Chapter Twenty-Two - Ink & Intention
1273 Words
Avery didn’t ask questions when Colt told her to get ready.
He didn’t offer details, didn’t say where they were going.
Just walked into the kitchen that morning, looked her over with that unreadable expression of his, and said:
“Be ready in twenty. Wear your helmet.”
No explanation.
Just Colt being Colt.
But something in the way he said it—low and even—made her chest tighten.
Twenty minutes later, he was waiting by his bike.
And for the first time since she’d come back…
He held out her helmet.
The back seat was open.
Avery froze.
Not because she was afraid of the ride—she wasn’t.
She froze because this seat wasn’t just a seat.
Not on his bike.
Only someone who held your future got to sit there.
His girls—the ones he used to distract himself with—never rode backseat. They weren’t allowed. That seat was sacred. It meant something.
And now he was offering it to her.
Without a speech.
Without drama.
Just… trust.
She took the helmet.
Slid it on with steady hands.
And when she climbed on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, Colt didn’t say anything.
He just started the engine.
And they flew.
The ride was everything she didn’t expect.
Fast, free, and wide open.
He didn’t take her to a lookout or a bar or some gritty slice of his world.
He took her into town.
Down familiar streets.
Parked in front of the tattoo shop with the blacked-out windows and years of club history inked into the walls.
“You’re getting a tattoo?” she asked, pulling off the helmet.
“Yeah.”
She raised a brow. “Why bring me?”
He stared at her.
That unreadable face again.
Then, finally:
“Because it’s yours.”
Inside, the shop greeted him like family. Nods. Respectful silences. Colt walked to the back like he’d done it a hundred times—because he had.
He told the artist what he wanted in a voice that was only meant for one person to hear.
Avery sat in the chair beside him, hands folded tight in her lap as he leaned back in the chair and let the artist begin.
No grimace. No sound.
But she saw the twitch in his jaw as the needle met skin.
“What are you doing?” she asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t look at her.
Just said, “Marking the truth.”
Later, when the ink was cleaned and wrapped, she finally saw it:
Her name. Hidden in the design.
Stylized.
Subtle.
Permanent.
It wasn’t flashy.
It wasn’t loud.
It was something only they would know.
And that made it everything.
The sun was dropping fast behind the hills when they hit the open stretch of road.
The wind tugged at Avery’s hair from beneath her helmet, her arms wrapped tight around Colt’s middle. The hum of the engine, the smell of him, the fading warmth of the day—it was all too much and exactly enough.
That tattoo still pulsed in her mind.
Hers. On his skin. Forever.
She didn’t even realize the words left her mouth until she felt his body shift at the command.
“Pull over.”
Colt slowed.
No hesitation. But not without concern.
The moment the bike rolled to a stop on the side of a quiet, wooded stretch—no traffic, no sound but wind and engine—he turned to her.
“You okay?”
Avery pulled off her helmet.
She didn’t answer.
Not with words.
She swung one leg over and climbed off the bike—then turned, eyes wild, cheeks flushed.
Colt barely had time to register the look before she pushed him back on the seat and climbed on top of him.
“Jesus, Ave—”
“Don’t speak.”
She straddled him, lips crushing into his before he could find breath. Her hands fisted in his shirt, her body pressed full against his—and Colt went still.
Not because he didn’t want it.
But because he did. So badly.
And because this wasn’t just lust.
This was Avery letting go.
The woman who held herself together like glass—
Unraveling in his hands.
She kissed him like she needed him to burn away every piece of who she was before. The girl who walked away. The woman who didn’t belong.
Colt’s hands locked around her hips, holding her there, grounding her.
“You sure?” he breathed against her mouth.
Avery looked at him—really looked. The truth in her eyes, fierce and full.
“You marked me before you ever touched me,” she whispered.
“Now I want to mark you back.”
That’s when he lost the last thread of control.
He reached under her, undoing jeans with expert hands, pushing hers aside just enough—raw and reckless.
And when she sank down on him right there, in the middle of nowhere, Colt gripped her tight, breathing her name like a promise.
Because this?
This was forever.
Not spoken.
Not sworn.
Just felt.
And he would treasure this version of her—the wild one, the one who gave herself to him without holding anything back—more than any crown, any title, any loyalty ever forged in blood.
They didn’t speak as Colt started the bike again.
Avery was still perched behind him, her arms wrapped low around his waist, face pressed against his shoulder blade where the leather stretched tight across muscle.
He could feel her breath through his cut. Warm. Steady.
She didn’t need to talk.
Neither did he.
They both knew something had just shifted.
Irrevocably.
Quietly.
Completely.
By the time they pulled through the gates of the compound, dusk had settled fully. The world felt smaller in the dark—but their space together had only grown.
Avery slid off the bike with soft steps. She didn’t fix her hair. Didn’t adjust her clothes.
Colt followed without pause.
Not hovering.
Just close.
There was no show to put on. No swagger, no possessive grip, no heat that needed proving. Everyone who saw them—anyone with eyes—could feel it.
She wasn’t a woman in his bed.
She was his gravity.
Back in her room, Avery peeled off her jacket and heels with slow movements. She didn’t ask him to stay.
She didn’t need to.
Colt followed her in, silent as always, but settled in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. He kicked off his boots near the door, his cut slung over the back of the chair.
She handed him a glass of water.
Their fingers brushed, and he held hers for a second longer than necessary.
“You okay?” he asked.
She gave him a small smile. “More than okay.”
They didn’t fall into bed like a wildfire this time.
They lay down gently.
Side by side. Quiet. Still.
Colt on his back, head tilted toward her. Avery curled at his side, her hand resting just above the bandage covering the new tattoo.
She didn’t touch it.
She wanted to.
But she understood.
Some wounds needed time. Even the ones made for love.
Instead, her fingers traced lazy lines over his stomach, anchoring them both in the calm after the storm.
His arm slipped around her, settling her close.
And in that silence, neither one said it—
But it was loud between them anyway.
You are mine. I am yours. Without needing to bleed to prove it.
- Writer
