Page 28 of Hawk's Treat
"So you waited until she was eighteen," Saint says, disgust evident in his tone.
"A debt's a debt," Vincent replies, followed by another crack and groan of pain.
The confessions continue—how Vincent arranged the "accident" that killed Hawk's family, how Marco ensured it was ruled a drunk driving incident, how they conspired to steal the contract that should have belonged to Hawk's father.
I stumble back to the parlor as these monsters are laid bare in their cruelty. They took Hawk's family from him. Tried to take my future, my happiness from me.
An eternity passes before Hawk, Saint, Blade, Ghost, and Cipher emerge from the dining room, knuckles bloody, expressions triumphant.
Hawk comes straight to me, gathering me in his arms. "Let's get out of here," he murmurs into my hair.
Noticing my glance toward the dining room, Blade wipes blood from his hands with a handkerchief as he answers my unspoken question. "They'll be unconscious for hours.”
"Let's go," Saint urges. "Clock's ticking."
We head out into the cool October night air. Hawk helps me onto the back of his bike, his touch gentle despite the violence I know those hands just delivered.
Five Harley engines roar to life before racing in formation down the leaf-strewn drive.
A quarter mile away, Hawk gives the signal.
The bikes stop, and Saint retrieves something from inside his cut—a small black box with a single red button.
Hawk snakes his arm around me, drawing me tightly against him. "You played your part perfectly," he whispers before claiming my mouth in a quick but fierce kiss.
When we break apart, Saint raises the detonator. "Adios chicos."
He presses the button.
The explosion shatters the night, a fireball rising where the mansion once stood. The force of it ripples through the air, hot against my face even at this distance. Orange flames lick at the black sky, consuming the past and those who poisoned it.
It’ll be ruled a gas leak. A faulty furnace. As lame an excuse as they gave for the deaths of Hawk’s family members.
A feeling rises inside me. Not joy—I don’t take joy in death, not even theirs—more like peace. Like justice.
Hawk's arm tightens around me. “Happy Halloween, little sparrow."
We allow ourselves one more minute to stare at the inferno before heading back to the clubhouse.
Epilogue
Aria
One Year Later
The afternoon sun streams through the windows of Reaper's Ink, casting golden light across the station where I'm putting the finishing touches on a phoenix rising from flames. The client—a firefighter who survived a near-fatal house fire—watches in the mirror as I complete the final details of the wing feathers.
"It's perfect," she breathes, tears gathering in her eyes.
I set down my tattoo gun and clean the area gently. "You survived something that should have destroyed you. This is your reminder that you rose from the ashes stronger."
As I wrap her new ink and give her aftercare instructions, I catch Hawk watching me from across the shop, that familiar heat in his golden-amber eyes. Even after a year together, that look still makes my pulse quicken.
The bell above the door chimes as the client leaves, and Hawk crosses to me in three long strides, his hands finding my waist.
"Goddamn, I love watching you work," he growls against my ear, his breath warm on my neck.
I turn in his arms, my fingers tracing the fresh ink on his chest—my design, my artwork permanently etched on his skin. A sparrow in flight over his heart. Just as he bears my mark on his body, I wear his on mine: "Property of Hawk" in elegant script across my ribcage, with a reaper's scythe woven through the letters.
