Epilogue #2
Than nodded. Not because the fear was gone, but because courage didn’t come without it.
They climbed into the SUV. Zorro got behind the wheel, and everyone who was flying out piled in—the team and Shamrock. Bear was staying for a bit with Bailee. He shut the door behind them with a flourish he pretended was casual.
Bear stepped forward as the engine turned over. He rested one hand on the window frame, leaning in just enough that only they could hear him.
“Remember who you’re,” Bear said. “Remember where you come from. Remember, you don’t walk alone.”
Than held his gaze for a long moment. “I will come back.”
Bear’s voice dropped to something softer. “I know.”
Than looked at Bailee then. She smiled, radiant with that quiet glow she carried. “Walk well, Than.”
He felt the blessing settle over him like warm light.
The SUV rolled forward. The gravel crunched beneath the tires. The world widened.
Than watched the figures of his family shrink in the mirror. Bear’s strong frame. Bailee’s bright steadiness. The land stretched behind them. The road stretched ahead, and for the first time, Than felt the pull of both.
He breathed in and let it settle.
His and Fly’s future waited.
Anchor & Ink Tattoo Parlor, Coronado, California
Fly stood in the doorway, arms crossed, glaring at the flashing neon sign like it had personally challenged his masculinity.
The shop smelled like ink, antiseptic, and bad decisions. His. Right. Ink and idiots, and somehow he’d landed himself at the top of the list. How he’d let Shamrock talk him into this was beyond him. All that sailors and tattoos nonsense didn’t sway him one damn bit.
“You still refusing to join us in this male bonding ritual? Hell, even Than is getting one.”
Than huffed. “What is that supposed to mean, you tool?”
“Nothing,” Shamrock said breezily. “Just that you’re a conservative, quiet bastard and somehow you still understand the brotherhood.”
Fly laughed. “Don’t try your passive-aggressive shit on me, Shamrock. It won’t work. I understand the brotherhood just fine. You’ll need a different jig to dance.”
Shamrock’s eyes narrowed. “You and your fucking Gallagher Logic. Damn if you aren’t the toughest pain-in-the-ass alive.”
He wandered to one of the flash books on the counter and flipped through it, humming to himself like a menace.
“This one.”
Fly sighed, then actually looked at the damn design, and his gut tightened.
Fuck.
A gong went off inside him, black ink woven into a pattern that looked like it had been forged from ocean current and instinct. Sharp lines. Smooth turns. Strength and motion. It was his identity in ink.
Shamrock’s voice softened, almost wise. “Look, mate, a tribal band fits you like a surfer’s board. Leadership, strength, command. It ties into where you’re headed.”
It was this goddamned argument that hit deep and hard somewhere inside him.
Bolt grinned. “Also, girls will want to fuck you just to get their hands on it. Ink is like crack to women.”
Shamrock shoved him, hard. Bolt didn’t even stumble.
“Weak, Mac,” Bolt muttered.
His breath eased out slowly, eyes dropping shut for a beat.
Shamrock leaned in close, voice a devilish whisper. “Ohhh, is the lad wavering?”
“Goddamn you, Kavanagh.”
“Hoo-yah,” Shamrock crowed, triumphant. He threw his arms wide like a mad priest. “All right, lads! Let us mark the moment we became legends!” He claimed a swivel chair and immediately began spinning in it like a toddler on espresso.
Bolt leaned against the wall, smirking, shirt already half-untucked like he’d been waiting for this his whole life.
Than stood quietly, steady as a stone, taking everything in.
Fly snorted. “Pretty sure that happened when you invented Gallagher Logic.”
“Oi,” Shamrock shot back. “Legendary developments in military theory should be honored.”
“That’s not military theory,” Fly muttered. “That’s neurological chaos.”
Bolt clapped once. “Enough foreplay. Who’s first?”
Shamrock grinned, wicked as hell. “You first, babycakes,” he said, pointing at Fly. “Get comfortable with being uncomfortable.”
The chair felt colder than he expected, metal beneath thin fabric, and the hum of the tattoo machine vibrated through the room in a low, steady thrum that reminded him of the ocean just before it broke over a sandbar.
Fly rested his arm on the padded support and tried not to think too hard about the fact that he had voluntarily walked into a place that smelled like sterilized needles, disinfectant, and a reckless decision.
