Page 112 of Single Mom's Bikers

Her laugh comes watery but real. “True.”

“So we rebuild.” I gesture at our damaged gallery. “Make it stronger. Better.”

“Together?” she has to ask.

“Together,” we answer as one.

Later, after the cleanup crews leave, I find her in my office. She stands at the window, one hand resting on her stomach where our child grows.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I move behind her.

“Just remembering.” She leans back against me. “That first interview. How nervous I was about using your gallery.”

“Now look at us.” I wrap my arms around her. “One big complicated family.”

“Think we’ll ever be normal?”

“Normal’s overrated.” I kiss her neck. “I’ll take real instead.”

Through the window, I watch Wolf Pike’s evening routine. Mrs. Wilson sweeping her sidewalk. Jamie’s kids playing while Clay’s crew maintains subtle guard. Our town is healing just like we are.

“Come on.” I turn her gently. “Let’s get our girls. Go home.”

Home. Where Chase is probably sketching nursery designs already. Where Zane is likely planning motorcycle lessons for toddlers. Where our family fits together in ways that shouldn’t work but do.

“I love you.” She says it simply. “All of you. That was never a lie.”

“We know.” I kiss her properly this time. “It’s the only truth that matters.”

We leave together, locking up our gallery, which has seen both darkness and light, hidden secrets and revealed truth, and brought the family together in unexpected ways.

Let people talk about the mob boss brought down. Let them whisper about FBI agents and stolen millions. Let them wonder about three brothers sharing one woman.

We know what matters.

Love built on broken pieces still stands stronger than walls built on lies.

And family, real family, survives every storm.

43

CHASE

First time I saw Evie,she was wearing a black dress that hugged every curve. Professional, polished, and perfect for a job interview. But it was the ink peeking from her collarbone that caught my eye—amateur work trying to mark ownership. I wanted to fix it then, to erase whatever story made a woman hide beauty under poor technique.

Then came the window shows. Her silhouette against sheer curtains was a private performance that drove me crazy. Every night, I’d wait, sketch abandoned, just to watch her undress. Never imagined she was watching back, choosing to share those moments with all of us.

Now she’s in my studio again, but everything’s different. No more secrets between us. No more lies. Just truth written in ink and scars and the slight swell of her belly where our baby grows.

“Ready?” I inspect my machine, buying time to steady my hands. This isn’t just another cover-up. This is erasing the last mark of the man who tried to own her.

The snake on her arm is faded after the removal session, but I remember what it used to look like—perfect scales, exact placement. The kind of ink meant to brand rather than beautify.

“His personal artist did it.” She traces the barely visible design, reading my thoughts. “Three sessions to get the shading right. Luca watched every minute.”

My grip tightens on the machine. “Must have hurt.”

“That was the point.” Her smile holds no humor. “His mark had to hurt going on. Like everything else he gave me.”

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