Chapter 4 - Canvas #2
Eden pulls out slowly, avoiding the worst of the broken glass. In the rearview mirror, I watch my studio disappear—windows shot out, door hanging open, everything I built reduced to ruins.
"I'm sorry," Eden says quietly, navigating onto the main road. Ranger is ahead of us, Saint behind, both keeping close. "About your studio. I know it meant a lot to you."
"It's just a building." My voice sounds distant, the pain meds really kicking in now. "It can be rebuilt."
"But it was yours. Your pride. I could see it the moment I walked in, how much care you put into that space." Her hand finds mine on the center console, squeezes gently. "It's okay to be upset about it."
Nobody's ever given me permission to feel things before. The MC teaches you to compartmentalize, to push through, to handle shit and move on. During war, emotions are weakness. Pain is temporary. Get over it.
But Eden's telling me it's okay to be upset, and something in my chest cracks open.
"I built that studio from nothing," I hear myself say. "Every piece of equipment, every frame on the wall, every fucking light fixture, I chose it. I made it mine. And they destroyed it in less than a minute."
"I get it." Her voice is soft, understanding. "And we'll make them pay for it."
"We?"
She glances at me, and there's fire in those blue eyes. "You think I'm just going to sit at this clubhouse and do nothing? After what they did? After they tried to kill us?"
"That's exactly what you're going to do. Stay safe, stay out of the way, let us handle the Vipers."
"We'll see about that."
"Where does that come from?" I ask, watching her profile as she drives. "That courage. That refusal to back down even when you should."
Eden is quiet for a moment, her hands steady on the wheel as she follows Ranger's bike through downtown Millhaven. Saint's headlight is still a constant presence in the side mirror behind us.
"I was bullied a lot as a kid," she finally says. "For being chubby. For having curves when other girls were still stick-thin. They called me names, excluded me from everything, made my life hell from about fifth grade through sophomore year of high school."
Her voice is confident, but I can hear the old hurt underneath it. The kind of pain that never fully goes away, just gets buried deep.
"I spent two years trying to make myself smaller, literally and figuratively.
Tried every diet, skipped meals, wore baggy clothes, kept my head down.
Tried to be invisible so they'd leave me alone.
" She pauses at a red light, checking the mirrors.
"It didn't work. They still found reasons to torment me. So, I made myself a promise."
"What promise?"
"That I'd never lie low and just take it again. Ever." The light turns green and she accelerates. "If someone comes at me, I come back harder. If someone tries to make me feel small, I stand taller. I don't run. I don't hide. I face things head-on, consequences be damned."
There's steel in her voice, the kind forged by surviving something that should have broken her but didn't.
"This is different, Eden." I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn't make my shoulder scream.
"This isn't high school bullies. This is the Vipers.
They don't just call names or exclude people.
They kill. They hurt people in ways that—" I stop, not wanting to spell out exactly what they've done to women who got in their way. "This can be deadly."
"I know." Her hand tightens on the wheel. "I'm not stupid, Davis. I know what I'm walking into."
"Then why—"
"Because running away now would be lying low.
Taking it. Letting them win." She glances at me, and there's defiance in her eyes mixed with something else.
Something that looks like fear she's choosing to face anyway.
"They shot at us. They tried to kill us.
And I refuse to let that make me small again. "
"Besides," I say, the pain medication loosening my tongue, "you're beautiful. They were all wrong about you."
Her head whips toward me. "What?"
"Those kids who bullied you. They were wrong. Idiots, all of them." I close my eyes, the medication making everything feel distant and fuzzy. "You're confident, capable. That matters more than what some insecure teenagers thought."
"Shut up." But there's no heat in it, just embarrassment.
I chuckle and immediately regret it. The movement sends fire through my entire body—shoulder, ribs, everywhere. A groan escapes before I can stop it.
"Don't laugh," Eden scolds. "You'll tear Saint's stitches and then he'll kill both of us."
"Noted." I breathe through the pain, focusing on the passing streetlights outside. "Sorry. The meds are making me say shit I shouldn't."
"It's fine." She's quiet for a moment. "Thank you. For saying that."
We drive in silence for a few minutes, following Ranger through quieter streets as we head toward the outskirts of town.
"Why did you really start tattooing so young?" Eden asks eventually. "Sixteen is early. Most kids that age are focused on sports or grades or getting into college."
It's my turn to be quiet. To decide how much truth to tell.
"It was either tattooing or fighting," I finally say. "Those were my two options for dealing with the shit in my head."
"What shit?"
"My mom died when I was ten. Cancer. Fast and brutal." The words come easier than they should, probably thanks to the medication lowering my inhibitions. "My dad didn't handle it well. Became an alcoholic. Angry drunk. The kind that uses fists more than words."
Eden's sharp intake of breath tells me she understands.
"By sixteen, I was angry all the time. Violent. Getting into fights at school, on the street, anywhere I could find someone willing to throw down." I watch the road ahead, the buildings getting sparser as we leave downtown behind. "I was going to end up dead or in prison. Knew it. Didn't care."
"What changed?"
"Met this older guy who did tattoos out of his apartment.
Tommy. Sketchy as hell, probably shouldn't have been anywhere near a sixteen-year-old, but he saw me getting into a fight outside a gas station and offered me a different option.
" I remember that day clearly, the blood on my knuckles, the rage in my chest, the way Tommy looked at me like he saw something worth saving.
"Said I could come at people with my fists, or I could come at the world with art.
Either way, I'd leave a mark. Question was what kind. "
"So, you chose art."
"Chose art." The memory is bittersweet. "Tommy taught me everything. How to use the machine, how to design, how to see skin as a canvas instead of just flesh. And every time I wanted to punch someone, I tattooed instead. Drew something. Created instead of destroyed."
"Did it work?"
"Mostly." I shift again, trying to ease the pressure on my shoulder. "Still got in fights. Still had that anger in me. But tattooing gave me a way to channel it that didn't end with someone in the hospital or me in jail."
Eden is quiet, processing. When she speaks again, her voice is soft. "Thank you for telling me that. For trusting me with it."
"Don't know why I did." It's the truth. I don't talk about my past, about my dad, or about Tommy. The club knows the basics, but not the details. Not the real story.
"Maybe because I trusted you first," she says. "Told you about the bullying. About my promise to myself."
"Maybe."
We're leaving the town proper now, heading down a two-lane road lined with trees. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the pavement. Ranger maintains his position ahead of us, Saint close behind.
"How much farther?" Eden asks.
"Another few minutes. The clubhouse is—" I stop as we round a bend and the building comes into view in the distance.
The Iron Phoenix clubhouse sits back from the road, a two-story structure that used to be a warehouse before Phoenix bought it three years ago.
We've made improvements: reinforced the doors, added security cameras, built a fence around the perimeter.
From the outside, it looks like a dozen other industrial buildings in this area.
But the rows of motorcycles parked out front tell a different story.
Eden sees it too. She slows the car slightly, taking it in.
"That's it?" she asks.
"That's home."
The word feels heavier than it should. Home. The only real home I've had since I left my father's house at eighteen. The place where my brothers are, where I'm safe, where I belong.
And now I'm bringing Eden into it. A civilian. A woman I met three hours ago who somehow already feels important.
The clubhouse gets closer with every passing second, and I realize this is it. The moment where everything changes.