Shamrock was already holding court from a nearby chair, spinning slowly as if motion might keep his mischief contained.
Bolt leaned against the wall with his arms folded, looking maddeningly entertained, and Than stood in the corner with that quiet steadiness that made Fly want to live up to something he couldn’t quite name.
The needle touched his skin, a hot, sharp sting that jolted straight to his spine.
It wasn’t unbearable, but it was persistent, a constant bite that refused to let him forget he was being carved open by ink and intention.
He sucked in a breath, jaw working, and kept his gaze fixed on the far wall as the machine buzzed along his arm.
He hadn’t expected the pain to open something inside him, yet it did.
As the needle pressed deeper, the burn spread in a slow, determined line across his bicep, and with it came thoughts he’d been refusing to face.
He was stepping into a future that terrified him in ways he didn't dare say out loud. Annapolis. Officer training. Responsibility. A life that demanded more than speed, cleverness, or instinct. A life that demanded steadiness, judgment, leadership. A life he wasn’t entirely sure he could rise to meet.
Failure had never been a word he allowed inside his lexicon, but it whispered now, thin and insistent, threading itself beneath the noise of the machine.
What if he wasn’t enough? What if Bear’s belief in him was borrowed confidence rather than truth?
What if the ocean, which had always welcomed him, couldn’t teach him the kind of steadiness required on land?
The pain deepened, then leveled, a raw heat that settled under his skin like a forge at full burn.
He breathed through it, felt each pass of the needle as a reminder that growth rarely came from comfort.
He had leapt off cliffs, swum through riptides, crossed lines most people never dared approach, yet nothing had unsettled him quite like the idea of stepping into a role where people might one day look to him for direction, for decisions that altered lives.
The tattoo artist paused only to wipe the excess ink, his movements efficient and calm, and Fly caught a glimpse of the armband beginning to take shape.
Black. Bold. Curved lines interwoven with sharp angles.
A design that looked as though it had been pulled straight from the heartbeat of a breaking wave.
Something wild. Something certain. Something that felt like him.
He closed his eyes and let the pain wash over him, let it temper the fear rather than worsen it.
Let it remind him he was no longer that boy on a ranch, protected by the people who’d raised him, the boy who had once craved something more.
He was a man forging himself anew, carving the first mark of his future into his own flesh because he chose it, because he wanted to claim the path he was about to walk.
When the buzzing finally quieted, the sudden stillness felt heavy, almost ceremonial. Fly lifted his arm slowly, skin sore and flushed, and looked down at what had been inked into him.
The band circled his upper arm like it had always belonged there.
The black ink rode the swell of his bicep, catching the dim light in clean, deliberate strokes.
It looked fierce, steady, almost ancient, as though it had been carved from the ocean’s own language and laid over the muscle it now claimed.
When he flexed, just testing, just curious, the tattoo moved with him, tightening, accentuating the power beneath it, making the entire mark seem alive.
A quiet breath escaped him, almost a laugh, almost disbelief.
It was him. Not the boy he’d been, but the man he was becoming.
Shamrock let out a low whistle. “Christ on a cracker. When he flexes like that, the tattoo practically begs someone to touch it.”
Bolt laughed. “Women are gonna pass out.”
Than smiled, gentle and sincere. “It suits you, brother.”
Fly ran his fingers lightly over the sting, felt the pulse of heat beneath the ink, and nodded as something settled deep and certain inside him.
Pain had made room for purpose.
And purpose had found its mark.
Bolt stretched out on the padded table with the lazy swagger of a man pretending this was nothing more than a joke he’d been waiting all week to tell.
That was the performance, the grin, the easy slouch, the casual lift of his shirt, all of it a smoke screen to hide the truth of what this tattoo meant.
Because he knew exactly when this bolt had been forged.
Not for the sake of a good story or female attention, though he'd let the others believe that.
It had been born on that endless, brutal Around-the-World Paddle, when exhaustion blurred into delirium and the world narrowed to salt and pain and the desperate pull of oars.
When they’d all been hallucinating and Shamrock had gone over the side to save Fly, vanishing into the black water like a nightmare.
Bolt had gone in after him without a heartbeat’s hesitation.
He’d followed his swim buddy because there was no universe where he wouldn’t.
The lightning bolt wasn’t about flash or sex or swagger. It was about that moment.
That split-second where instinct became loyalty became life. But no one needed to know that.