Page 33 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

A quiet little slope just beyond the side of the main stage.

From here, we can see everything—the crowd stretched out like a sea of shadows and glow sticks, the stage lights shifting in pulses of gold, violet, and blue.

The music from the next act rumbles beneath our feet, vibrating through the ground in steady waves.

It’s loud, but not overwhelming. Just enough to make the moment feel alive.

We sit on the grass, and I pull her between my legs, my arms wrapping around her waist like she’s always meant to fit there. Her head rests against my shoulder, soft hair brushing my jaw, and I take a slow breath.

The scent of her shampoo. The chill in the air. The bass thrumming through our bones. Her hand tangled with mine.

It all feels surreal.

“I used to dream about this,” I murmur against her temple. “Not the stage. Not the crowd. Just this. You, here, with me.”

She looks up at me, eyes shining in the wash of colored lights. “Yeah?”

I nod, swallowing the emotion building behind my ribs. “Every city. Every sleepless night. Every song. I pictured you at the end of it.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. She just squeezes my hand and leans back into me like she feels it too. Like she knows.

The music changes again—slower now, a ballad rolling over the crowd, and I swear it’s like the universe is giving me a beat to fall into. A moment to make something permanent.

My fingers twitch toward my guitar case in the distance, toward the ring hidden inside. Platinum band, custom cut black diamond, lyrics from the first song I ever wrote about her engraved in tiny script inside the band.

The music shifts again—slow, sultry, threaded with a steady beat that seems to slow the whole world down with it. Lights scatter across the field like fireflies caught in rhythm, and I swear, it feels like the festival is holding its breath just for us.

I glance down at her—her cheeks are flushed from the cold, lips parted just slightly, her fingers still woven with mine.

“Dance with me?” I ask, voice low against her ear.

She tilts her head, looking up at me with a lazy, knowing smile. “Here?”

I nod, brushing a curl from her face. “Right here. Right now.”

She laughs quietly, but she’s already rising to her feet, tugging me up with her. I pull her close, my hands settling on her waist as hers find their way around my neck. The moment we start moving, slow and easy, the rest of the world disappears.

We’re not standing in the middle of a festival anymore.

We’re somewhere only we exist.

Her body molds to mine, like we were made to move this way together.

I rest my forehead against hers as we sway under the strobe-soft glow of lights breaking through the night.

The scent of sugar and smoke drifts through the air, mixing with the sound of the crowd’s distant cheers, but all I hear is her breath syncing with mine.

The lights shimmer off her hair, her skin, her eyes. She’s the only thing in focus.

I brush my lips against her temple, voice quiet. “I think maybe I’ve been holding on this whole time… just waiting for it to be you.”

She stills, just for a breath.

Then her fingers curl into the fabric at my shoulders like she needs to hold on too.

“You’ve got me,” she whispers.

And God, I do. I have her.

But more than that—I want forever.

And in that moment, holding her in the middle of a city that’s still cheering for the last band, I almost say it.

Marry me.

The walk back to the villa is slow, quiet. The kind of quiet that settles deep, like a slow burn after a high-voltage set. Mac’s tucked close to my side, her laughter warm against my shoulder when I murmur into her ear, “I love you.”

Her hand in mine—steady, familiar—feels like something I’ll never want to let go of.

We’re almost there when Trey comes barreling toward us from the shadows, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Tattoo tent!” he shouts, sliding to a stop like his boots are on fire. “Told you I saw it earlier!”

Mac blinks at him, laughing. “You sure you got space?”

“For this? Hell yes. Celebratory ink.” Trey grins like a lunatic.

“Baby girl remembered me today. Called me Cupid’s Angel.

I’m getting it tattooed. Script. Small. Sexy as hell, You should get Bubblegum Pink inked somewhere.

Like a classy tramp stamp? Maybe Logan Dale’s Happy Holster? You know… for his tremendous cock?”

Mac arches a brow at him unimpressed. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response, Baker. But I am getting out of the cold and into a hot shower. I can’t feel my damn toes.” She holds up her hands as proof, fingers red beneath those thin gloves. “I do want to see your new ink later though.”

“You want me to come with you?” I ask, already half-turned to follow.

She shakes her head, giving me that soft smile that undoes me every time. “Nah. Go have fun.”

Trey throws an arm over my shoulder like we’re frat brothers. “Let's go, brother!”

