Chapter 9 #2
"But I'm guessing enough will volunteer." Damon heads toward the back rooms where the brothers congregate. "Give me an hour."
As he walks away, Shiver approaches us.
Grace looks up at her brother, and I can see the gratitude in her eyes.
"Thank you," she says softly. "For all of this."
Shiver just shrugs. "You're my sister. That's what family does." Then he grins. "Besides, you know what you need to do now, right?"
Grace looks confused. "What?"
"Get the ink. You're an old lady now. It's tradition."
Grace's hand goes instinctively to her ribs, where I know the Shotgun Saints insignia sits—she got it when she turned eighteen, Phantom's way of marking her as club family. As his.
Now she needs my name there too.
"Add his name below the insignia?" Grace asks.
"Yeah." Shiver's grin widens. "Property of Shadow. Cattle brand style. Make it official."
Grace looks at me, and I see the question in her eyes. The uncertainty mixed with how much she wants it.
"Your choice, darlin'," I say, even though everything in me is screaming yes, mark yourself as mine, let everyone see. "But I want my name on you. Want everyone who sees that ink to know exactly who you belong to."
Her breath catches. "Okay. Let's do it." She stands, decisive now. "And you're getting mine too. We match."
Shiver laughs, genuine amusement. "Matching tattoos. You two really don't do anything halfway, do you?"
"Never have," I say, pulling Grace close. "Not starting now."
We're at Ink & Steel an hour later.
Shiver recommended the place—said Rook does good MC work, has done pieces for half the Reapers Rejects.
The shop is exactly what I expected: dark interior, walls covered in flash art, the buzz of tattoo guns in the back.
Rook comes out from behind the counter when we walk in.
He's covered in ink, gauged ears, the look of someone who's been in the business for years.
"MC work?" he asks, eyeing us.
"Yeah," I say. "Ol’ lady ink. Adding names below existing club tattoos."
Rook nods. "Let me see what we're working with."
Grace lifts her shirt to show the Shotgun Saints insignia on her left ribs.
The tattoo is clean, professional work—the Shotgun Saints insignia.
A cattle skull with curved horns, two crossed shotguns behind it.
"MC" below, and the club name in Western-style letters above.
Black ink, bold lines, unmistakably theirs.
It's maybe four inches across, sitting perfectly on the curve of her ribs.
"His name below this," Grace says. "Cattle brand style."
I lift my shirt, showing my right ribs. Same insignia, mirror image. "Her name below mine. Same style."
Rook studies both tattoos, nodding appreciatively. "Good work. Who did these?"
"A friend of ours back in Texas."
"Ah, cool." Rook's already pulling out his sketch pad. "This'll look good. Permanent claim. Old school ol’ lady tradition." He glances up at Grace. "You sure about this? Ribs hurt like hell."
Grace nods. "I'm sure."
"All right then." Rook starts sketching. "Give me ten minutes to get the design right, then we'll get started."
While Rook works, Grace sits beside me on the waiting bench.
Her leg bounces nervously, and I put my hand on her knee to still it.
"You don't have to do this," I say quietly.
"Yes, I do." Her voice is firm. "I want your name on me. Want it permanent. Want..." She trails off, then meets my eyes. "I want everyone to know I chose you. That I'm yours by choice, not because someone bought me or arranged it or forced it. My choice."
Fuck. The emotion that slams through me is overwhelming.
"You're really mine," I murmur.
"I'm really yours."
Rook calls us over fifteen minutes later. "Ready?"
Grace goes first.
She's lying on the table, ribs exposed, and I'm sitting in the chair beside her.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to hold her hand through this.
Rook applies the stencil—my name in rough, cattle-brand style letters positioned perfectly below the Shotgun Saints insignia.
"Check the placement," he says, holding up a mirror.
Grace looks, and I watch her face.
Watch the way her expression shifts from nervous to determined to something that looks almost like pride.
"It's perfect," she whispers.
Rook peels off the stencil, and the outline remains on her skin.
My name. Right there.
He starts the gun.
The first touch of the needle makes Grace gasp, her hand immediately tightening on mine.
"You okay?" I ask, leaning closer.
"Yeah. Just—" She grits her teeth. "God, ribs really do hurt worse."
"Want to stop?"
"No." Her voice is firm despite the pain. "Keep going."
So Rook keeps going, and I watch my name appear on her skin letter by letter. S. H. A. D. O. W.
Each letter rough and branded-looking, like it was burned into her skin with a hot iron.
Permanent.
Forever.
Grace's breathing goes controlled, measured.
