Page 33 of Cowboy (Fury Vipers MC: Dublin Chapter #4)

COWBOY

ONE YEAR LATER

T he clubhouse is alive with laughter and music, brothers moving around with drinks in hand, old ladies gathered in clusters trading stories. I lean against the bar, nursing a whiskey, watching my family—both blood and chosen—with a contentment I never thought I'd feel.

My eyes find Caoimhe immediately, as they always do in any room.

She's sitting with Grá, their heads bent together in conversation, Caoimhe's ring catching the light as she gestures animatedly.

My wife. The thought still gives me a rush, even a year after we made it official in a small ceremony at Travis' ranch.

At her feet, Saoirse sits cross-legged with Bozo's twins, their small hands busy with some elaborate drawing project.

She looks up, catching my eye, and gives me a gap-toothed grin.

She lost her front tooth last week and hasn't stopped smiling since, especially after the generous offering from the "tooth fairy. "

"Da! Look what I drew!" she calls, waving a paper in the air.

I push off from the bar, crossing the room to squat beside her. "Let's see this masterpiece, princess."

She proudly displays her artwork—a colorful rendering of what appears to be our family. There's Caoimhe with her long dark hair, me with what I assume is my cut—though it looks more like a cape—Saoirse in the middle, and a smaller figure beside her.

"Who's this?" I ask, pointing to the fourth figure.

"That's the baby we're going to adopt," she says matter-of-factly. "When it comes."

My heart squeezes. We've been talking about adoption with Saoirse for a few months now, ever since we got the final confirmation that Caoimhe's fertility issues were likely permanent.

The doctors were brutally honest—the physical trauma she endured during her captivity, combined with severe malnutrition, had caused damage that couldn't be reversed.

Caoimhe had been devastated, locking herself in our bedroom for a full day. But then, in typical Caoimhe fashion, she emerged with red-rimmed eyes and a determined set to her jaw. "We'll adopt," she'd declared. "Give another child the home Saoirse found with us."

Now we're six months into the process, mountains of paperwork behind us, home studies completed. Any day now, we could get the call that will bring another child into our family.

"It's beautiful," I tell Saoirse. "Why don't you show Mam?"

She scampers off to Caoimhe, who looks up as Saoirse approaches. The love in her eyes as she takes in our daughter makes my chest tight with emotion. Christ, how did I get so lucky?

I stand, my gaze catching on the memorial wall as I do.

The framed patches of Cruz and Hustler hang side by side, flanked by candles that never go out.

Lost to us last year when some psycho with a grudge decided to take out half the criminal organizations on the east coast. The Fury Vipers had gotten off relatively lightly compared to some others, but the loss of two brothers still cut deep.

We lost Jer, which hit me hard. Fuck, I couldn’t believe it when I saw him go down.

I thought he’d get back up. The man always seemed invincible. But no, the bastard killed him too.

I touch my fingers to my heart then raise them in a silent salute to the fallen. In this life, nothing is guaranteed. You hold what you love close, knowing it could be gone in an instant.

"You good, brother?" Pyro's voice breaks into my thoughts as he claps a hand on my shoulder.

I nod, turning to face my president. "Yeah. Just remembering."

Pyro's eyes go to the memorial wall, his expression solemn. "Not a day goes by."

We stand in silence for a moment, honoring the memory. Then Pyro shakes it off, nodding toward where Caoimhe now has Saoirse in her lap, examining the drawing. "You hit the jackpot with those two."

"Don't I know it," I agree, unable to keep the pride from my voice.

"How's the adoption process going?"

"Slow," I admit. "But our caseworker seems optimistic. Says our history with Saoirse works in our favor—proven track record of taking in a traumatized child and helping her thrive."

Saoirse has indeed thrived. The nightmares that used to plague her have all but disappeared.

She's top of her class at school, has made a solid group of friends, and charms everyone she meets.

She still has moments, of course—triggers that catch us off guard, questions about her birth mother that we struggle to answer honestly without destroying her.