Chace saunters up behind us, rubbing his hands together. “Not for me thanks, I’m already on my family’s shit list back home.”

Sam cocks a brow. “I can’t even remember your tattoos, man, and I’ve seen you shower.”

“Yeah, well, family does. Threats have been made,” Chace mutters. “There’s now a photo in my mom’s hallway with my face blacked out.”

We all crack up

I lean down to kiss Mac’s cheek, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Try not to end up with each other’s names tattooed by mistake,” she calls as she walks off, her hips swaying in my hoodie.

“No promises,” Trey shoots back with a wink.

I watch as she disappears inside the villa, before we make our way toward the tent.

Inside, the air smells like ink, alcohol, and adrenaline. It’s a warm—tight space, low lighting, machines buzzing like background music.

Trey’s first in the chair. “Cupid’s Angel,” he says, pulling off his hoodie and pointing to a sliver of space on the inside of his left ribs. “Right here. Just enough room.”

The artist glances at him like he’s not sure if he’s being messed with. “You want me to put Cupid’s Angel on you? Seriously?”

“It’s a nickname. Long story. Meaningful,” Trey shrugs. “Make it pretty.”

Sam watches him with a slight smirk. “You’re insane, man.”

“You’re jealous. There’s a difference.”

My turn comes next.

I shrug off my shirt, sit in the chair, and tap a spot directly over my heart.

“Mackayla. Script. Make it bold.”

The artist looks up. “You sure?”

Sam leans closer. “You sure about that, man?”

I don’t hesitate. “Gonna ask her to marry me.”

Silence falls. For a moment it’s dense before the damn breaks and sound returns.

Trey’s head jerks up. “Wait, what?”

“Deadass?” Chace blinks. “You got the ring?”

“In my guitar case.”

“Dude,” Trey grins wide.

Sam just nods, slow and knowing. “About damn time.”

The buzz of the machine starts again, the sting grounding me. I think about her hand in mine, her voice in my ear. This isn’t just a tattoo. It’s a vow in ink.

Sam goes next. Rolls up his sleeve, no hesitation. “One cross,” he tells the artist. “Right ring finger.”

The guy nods. “Subtle.”

“Intentional,” Sam replies. No one pushes him for more.

Chace stands with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. After a beat, he lifts his hands in surrender, “Like I said, I’m out. If I get another tattoo, my mother dearest is gonna call in the family’s fixer and have me disappeared.”

“I want to say you’re joking,” Trey mutters, “But I genuinely can’t tell if you’re messing with us or not. So, instead I’ll just say—you’d think the mafia would be more lenient about tattoos,”

“Some, not all.” Chace replies cooly. “My family has strict beliefs about the sanctity of flesh.”

“That actually makes sense to me,” Sam chimes in. “My body is my temple.”

“I am so happy to disappoint your family,” Trey deadpans.

Chace just shakes his head, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just make sure you steer clear of my uncle if he’s ever around. He’s in charge of cleanup. And violations of the Corpus.” His voice goes flat, unreadable.

Trey raises a brow. “Yeah, no. I still have no fucking clue if you’re kidding.”

And honestly, I’m with him. One hundred percent. Chace rarely opens up about this kind of shit.

“Probably for the best,” Chace says with a sigh.

By the time we’re done, we’re inked, sore, and strangely lighter.

Trey lift’s his shirt in front of the mirror and grins. “Cupid’s Angel,” he says proudly. “Right under the ribs. Sexy as hell.”

“You look like a guy who sends mixed signals on purpose,” Sam mutters.

“I am a mixed signal,” Trey smirks.

Chace groans.

I glance down at my chest—at her name now etched into my skin forever. The flesh is red and raw, but the meaning behind it? Solid. Permanent. This is the start of everything.

We push through the tent’s door and step back into the night. The air is cooler now, the music from inside just a distant thrum behind us. We walk side by side, the four of us—shoulder to shoulder, ride or die.

My phone chimes in my pocket.

Ding.

Ding.

It buzzes again. And again.

Trey’s phone lights up. So does Sam’s. Then Chace’s.

All of us freeze mid-step as our phones start going off like sirens. My screen lights up, vibrating nonstop now. I glance down.

Phil.

Our manager.

What the hell?

The set was good, yeah, but not blow-up-your-phone good. He wouldn’t be blasting all of us unless something major was going down. And from the look on everyone’s face—it’s not just me who feels it.

Something’s happened.

Something big.