The way someone breathes through pain.
A few tears leak from the corners of her eyes—automatic response to the pain, nothing she can control.
I wipe them away with my free hand.
"You're doing so good, darlin'. So fucking good."
"How much longer?" Her voice is strained.
Rook doesn't look up from his work. "Maybe ten more minutes. You're handling it better than most. I've had grown men tap out on rib work."
"She's tougher than any man I know," I say, and I mean it.
Twenty minutes later, Rook sits back. "Done. Want to see?"
Grace sits up carefully, wincing at the movement, and Rook holds up the mirror.
My name.
Right there on her ribs in rough, brutal-looking letters below the Shotgun Saints insignia.
Property of Shadow, even though those words aren't written. The placement, the style, the permanence of it—it all says the same thing.
Mine.
"I love it," Grace whispers, her fingers hovering over the fresh ink. "It's perfect."
Rook cleans it, applies ointment, and bandages it carefully. "Keep it clean. No swimming for two weeks. Moisturize three times a day. You know the drill."
"Yeah." Grace is still staring at where the bandage covers my name. "Thank you."
"Your turn," Rook says to me.
I take Grace's place on the table.
She's sitting beside me now, holding my hand like I held hers.
Rook applies the stencil to my ribs.
GRACE in the same cattle brand style, positioned below my Shotgun Saints ink.
"Good?" he asks.
I check the mirror. Her name. On my body. Forever.
"Perfect."
The needle starts, and yeah, ribs fucking hurt. But I've had worse.
Taken worse. Knife wounds that went deeper, bullet grazes that burned hotter.
And this? This is worth every second of pain.
Grace is watching the letters appear with this look on her face—wonder and possession and love all mixed together.
Like she can't quite believe this is real.
That I'm marking myself as hers just as permanently as she marked herself as mine.
"How does it feel?" she asks quietly. "Having my name on you?"
"Like I should've done this years ago."
Her smile is soft, genuine. "We just got together. Like this, I mean."
"Doesn't matter. You were always going to be mine, Grace. From the moment Shiver asked me to watch over you, you were mine. This just makes it official."
The needle keeps buzzing. G. R. A. C. E.
My wife's name. Permanently marked on my skin.
When Rook finishes, cleans it, and bandages it, I sit up carefully and look at Grace.
"We match now," she says.
"Yeah. We do."
And something about that—the matching tattoos, the matching rings, the matching commitment—settles something deep in my chest.
We're bound now. Completely. In every way that matters.
Rook gives us the same aftercare instructions, and we pay him.
Shiver's waiting outside, leaning against his bike.
"Got the ink?" he asks.
Grace lifts her shirt slightly, showing the edge of the bandage. "Yeah."
Shiver grins. "Good. Now you're official. Ol’ lady, claimed and marked."
"Feels official," Grace says, touching the bandage gently.
We ride back to the compound—Grace in the passenger seat.
And for just a few minutes, everything feels normal.
Like we're just another couple.
Just another ol’ lady and her man. Just another MC family.
Then we pull up to the trailer, and reality crashes back in.
Back at the trailer, Grace is carefully changing into a clean shirt, mindful of the fresh bandage on her ribs.
I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, also careful of my bandaged ribs, when her phone rings.
We both freeze.
Unknown number.
The world stops.
Grace picks up the phone with shaking hands, looks at me.
"Should I answer it?" she asks, her voice small.
My jaw tightens. Every instinct I have is screaming danger. "Put it on speaker."
She answers. "Hello?"
A man's voice, cold and amused: "Hello, Grace."
All the blood drains from her face. She knows that voice. We both do.
Flint.
"How'd you get this number?" Grace manages.
"I have my ways. How's Vegas treating you? That trailer comfortable? Reapers Rejects taking good care of you?"
Rage floods through me, hot and violent.
He knows where we are.
Knows what we're staying in. Has been watching us.
"What do you want?" Grace asks, and I can hear her voice shaking.
"What I've always wanted, sweetheart. You." Flint's voice drops, intimate and cruel. "You think marrying Shadow changes anything? You think a piece of paper makes you his?"
"I am his," Grace says, and her voice is stronger now. "I've got his name tattooed on my ribs to prove it."
Flint laughs, low and mocking. "A tattoo? How cute. But it doesn't change the debt. Four million dollars bought you for my family. You can mark yourself however you want—you still belong to us."
I can see Grace's hand trembling, see the way her breath is coming faster. Panic setting in.
I take the phone from her before she can respond.
"You threatening my wife, Flint?"