple of pizzas and grab the inventory clipboard from my room. In the supply closet, I fall into a familiar rhythm: count, write, calculate, repeat. It’s almost meditative.
Strong arms slip around my waist, yanking me out of my focused haze. I jump, then catch sight of Aksel over my shoulder and roll my eyes.
“Done already?” I ask, forcing my breathing to slow as my heart settles back into place.
“It’s been twenty minutes since Jerry and Phillip paid and left,” he says. “You were so focused you didn’t even look up when we walked past.”
He nuzzles into my neck, licking my scent gland in a way that’s half playful, half distracting as hell.
“I’m almost done,” I say, fighting a smile. “I just need to finish counting the dermal adhesive bandages, then I’ll meet you up front to eat the pizza that I’m sure is ice-cold by now.”
I shrug out of his addictive hold, mostly so I can concentrate on literally anything other than the semi-hard reminder pressing insistently into my ass. He laughs, loud and unbothered, before heading back down the hallway toward the waiting room.
I finish quickly, input the numbers into the system so tomorrow’s order will be painless, then shut off the lights and head up front.
Turns out everyone decided to stay late.
Layla stands beside her husband at the pool table, belly leading the way as she talks relentless shit while Eric completely botches an easy shot.
Our receptionist and piercer are pressed together against one of the bookshelves, mouths locked like they’ve forgotten the rest of us exist. I really need to have a conversation with them about PDA.
Ewan is sunk deep into one of the leather couches, utterly absorbed in whatever tragic romance novel he picked for the day.
Eric and Ewan have been together since the show. What started as an unlikely pairing has somehow turned into one of the most solid, deeply affectionate relationships I know. They’re so openly in love it borders on obscene. The air around them always feels… softer. Mushy.
Then I find him. Aksel.
My husband. My soulmate. My Fylgja.
That familiar feeling settles in my chest—the same one I’ve carried since I walked off that stage two years ago. The certainty. The quiet awe. We made it. Everything we build now, everything we choose, is for us.
Our parents are still holding out hope for grandchildren. They never moved out of the condo they rented two years ago, and Sunday lunch is still sacred. This Sunday, though, I have something new to bring to the table.
I rest a hand over my bloated belly, smiling to myself. I can’t wait to see their faces.