Nina narrows her eyes. “I’m fast.”
Capone steps in behind her and ruffles her hair. “Go inside, menace.”
She sticks her tongue out at him and takes off running, laughter echoing behind her. Capone watches her go, then raises his hand.
The music softens as conversations die down and laughter quiets into anticipation. Plates are left half-eaten, bottles mid-pour. This scene unfolds in silence, with no announcements, no microphones. Respect spreads faster than words.
Capone steps forward, glass in hand. His presence settles the room like gravity. “I’m not a speech guy,” he says, drawing a low ripple of amusement because everyone knows it’s a lie. “But this matters.”
His gaze shifts to Tiny first, holding him there. “This man has carried this club through more storms than most people will ever know. He keeps the ride tight. He keeps our brothers alive. He does it without asking for credit and without making noise.”
Tiny shifts slightly beside me, uncomfortable with praise but unable to escape it.
Capone’s eyes shift to me. “And this woman walked into our world already carrying scars and still chose to stand. She didn’t ask to be saved. She asked to be respected. That matters. You don’t join this club by surviving one night,” Capone says. “You join it by staying. By choosing family when it would be easier to run. Tonight, Syvannah is not a guest. She is one of ours.”
The room comes together. Glasses are raised, bottles clink, creating a loud, grounded, and authentic sound.
Tiny leans down, murmuring, “Told you.”
I blink hard and smile anyway.
Trigger steps forward next, drink already half gone. “I’ll keep this short,” he says. “If I get sentimental, someone will shoot me. Tiny, you’re a stubborn bastard. Always have been.”
Tiny snorts. “Pot, meet kettle.”
“You put everyone else first and yourself dead last,” Trigger continues. “Syvannah, good luck. He is not easy.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “Neither am I.”
That makes Trigger laugh. “Fair. You make him better. That makes you dangerous in the best way. Welcome to the family.”
Blayze follows, calm and deliberate. “You didn’t fix him,” he says, looking at me. “You reminded him. That’s whatpartnership looks like.” He lifts his glass. “To chosen family and earned peace.”
The cheers feel like something settling into place rather than exploding outward.
Then the women move. Monica, Danyella, Daisy, Nadia, Aerianna, Jezebelle, and Kensi. Each offers something different. Strength. Warning. Warmth. Understanding. Acceptance. Safety.
Behind them, Exleigh lingers near the wall, her shoulders tense, fingers twisting at the hem of her sleeve. Her eyes flick toward the bottles, then away. When she catches me looking, she forces a small smile that does not quite reach her eyes.
I step to her, lowering my voice. “You okay?”
She nods too quickly. “Yeah. Just crowds.”
I understand what she doesn’t say. I squeeze her hand gently. “You don’t have to stay.”
Her smile grows a little more real. “I want to.” I see the quiet fight she’s waging. The strength it takes just to stand here. The story still waiting to be told. Later. In her time.
Someone turns the music back up. Laughter swells again. Tiny wraps his arm around me, pulling me close. “You good?” he asks.
I look around the room, taking in its noise, imperfections, and the loyalty that favors honesty over flawlessness. “I’m home,” and this time, the word feels comforting rather than intimidating. It feels like something sacred, settling in my chest. Home isn’t a trap or a hiding spot. It’s a place I’ve chosen, and in some way, they’ve chosen me in return.
Tiny’s arm stays around my waist as the night rolls on. The music grows louder again. Laughter starts in waves, pockets of noise blooming throughout the room. Plates pass from hand to hand. Bottles keep appearing like magic.
Royal Bastards' weddings aren’t delicate. They’re not quiet. They’re not polished. They’re alive.
Tiny keeps me tucked against his side, as if he can’t help staying in contact. Every few minutes, his hand slides from my waist to my lower back, his thumb tracing small circles, grounding me. The gesture is protective, but something else is woven into it now. Possession that’s devotion rather than control.
I catch him watching me more than once, his gaze heavy, hungry, and still a little stunned, as if he expects the moment to dissolve if he stops paying attention.