But overall, she's a happy, healthy six-year-old who calls us Mam and Da with a confidence that suggests she's never known us as anything else.

"We're pulling for you," Pyro says. "The club's behind you all the way."

It's true. The brothers have become uncles to Saoirse, protective and indulgent in equal measure. And not just the Fury Vipers—Travis visits regularly and always shows up with extravagant gifts for no apparent reason.

The trafficking ring that once held Caoimhe and Saoirse is nothing but ashes now.

After Vienna, with the intel we gathered from Dylan before his death, The Agency launched a coordinated international operation.

Over fifty arrests across twelve countries, networks dismantled, victims rescued. Kovac's entire empire crumbled.

There are still loose ends—there always are in operations that size.

But the major players are either dead or behind bars serving sentences that ensure they'll never see daylight again.

Saoirse's birth mother is among them, which gives us a certain peace of mind.

She'll never be able to try to reclaim the child she sold.

"Got something to tell you," Pyro says, lowering his voice. "I've been talking with the brothers. We need a new Enforcer."

This gets my full attention. Enforcer is one of the most crucial positions in the club—responsible for security, discipline, and making sure club rules are followed. It's a position of significant trust and respect.

"You thinking of asking Rush?" I ask, naming one of our most senior members.

Pyro shakes his head. "I'm thinking of you."

The offer takes my breath away. "Me? Enforcer?"

"You've more than earned it," Pyro says. "The way you handled the trafficking situation, taking care of Caoimhe and Saoirse, your loyalty to the club—there's no one I trust more."

I'm momentarily speechless. Enforcer isn't just any patch—it's a step onto the executive board, a voice in all major club decisions.

"You don't have to answer now," Pyro continues. "Think it over. But the brothers are unanimous. The patch is yours if you want it."

"I'm honored," I finally manage. "I want it."

Pyro nods, clapping me on the shoulder. "Good man. We’ll do it officially next week."

He moves off to join Wrath and Raptor, who are setting up the pool table for what promises to be a hotly contested match.

I make my way back to the bar, my mind racing with the implications.

Enforcer means more responsibility within the club, more time committed to club business.

But it also means more stability, more influence in shaping the future of the Fury Vipers, ensuring we stay true to the values that have become increasingly important to me since Caoimhe and Saoirse came into my life.

"Deep thoughts, brother?" Tank asks, sliding onto the stool beside me.

"Life-changing decisions," I reply. "The usual."

Tank grins, ordering a beer from the prospect behind the bar. "Anything you can share?"

I hesitate, then decide there's no harm. "Pyro's offered me Enforcer."

Tank's eyebrows shoot up. "Damn. That's huge. You gonna take it?"

"Yeah."

Tank nods, clearly impressed. "Enforcer Cowboy. Has a nice ring to it."

"It's a big responsibility," I say, but I can't keep the pride from my voice.

"If anyone can handle it, it's you," Tank says, completely serious for once. "After everything you've done for the club, for Caoimhe and Saoirse, you've proven yourself ten times over."

The vote of confidence from my brother means more than I'd like to admit. "Thanks, man."

"How about you?" I ask, changing the subject. "Still playing the field?"

Tank grimaces. "Kind of in a situation there."

"What kind of situation?"

He glances over his shoulder, then leans in. "Do you know that new waitress at Callie’s pub in Temple bar? Tall, blonde, covered in tattoos?"

I think for a moment. "Enya?"

"That's the one." Tank takes another long swig of his beer. "We hooked up last weekend."

"And?" I prompt when he doesn't continue.

"And I can't stop thinking about her. Which is fucked up, because I'm pretty sure she hates my guts."

I can't help but laugh. "Why would she hate you?"

Tank rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "I might have, uh, called her the wrong name. At a critical moment."

"Jesus Christ," I groan. "Tell me you didn't."

"In my defense, they sound alike! Enya, Emma... easy mistake."

