The clubhouse was different when I walked in, wearing my green dress. Cleaner than usual. The bar was stocked but not open — bottles lined up but nobody pouring. The brothers were all there, dressed one notch above their usual — clean cuts, fresh shirts, some of them looking like they’d been told to behave and were trying their best.
Holden was standing. Dutch was beside him with Indira — almost four months along now — grinning like a mad woman.
My heart started hammering.
“Bea.” Dutch’s voice carried the room to silence the way it always did. He didn’t need to shout. “Come here.”
I walked to the front. Every brother watching. Lilac stood, already crying, with Graham on her hip and baby Danny asleep against her shoulder. Betty had her arm around Lindsay Curtis, who I hadn’t expected to see tonight.
“Brothers,” Dutch said. “We’re here tonight because Holden has something to say.”
Holden looked at me. His eyes were steady and certain and wet. “I’ve been a lot of things in this club,” he said. “Prospect. Newly patched in brother. Road Captain. Planner. The guy who sees problems before they happen.” He paused. “I’ve also been the guy who couldn’t see the most important thing right in front of him until he lost it.”
The room was dead silent.
“Bea.” He took my hand. “You held me together when I was falling apart. You stayed when I gave you every reason to leave. You watched me do the work and you waited until I earned the right to stand here.” His voice broke slightly. “I’m asking this club to witness what I already know — that you’re mine and I’m yours.”
Dutch reached under the table and brought out a cut. Women’s size. Leather, worked soft, with the Venom Riders patch on the back. He turned it so I could see the front.
Property of Holden. Below it, a second patch. Heart Doc.
“Will you be my old lady?” Holden asked. Simple. Direct.
I looked at the cut. At the room full of men who’d fought and grieved and rebuilt alongside us. At Lindsay Curtis, who’d lost her son and found a family in the wreckage. At Indira, who’dtold memen are useless, Bea, all of them, and been right about everything, even the ending.
“Yes,” I said.
Holden put the cut on my shoulders and the room erupted — fists on the table, boots on the floor, then cheering.
Holden pulled me in and kissed me. The brothers howled. Someone wolf whistled.
“Brother,” Handful called from the back once the noise settled, grinning, “we already knew. Walls at the clubhouse ain’t soundproof, and Dr. Feelgood was real vocal about it before you moved out.”
“Handful,” I called back, sweet as I could manage, “taking notes through the wall is usually a sign you’re not getting any. When you find a woman brave enough to take you on, I’ll send flowers. And a pamphlet.”
The room lost it. Someone threw a bottle cap at Handful, who clutched his chest like I’d shot him. Holden was laughing, shaking his head, his arm still around me.
When he let me go, I looked down at the cut.
Property of Holden. Heart Doc.
“Suits you,” Indira said, appearing at my side.
“Shut up,” I said. I was crying.
“I know.” She hugged me. “I cried too.”
Over her shoulder, I found Holden. He was watching me like he had been for months — steady, certain, home. He mouthed something I didn’t need to hear to understand.
Mine.
Epilogue 3
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— Holden —
Six Months Later
