Epilogue Property #2
Ghost was off the crutch entirely now, his leg healed enough for walking, though he still favored it when he thought no one was watching.
The warehouse and everything that followed had changed him—stripped something soft from his eyes, replaced it with a hardness that made him look older than his years.
He didn't laugh as easily anymore. Didn't smile as often.
But he was steady, reliable, and had proven himself under fire in ways that meant the patched members had stopped treating him like a kid.
Irish was a different story.
His leg was healing—slower than Ghost's, the damage deeper, the recovery longer—but he pushed himself anyway.
I'd find him in the gym at dawn, working through physical therapy exercises with a grimness that didn't suit him.
Irish was supposed to be the one cracking jokes, flashing that knowing grin, filling silences with energy that made everyone around him feel lighter.
That was who he'd been for as long as I'd known him—the spark, the mouth, the brother who could make you laugh in the middle of a firefight.
The injury had dimmed that. He should have been at the warehouse.
Should have been at Primm. The club had ridden into two major operations without him, and the debt of that burned in his eyes every time someone mentioned the fighting he'd missed.
The jokes came less often now. The grin appeared and faded too quickly.
But Declan was there.
Seven years they'd been together—seven years of Declan's quiet steadiness balancing Irish's chaotic energy, of shared bunks and inside jokes and the kind of love that didn't need to announce itself because everyone could see it.
In the weeks since Primm, Declan had barely left Irish's side.
I'd see them in the gym together, Declan spotting Irish through exercises that shouldn't have required spotting, his hands ready to catch weight that Irish could have handled alone.
I'd see Declan's palm rest on Irish's lower back when they walked, see Irish lean into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
And when Declan was close—when their shoulders brushed or their eyes met across a room—glimpses of the old Irish surfaced.
The knowing grin would flash, bright and quick.
A joke would land with its usual timing.
The spark would flare, reminding everyone that the man underneath the frustration was still there, just waiting for his body to catch up with his spirit.
They'd weather this the way they'd weathered everything else. Together.
Maria and the girls had returned two weeks after Primm—Hawk's wife and daughters back in the clubhouse after months at the safehouse.
The girls ran through the grounds like they owned it, shrieking with laughter, throwing themselves at any patched member who'd pick them up and swing them around.
Hawk watched them with something soft in his eyes, something that made him look almost human.
But Maria was different.
She moved through the clubhouse with a tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there before, a tightness around her mouth that deepened whenever Hawk's attention drifted to club business instead of his family.
I'd caught fragments of conversations when they didn't know I was listening—clipped words, long silences, the careful politeness of a marriage under strain.
Whatever was happening between them, it had been building for years.
The war had just made it impossible to ignore.
Not my business. Every couple had their own battles. I had enough of my own.
Tyler and Kai were sitting on the porch when I came out of the garage, two cups of coffee between them, their voices low and easy in the late morning sun.
They looked alike in ways that went beyond the superficial—the way they held themselves, the cadence of their speech, the particular tilt of their heads when they were thinking hard about something.
Foster brothers who'd found each other as kids and held on through everything that followed.
Watching them together now, after everything, felt like witnessing something sacred.
"—can't believe you actually shot him." Kai's voice carried across the yard, equal parts horror and admiration. "I mean, I can, but—Tyler. You shot him."
"He had it coming." Tyler's voice was calm, matter-of-fact. "And I wasn't going to let Tank do it. He didn't deserve to carry that."
"But you deserved to carry it?"
A pause. When Tyler answered, his voice was softer. "I needed to. There's a difference."
Kai was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached over and squeezed Tyler's hand. "I'm proud of you. You know that, right? Everything you survived, everything you came back from—I'm so fucking proud of you."
"Don't make me cry before noon." But Tyler was smiling, that real smile that transformed his whole face. "How's Axel?"
"Driving me insane, as usual." Kai's laugh was bright, easy. "He keeps trying to help with the medical supplies and just ends up reorganizing everything in a way that makes sense to him and absolutely no one else. I had to ban him from the infirmary last week."
"You banned your own partner from your workplace?"
"He alphabetized the medications. Alphabetically, Tyler. Who puts aspirin next to amoxicillin?"
"A man with a system."
"A man with a problem." But Kai was grinning, the kind of grin that said I love him anyway. "He's been better, though. Since you came back. We both have."
I cleared my throat as I approached the porch, not wanting to interrupt but not wanting to eavesdrop either. Both of them looked up—Kai with an easy smile, Tyler with something warmer in his eyes.
"Morning, Tank." Kai raised his coffee cup in a mock salute. "I was just telling Tyler about Axel's organizational crimes against medicine."
"I heard." I climbed the porch steps, dropped into the chair beside Tyler. "Alphabetizing is a war crime now?"
"In my infirmary it is."
Tyler's hand found my thigh, resting there with casual possession. I covered it with my own, laced our fingers together. Two months, and the small intimacies still felt like miracles.
"I should go find my alphabetically-minded partner before he reorganizes the chapel." Kai stood, stretched, and looked down at us with an expression that was hard to read—affection and something else, something deeper. "I'm glad you're both here. I'm glad you're both okay."
Then he was gone, disappearing into the clubhouse, leaving Tyler and me alone on the porch with our coffee and the morning sun.
"He worries about you." I traced my thumb across Tyler's knuckles. "More than he lets on."
"I know." Tyler leaned into my side, his head resting against my shoulder. "I worry about him too. That never stops, no matter how old you get or how far apart you are. Family is family."
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the clubhouse come alive around us—members emerging from rooms, heading to the garage, starting the slow rhythm of another day.
Somewhere inside, Axel was probably rearranging something.
Somewhere on the grounds, Irish was probably pushing himself too hard, Declan hovering nearby with that quiet, watchful intensity.
Somewhere in the president's quarters, Hawk was probably navigating a conversation with Maria that neither of them knew how to have.
Life went on. Imperfect, complicated, scarred by everything that had come before—but continuing anyway.
"I have something for you." The words came out before I could second-guess them. Tyler lifted his head, looked at me with curiosity in his eyes. "In the garage. Come on."
Danny's Shovelhead gleamed under the garage lights.
Cherry red paint, deep and lustrous, catching the overhead fluorescents and throwing them back in warm tones that seemed to glow from within.
Chrome accents polished to a mirror shine—the handlebars, the exhaust pipes, the custom details Danny had sketched on a napkin six weeks before he died.
The rebuilt engine sat perfectly in the frame, every piece fitted and torqued and aligned, the mechanical heart of a machine that had waited six years to be born.
I'd finished it a week ago. Worked through the nights when I couldn't sleep, channeling everything I couldn't say into the turn of a wrench, the polish of metal, the careful assembly of parts that Danny had never gotten to touch.
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever built.
It was the hardest thing I'd ever finished.
Tyler stopped in the doorway of the garage, his breath catching audibly.
"Tank." His voice was barely a whisper. "Is that—"
"Danny's project." I ran my hand along the fuel tank, feeling the smooth paint beneath my calloused fingers. "I finally finished it. The way he wanted. Cherry red, chrome accents, rebuilt engine." I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. "It's yours."
Tyler's eyes snapped to mine. "What?"
"It's yours." I turned to face him fully, watching the emotions play across his face—confusion, disbelief, something that might have been the beginning of tears.
"Danny would have wanted it to go to someone who'd appreciate it.
Someone who'd ride it the way it deserves to be ridden.
" I crossed to where he stood and took his hands in mine. "That's you. It's always been you."
"I can't—" Tyler's voice cracked. "Tank, this is Danny's. This is everything you have left of him."