I shake my head, torn between amusement and second-hand embarrassment. "You're a disaster, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "But seriously, what do I do? I really like this girl."

"Grovel," I suggest. "Apologize profusely. Maybe send flowers. Then apologize again."

Tank looks thoughtful. "Grovel, huh? I could do that."

Before I can offer more advice, Caoimhe appears at my side, slipping her arm through mine. "What are you boys plotting over here?" she asks, her eyes dancing with mischief.

"Tank's love life," I tell her. "Or lack thereof."

"Ah," she says knowingly. "The blonde from Callie's?"

Tank gapes at her. "How did you?—"

"Grá told me," Caoimhe explains with a shrug. "Small club, big gossip."

Tank groans, dropping his head into his hands. "Is there anyone who doesn't know?"

"Probably not," I say cheerfully. "Best just own it at this point."

Caoimhe tugs at my arm. "Can I steal my husband for a minute?"

Tank waves us off. "Go. Leave me to my shame."

Caoimhe leads me toward the back of the clubhouse, away from the main crowd. "Saoirse is getting tired," she tells me. "Grá said she's happy to take her home with the twins. They're having a sleepover."

"And us?" I ask, pulling her closer.

A slow smile spreads across her face. "I thought we could have our own private celebration."

"What are we celebrating?"

Her smile widens. "One year since you asked me to marry you. One year since we became a family officially."

I hadn't realized the date, but she's right. It was exactly a year ago that I gave her those adoption papers and slid that ring onto her finger. "Best decision I ever made," I tell her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I have something for you," she says, a hint of nervousness entering her voice. "A surprise."

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow. "What kind of surprise?"

She glances around to make sure no one's watching, then lifts the hem of her shirt just enough to reveal her hipbone. There, in fresh black ink, is a small, intricate design: a Celtic knot with three intertwined hearts.

"It's us," she explains softly. "You, me, Saoirse. And room for more." She traces the pattern where the knot could expand to include additional hearts.

I'm stunned. Caoimhe has been adamant about not getting tattoos, even as I've added to my collection over the years. For her to mark her body this way, a statement of permanence and belonging...

"When did you do this?" I ask, my voice rough with emotion.

"Yesterday," she admits. "Grá went with me. Do you like it?"

"Like it?" I pull her close, my hand sliding to her hip, covering the tattoo. "I fucking love it. And I love you."

She rises on her toes to kiss me, a kiss that promises much more to come. "Take me home, Cowboy," she murmurs against my lips.

As we say our goodbyes, making our way through the crowded main room, I notice Tank deep in conversation with someone at the bar. I do a double-take when I realize it's Enya. She doesn't look like she hates him—quite the opposite, actually; leaning into his space, a smile playing at her lips.

"Well," Caoimhe observes, following my gaze. "That was quick."

"Good for him," I say. "Though I give it a week before he does something else stupid."

"He's not so bad," Caoimhe says with a laugh. "Just needs to find the right woman to set him straight."

As we step out into the cool evening air, Caoimhe nestles against my side, fitting perfectly as always. I think about how far we've come. From those dark days, Caoimhe rescued but broken, Saoirse traumatized, me consumed with vengeance and guilt.

Now we're whole. Scarred, yes. Changed, certainly. But whole and strong and ready for whatever comes next.

"Let's go home, Mrs. O'Reilly," I say, throwing my leg over my bike and holding out a hand to help her climb on behind me.

She settles against my back, her arms sliding around my waist, her head resting between my shoulder blades. "Home," she agrees, her voice vibrating against my spine.

As I kick the bike to life, I feel her squeeze me tighter, her body molding to mine as it has a thousand times before. With her arms around me and the open road ahead, I feel invincible.

Whatever the future holds, a new patch, more children, new challenges, we'll face it together. This woman who survived hell and came out stronger. This family we've built from the ashes of what was destroyed.

This is what matters. This is what's worth fighting for.

This is everything.