Chapter 25 #2
His hands slide down my sides as if he’s relearning my shape, palms spanning my ribs, my waist, my hips with a slow patience that turns my breath shaky.
He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, carrying me toward the bed with my arms around his neck, my heartbeat stuttering against his lips.
The room is dim, the air warm, and every second feels suspended, like the world outside the door has stopped demanding things from us.
He lays me down gently, then hovers for a beat, braced above me with the kind of careful control that makes my entire body ache. His gaze traces my face, my mouth, my throat, the curve of my shoulder, and the look in his eyes isn’t hunger alone.
“You sure?” he asks, voice rough, reverent, as if yes means something sacred.
I nod, fingers curling around the front of his cut, pulling him closer. “I’m sure,” I whisper. “I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
Tiny’s mouth finds mine again, slower this time, deeper, the kiss turning into a promise he keeps with his whole body.
His hands move with intention. One sliding beneath my hoodie to skim warm skin, the other cradling the back of my head as if my comfort matters more than his urgency.
He kisses his way down my jaw, my throat, pausing at the pulse there like he’s memorizing the proof that I’m alive.
My breath breaks when his lips brush over skin that used to flinch, and instead of recoil, I melt, because he touches me like I’m not fragile. Like I’m chosen. Like I’m wanted without apology.
Tiny removes our clothes and settles his weight over me slowly, his heat surrounding mine, his thighs sliding between my legs, grounding me, anchoring me. The pressure is steady, the contact intimate in a way that makes my eyes sting.
Tiny doesn’t want less. He wants all of me.
He moves as if he’s been waiting months to worship what survived, like every kiss is him telling my body it’s safe now, like every breath against my skin. His forehead presses to mine as the bed creaks softly beneath us, his hands laced with mine, his mouth catching every sound I make.
I let myself be held open by pleasure rather than by fear. I drift into warmth rather than run toward numbness. I let the sensations build until I’m shaking, my nails digging into his shoulders.
“Syvannah,” he whispers my name like it’s the only prayer he knows.
I cling to Tiny like he’s real, like this is real, and when the wave finally rolls through me, I don’t feel lost in it.
I feel found.
Tiny follows with a shuddering exhale, his face pressed into my neck as if he can’t bear the distance between us. He stays wrapped around me afterward, breathing hard.
Then, slowly, he eases us onto our sides and pulls me against his chest.
My skin is warm, my limbs loose and heavy, and I feel boneless in the best way. Tiny’s fingers trace slow circles over my bare shoulder, my arm, and the curve of my back, as if he’s mapping me by touch, memorizing every inch in case the world ever tries to take me from him again.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I tilt my face toward his throat, listening to the steady thunder of his heartbeat. “I’m more than okay,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
Tiny’s arms tighten like he understands the difference. His lips press to my temple, lingering. “Good,” he says softly. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
For the first time, those words don’t feel like a cage. They feel like home.
In the quiet afterward, temptation stirs the way it always does.
Soft, insidious, whispering promises of numbness and escape, of turning down the volume on feelings that burn too bright.
I recognize it instantly. The old reflex.
The easy lie. But Tiny’s arm tightens around me, his breathing slow and steady against my back, and the whisper loses its power.
There’s nowhere for it to land. His warmth anchors me in my body, in this moment, in the undeniable truth that I am safe, wanted, and awake.
For the first time, temptation doesn’t feel like relief.
It feels like something I’ve already outgrown.
“I’m scared,” I admit quietly.
Tiny’s hand tightens around my waist. “Of tomorrow?”
I nod.
He presses his mouth to my hair. “You don’t gotta forgive her,” he says. “Not for anyone else. Not for the club. Not even for me.”
“I know.” My voice shakes. “But I want to. I think… I need to.”
Tiny’s silence isn’t judgment. It’s respect. “I’ll be there,” he says finally. “Every step.”
I close my eyes and breathe him in again. Tomorrow, I will stand over Pearl’s coffin and confront the part of my life she tried to poison. Tomorrow, I will decide what mercy looks like in a world that taught me cruelty. But tonight, in Tiny’s arms, I feel something like freedom.
Morning comes softer than I expect. Not gentle, but steady. As if the world decided not to punish me for surviving.
Tiny wakes after I do, his arm still heavy across my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. I lie here a few seconds longer than necessary, letting myself feel his weight, the certainty of his presence.
When I shift, he stirs instantly.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah,” I say. And for once, it’s true without conditions.
He kisses my shoulder, slow and reverent, then rolls out of bed and pulls on his jeans. Watching his strong, unhurried, grounded movements feels like watching a man who finally believes he belongs somewhere.
I dress in a black dress without thinking too hard about it. Simple. No makeup beyond what makes me look awake. The white rose waits on the dresser, stark against the dark wood.
Tiny watches me pick it up, his expression unreadable. “You ready?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I’m going.” Together we leave our peace and head into the chaos.
The clubhouse is already awake. Coffee brews in industrial quantities.
Danyella stands near the island, clipboard in hand, a pen tucked behind her ear, issuing orders.
Monica checks arrangements on her phone, her jaw tight with focus.
Daisy is pouring coffee into travel mugs, already dressed in black, her hair pulled back in a low braid that tells me she didn’t sleep much either.
Nadia stands near the sink, hands wrapped around a mug she hasn’t touched, her shoulders tight with restraint, as if holding herself together by will alone.
She volunteered to help with the planning, not because anyone asked, but because she needed to feel useful.
Standing still would mean thinking too hard about Pearl, about the warnings she missed and the chances she took when she shouldn’t have.
Nadia looks up as I enter, guilt and resolve tangled in her expression, and offers me a small, tentative nod. There’s no defensiveness in it, only quiet accountability.
Capone stands near the door, cut on, posture sharp. Red checks feeds on his phone, eyes constantly scanning. Bones and Dagger linger outside, smoking, watching the perimeter with the quiet vigilance of men who’ve seen too much to trust a peaceful morning.
The chapel is fifteen minutes away, tucked between tall eucalyptus trees and an old stone wall. It’s small, private, and rented under a shell name. No press. No outsiders. Just the club. Just closure.
The motorcycle ride there is quiet. Engines rumble low and respectful, the formation tight but restrained. The sky hangs gray overhead, thick with the promise of rain that never quite falls.
When we arrive, the chapel feels… still. Like it’s holding its breath.
Inside, the Ol’ Ladies have transformed the space.
White lilies line the front in clean symmetry, the scent catches in the back of my throat like a memory that refuses to soften.
Candles flicker along the aisle, their flames steady despite the draft.
Black ribbons frame the coffin, not decorative, just intentional.
Somewhere near the front, Lexi adjusts a candle wick with careful fingers, her usual bright energy tamped down to something quieter, while Khandi smooths one of the black ribbons framing the coffin, the silk whispering as it slides through her hands.
Even Sadie, who always seems one bad joke away from chaos, stands still for once, her snack bag tucked away and forgotten as she watches the room with a solemn expression that doesn’t quite fit her face.