Chapter 313

WINTER

Chad pulled the gloves off with a dramatic snap, tossing them into the bin like he’d just completed a world-record performance.

“There. Done. One perfect little snowflake. You’re officially inked, sweetheart.”

I stared at the fresh outline on the inside of my left wrist—small, clean, delicate black lines that looked exactly like the one now mirrored on Zion’s skin.

When I turned my wrist toward his, they lined up perfectly, like puzzle pieces that had finally found each other.

My heart did something stupid—squeezed hard, then fluttered—like it had just remembered how to beat properly after weeks of being too scared to feel anything fully.

I looked up at Zion.

He was already watching me, eyes soft in a way that made my throat tight. The corner of his mouth curved, small and private, just for me.

“It’s beautiful. Perfect.” I whispered, voice cracking a little, thumb tracing the edge of the fresh ink.

Zion’s smile deepened—slow, warm, the kind that always made my stomach flip even when I was exhausted.

“Yeah?” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the matching snowflake on his own wrist.

“Perfect. Because now every time I look down, I’ll see my Snowflake… right here, always with me—this mini snowflake will be there to keep me smiling. I’ll glance at it and think, my tiny winter miracle, my little piece of magic keeping me company even when your not around. It’ll remind me you’re just a heartbeat away, safe, warm, breathing, mine.

Every single look at this ink—whether I’m tying my shoes, checking the time, or just sitting still missing you like crazy—it’s like you’re reaching across the room to hold my hand, whispering ‘I’m here, I’m yours’ straight to my heart. My mini Snowflake. My pocket-sized forever. My sweet little reminder that the best part of my life is still breathing, still laughing, still wrapped around me even when we’re in different rooms. You’re inked into me now, baby. And every boring, everyday second I get to carry you with me… I’m gonna smile like an idiot because of it.”

I rolled my eyes even as the smile fought its way out—wide, embarrassed, delighted—because how was I supposed to keep a straight face when he said things like that?

“That was so cheesy,” I whispered, voice cracking with laughter, pressing my wrist to his again—snowflake to snowflake—like I needed the proof as much as he did.

“Cheesy?” He grinned, pressing his lips to my temple, lingering there so I could feel his smile against my skin.

“Nah. Just hopelessly, embarrassingly, head-over-heels in love with my Snowflake. Now I get to carry a tiny piece of you with me every single day—even when I’m taking a piss at 4 a.m., or tying my shoes, or reaching for the remote, or just staring at the ceiling wondering how the hell I got this lucky. My mini snowflake keeping me smiling even when you’re asleep upstairs and I’m downstairs missing you like the lovesick idiot I am.”

I giggled—quiet, hoarse, perfect—and leaned my forehead against his, breathing him in. Soap and ink and him. Home.

“I love you.”

He kissed me—slow, soft, right there in front of everyone—because he didn’t care who saw.

His lips moved over mine like he was memorizing me all over again, gentle but deep, tasting like relief and love and forever.

I kissed him back the same way, fingers curling into his shirt, heart thudding so hard I was sure he could feel it.

When we finally pulled apart—just enough to breathe—his forehead stayed pressed to mine, eyes locked on me like I was the only thing in the room.

“Love you more,” he whispered against my lips.

“Always more.”

Clark fake-gagged somewhere behind us—loud, theatrical.

“Jesus Christ, I’m gonna need insulin after this. Someone get me a bucket. Or a priest. Or both.”

I laughed—breathless, sore, but real—and buried my face in Zion’s neck for a second, hiding from the teasing while I tried to catch my breath.

Zion flipped Clark off without even looking—middle finger up, casual as breathing—then wrapped both arms around me, careful of my side, holding me like I might float away if he let go.

Worth it.

Every cheesy, ridiculous, heart-on-my-sleeve second.

Worth it for him.

Always.

“Let’s go,” I said, voice still a little hoarse from nerves and laughter and everything else.

Clark’s hand shot out—

“Not so fast, trouble.”

I froze, frowning at him.

“What?”

He grinned—slow, mischievous, the kind of grin that usually meant he was about to do something I’d either love or deeply regret in about five minutes.

“One tattoo left.”

“Another one?”

Clark nodded—like it was already decided and he’d been plotting this for weeks, that mischievous glint in his eyes.

I looked around at the boys, waiting for someone to crack a smile or drop the punchline.

Harry just shrugged—broad shoulders lifting in that casual, unbothered way he had, like this was no bigger deal than grabbing coffee.

Ro gave one slow blink, the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth that might’ve been approval or indigestion; with him, it was impossible to tell.

Zion stayed quiet, arms loose at his sides, watching me with that soft, steady gaze that always made my stomach flip—

I swallowed.

My heart was kicking up again, faster now, a weird mix of nerves and excitement bubbling under my ribs.

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“What am I getting done?”

Nobody answered.

Just silence—and the soft clink of Chad grabbing a fresh stencil from the tray.

I opened my mouth again—what, where, why—but Clark cut me off before the words could form.

“And Trouble…” He leaned in, voice dropping into that mock-solemn tone he used when he was fully committed to being ridiculous.

“Eyes closed. Hands where I can see ’em. No spoilers. This is a surprise, remember.”

I stared at him.

“Seriously?”

He nodded—once, sharp, eyes glittering with mischief.

