Chapter 25
SYVANNAH
Tiny’s arms stay around me long after Church, as if he’s afraid that if he loosens his grip, I’ll disappear back into whatever darkness used to live under my skin.
His arms are firm around my shoulders, his chest warm beneath my cheek, and for a long moment, I let myself simply breathe in the scent of oil and soap, that clean, steady kind of safety he carries like a second skin.
I didn’t realize how much tension had been lodged in my bones until his confession lifted it. It unties knots you didn’t know were strangling you.
“I’m proud of you,” I whisper again, not because I need him to hear it twice, but because I need it to feel real.
Tiny dips his chin and presses a kiss to the top of my head, as if he doesn’t trust his own voice. I feel his breath deepen, the way it does when he’s holding something down. The kind of emotion he used to bury beneath grease and silence, back when he thought being strong meant being alone.
Now he lets it rise.
“Come inside,” he murmurs into my hair. His voice is low, rough around the edges. “I want you close.”
A tremor runs through me. Not fear this time, not the old reflex that used to flicker when men made demands. Tiny isn’t demanding. He’s asking in the only way he knows how, like it matters whether I say yes.
I pull back just enough to look up at him.
His brown eyes are softer than they were months ago, but there’s still danger there, a storm held in check by discipline and devotion.
His confession brought him peace, but it also left him with a kind of hunger, an aching need to reclaim life, to take what’s good.
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Tiny exhales like he’s been waiting for that word all damn day. His huge, warm fingers close around mine and lead me toward the clubhouse with a gentleness that somehow makes everything feel even more intense.
Inside, the clubhouse smells of leather, whiskey, and lived-in brotherhood.
The main room is quieter than usual. No party.
No music. Just the low murmur of voices drifting from the kitchen and the faint clink of a glass set in the sink.
The lighting is dim and soft, and it feels like the whole place is exhaling after Church.
We make it two steps into the hall before Torch’s voice carries. “Look at Tiny,” he calls, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Man looks like he just got adopted.” A few laughs ripple through the space like a warm wave.
Tiny freezes, his ears turning red fast, and I fight a smile because it’s absurd how intimidating he is until a brother teases him. Then he turns into a giant, flustered bear who doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
Daisy appears first, stepping out of the hallway with her hair pulled into a loose knot and one of Torch’s hoodies draped over her shoulder.
She’s glowing in that way she does when she’s safe and loved, but her eyes remain sharp and observant.
She takes one look at Tiny’s face, then mine, and her smile softens.
“You made it back okay?” she asks me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Therapy ran long.”
Daisy nods like she understands exactly what that means. “You want tea or something? Or do you want to pretend you don’t need anything and go straight to bed like every stubborn woman in this club?”
I laugh softly, the sound surprising me because it’s real. “Probably the second one.”
Torch leans into the doorway behind her, arms crossed, already grinning. “Tiny, you’d better keep her hydrated. Doc Daisy says it’s important.”
“Get fucked,” Tiny mutters automatically.
Torch’s grin widens. “That’s what I’m hoping, brother.”
I choke back a laugh. Tiny’s hand tightens around mine, and I feel his pulse beneath my thumb. He’s trying to stay calm, but the blush creeping up his neck makes it clear how close to the edge he is.
Daisy swats Torch’s chest without even turning. “Go parent your children.”
Torch groans dramatically. “They’re asleep.”
“That doesn’t mean you stop being responsible.”
Torch mutters something about betrayal and shuffles away, still laughing under his breath.
We move again, but before we can slip past the kitchen, Monica steps out with a clipboard in hand and a look on her face that tells me she’s about to ruin any attempt at quiet romance.
“Syvannah,” she says, not unkindly, but with full VP-Old-Lady authority. “You’re back. Good. We needed to finalize tomorrow.”
Tiny’s shoulders tense. “Tomorrow?”
Monica shoots him a look. “Yes, Tiny. Tomorrow. The funeral.”
My stomach tightens at the word.
Funeral.
Pearl’s body has been in limbo since she died.
Too much heat, too much conflict, too many feelings in too many directions.
The club doesn’t leave their dead unburied, even when those dead hurt people while they were alive.
Capone is ruthless about that code. A Royal Bastard is still a Bastard, even if they were a problem.
Danyella appears beside Monica, phone in hand, scrolling through a list as if she’s planning a wedding instead of a burial. “Capone wants it done right,” she says. “Simple. Quiet. No drama.”