“Dead serious. No peeking. If you cheat, the tattoo gods will curse you with a crooked line and eternal regret.”

I huffed—half laugh, half exasperation—and glanced at Zion for backup.

He just smiled, small and secret, and gave my hand one gentle squeeze.

“Trust us,” he murmured. “Close your eyes.”

“Fine,” I muttered, closing my eyes.

“But if this is a dick tattoo, I’m stabbing all of you.”

Clark snorted. “Noted. No dick tattoos. Yet.”

I closed my eyes—squeezing them shut like a kid bracing for a jump scare—

Zion’s hand found the back of my neck again—warm, steady, thumb brushing slow circles that instantly calmed the racing in my chest.

...

ZION

"All done."

Chad wiped over the area one last time with a clean cloth, then stepped back with a satisfied nod, peeling off his gloves.

I watched Winter’s eyes fly open—wide, searching, still a little dazed from the buzz of the machine and the adrenaline crash.

“Can I look?” she asked, voice small and shaky,

I nodded once.

She lifted her hand slowly—careful, still mindful of the healing scars on her left side—and stared at the fresh ink on the inside of her upper arm.

RC.

Simple black letters, clean lines, no flourish, no bullshit.

Just two letters that carried everything we’d built over the years—the loyalty, the fights, the nights we’d dragged each other out of hell, the unspoken promise that if one of us bled, we all bled.

She stared in silence.

The longest fucking minute of my life.

Her lips parted.

“What does this RC mean?” Her voice cracked, trembling with emotion as she sat up—slow, careful—eyes never leaving the ink.

“It means,” I said hoarsely,

“you’re officially, one hundred percent, permanently one of the Royal Crew. An unbreakable bond. You’re ours, and we’re yours, and we’ll protect you with our fucking lives.”

The words came out rough, thick, every one carrying the weight of the last thirty-five days—the basement, the blood, the hospital, the fear I’d never get her back.

But also the nights since—holding her while she cried, watching her laugh again, watching her heal. Watching her become part of us in a way no one else ever had.

I took her left hand—snowflake wrist to snowflake wrist—then gently placed her right hand (the fresh RC still shiny and red) on top of mine.

One by one, the boys stepped in closer, forming a loose half-circle around the chair like we were guarding something sacred.

Harry moved first—he always did when something mattered, stepping in with that quiet, solid certainty like he was anchoring the whole room.

He placed his big hand over hers, covering the fresh RC on her upper arm, his palm warm and steady.

Then, without a word, he turned his own left wrist slightly, letting the light catch the inside of his forearm.

RC.

Same clean black letters, same spot, same size.

Winter’s breath hitched—sharp, audible. Her eyes flew to his ink, then back to his face, wide and stunned.

“You… you have one too?”

Before Harry could answer, Clark stepped up on her other side—quick, dramatic as always—stacking his hand on top of Harry’s and rolling up his sleeve in one smooth motion.

RC.

Harry’s voice came low and steady, cutting through the sudden quiet.

“We got it done the first time we decided to call ourselves the Royal Crew. The day we knew we weren’t just a bunch of assholes running together—we were something more. Something that lasted. So we marked it. All of us.”

Clark flashed that quick, crooked grin, eyes suspiciously shiny.

“I’m the founding member,” he added, voice cracking just a little on the brag.

“I came up with the name. Royal Crew. Sounded cool as fuck at the time, and it still does. Got mine first—because obviously. Then these losers followed my lead like they always do.”

Ro stepped in last—silent as ever—but he didn’t need words. He stacked his hand on top of Clark’s, turned his wrist over in one fluid motion.

RC.

Same spot. Same size. Same clean lines.

Then I lifted my own left wrist—slow, deliberate—turning it so the snowflake caught the light, right next to her RC.

She looked down—really looked—and her breath caught again.

“I always wondered what it meant,” she whispered, voice cracking as she traced the RC on her own arm with her free hand.

“The RC… I saw it on you guys.. when sleeves rolled up or shirts shifted, but I never asked. I thought it was just… some inside joke. Some guy thing.”

“It was never just a guy thing,” I said softly, voice rough with everything I felt.

“It was us. The four of us—me, Harry, Clark, Ro—deciding we weren’t just surviving anymore. We were building something. A crew. A family. Royal Crew. Because we were kings in our own fucked-up way—ruling our own lives, protecting our own. And when we found you…” I lifted her hand, pressed my lips to the fresh RC on her arm.

“You became the queen. The one we’d all bleed for. The one we’d all die for. You didn’t just join us, baby. You completed us. Forever. Ride or die, babe."

She looked around at us—at the idiots who’d become her family—and managed a watery, brilliant smile.

“I love you guys. So much.”

“You’re ours,” I said softly, voice rough with everything I felt.

“And we’re yours. No matter what.”

She nodded—tears still falling, streaking down her cheeks in silent tracks, but she was smiling so wide it hurt to look at her. That smile—bright, raw, unbreakable—cut straight through me, brighter than any ink, any scar, any promise we’d ever made.

“Family,” she whispered, the word trembling.

“Family,” the boys and I echoed back—low, rough, unanimous.

RC on my forearm.

Snowflake on my wrist.

Matching ink on all of us.

Family all around us.

And her—smiling, laughing, inked and unbreakable.

Mine.

Forever mine.