Blayze’s voice comes from the bar area. “Which is hilarious, considering who she was.”
Aerianna looks up from the couch, where she’s sitting with Trigger, her expression tight with discomfort. “She still deserves a place to rest.”
Trigger snorts. “She can rest in hell.” Aerianna elbows him sharply, and he grumbles but doesn’t argue further.
Red leans against the counter, a coffee mug in hand, his face unusually serious. “Security will be tight,” he says. “We’re not turning a funeral into an ambush. Not after the last few months.”
Aftermath steps into view near the stairwell, his broad shoulders filling the space like a wall. His eyes flick to me, then to Tiny, then back again. There’s something calmer in him lately, something steadier, but the rage is still there beneath the surface. It always will be.
“Location is set,” Aftermath says. “Small chapel off Ventura. Private. We rented it and paid cash, no names on the paperwork.”
Capone steps out of his office like the conversation summoned him, cigarette between his fingers, darkness in his eyes. “This isn’t about honoring Pearl,” he says, his voice flat. “It’s about closing the door.”
Silence settles over all of us. Even Trigger doesn’t run his mouth.
Capone’s gaze lands on me, and for once, it isn’t cold or assessing. It’s thoughtful. Like he sees what this costs me. “You don’t have to go,” he says simply.
My throat tightens as Tiny’s hand squeezes mine. I know Capone doesn’t often show mercy. When he does, it’s because he means it. I shake my head. “I want to.”
Tiny turns to look at me, surprise flashing across his face. “Baby Girl…”
I lift my chin. “I don’t want her death to be another thing that keeps owning me.”
Capone gives a single, slow nod. “Then we do this. Clean. Quiet. And we move forward.”
Monica points like a general. “The Ol’ Ladies will handle the chapel setup. Danyella already ordered white and black flowers. No pink, no glitter, no nonsense.”
From somewhere down the hall, Lexi’s voice pipes up, offended. “I don’t glitter!”
Khandi laughs. “Yes, you do!”
Footsteps echo, and the remaining bunnies appear. Lexi with a box of candles, Khandi with ribbons tucked under her arm like she’s running a craft store, and Sadie with a bag of snacks because apparently she believes grief is best handled with carbs.
“Don’t look at me,” Sadie says when she sees everyone watching. “Funerals are long.”
Capone sighs like the whole thing is irritating him on principle. “No food in the chapel.”
Red glances at me again. “Peanut good?” he asks, a quiet kindness hidden in his normal bluntness.
“She’s fine,” I say. “She’s sleeping.”
Tiny’s expression softens at that. He loves that cat like she’s his kid.
The planning continues around us. Dagger offers to handle the priest if necessary, Bones volunteers to stand watch outside the chapel, Blayze assigns cars, and Trigger complains about the color palette. It’s all so normal, so club, so alive that it almost hurts.
Tiny leans in close enough that his lips brush my ear. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs. “Before someone gives you a task.”
I laugh softly. “Too late.”
His hand slides to my lower back, firm and protective, guiding me away anyway. He nods once at Capone as we pass, silent permission granted in the same motion.
The hallway is quiet. Our room feels warm and familiar, and mine in a way I never expected any place to feel again. Tiny closes the door behind us, and the moment the latch clicks, the air shifts.
Tiny turns to me, and something in his face cracks open. Not sadness, but need.
I swallow, pulse thudding. “Tiny…”
He steps closer, one big hand sliding up my arm until his palm cups my cheek. His thumb brushes along my jaw the way I did earlier, and his eyes hold mine as if he’s making sure I’m here, like he’s terrified I’ll vanish.
“I stood in that room and told the truth because you made me believe I could survive it,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
My throat tightens. “You don’t have to do anything with it.”
“I do,” he insists softly. “Because I want you. Not just in my bed. In my life. In everything.”
The words hit me like heat. It’s not a proposal. Not a dramatic declaration. It’s Tiny, stepping fully into love as if it’s a battlefield he’s finally chosen to fight for.
I reach up, gripping his cut lightly. “Then take me,” I whisper.
His eyes darken, and the restraint in him finally gives into devotion, into something he’s been holding back for so long it feels like it lives in the seams of his bones.
Tiny kisses me like he’s starving, like the confession cracked him open and now he’s desperate to fill the hollow places with something real.
His mouth is hot and steady, not rushed, not careless, and the way he holds my face makes it feel like he’s afraid I’ll break if he blinks.
I kiss him back with everything I have.