Epilogue
BIANCA
The sharp, clean tang of turpentine and the heavy, intoxicating scent of roasting garlic clash in the air of the cabin, creating the unique perfume of my new life. It is the smell of pure, unadulterated bliss.
I step back from the easel tucked into the sun-drenched corner of the living room and wipe my hands on a rag so stained with oils and acrylics it has become a piece of art itself.
Afternoon light—the golden, bruised honey of a Grizzly Peak autumn—spills through the massive windows.
Six months ago, those windows looked out onto a wilderness that felt like an isolating prison.
I used to stare at the jagged tree line and feel the cold breath of the mountains trying to snuff out my light.
Now, those towering ancient pines don't look like bars. They are the walls of a sanctuary. A fortress built of timber, stone, and the terrifyingly absolute protection of the man who owns my soul.
My latest series, Grizzly Peak Shadows, has sold out at the Pine Valley gallery in less than three hours.
The critics call it "visceral" and "hauntingly intimate.
" They don't realize they aren't just looking at landscapes; they are looking at the internal map of a woman who has been found in the dark.
I came to this mountain for inspiration and find a muse that is more mountain than man—a Sergeant at Arms who has taught me that being "claimed" is the only way to be truly free.
"It needs more yellow, Bee. You’re being too broody again."
A small, authoritative voice critiques from the floor.
I look down, a smile tugging at my lips.
Maddie is sprawled across the oversized leather rug, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she aggressively colors a picture of a dragon.
She is wearing one of my old band t-shirts—a vintage Nirvana find—that hits her knees like a dress.
She looks safe. Deeply, fundamentally grounded.
The nightmares of "shadows" and "monsters" have been replaced by a fierce confidence that only comes from knowing your father is the baddest man in the valley.
"You think so, ladybug?" I tilt my head, looking at the canvas. The abstract piece is a swirl of chaotic slate grey, deep blacks, and vibrant, burning orange. "I am trying to capture the way the fire looks at night."
"Yellow," she insists, finally looking up with those storm-gray eyes that are a perfect, softened mirror of Shane’s. "Like Bumble. Like the sun when Daddy comes home. Yellow is happy."
My chest tightens with a swell of affection so sharp it is almost painful. Six months ago, I was a broke girl from Philadelphia with a dying Beetle, a predatory gallery owner on my heels, and an eviction notice on my door. I drove up this mountain with nothing but a death wish and a prayer.
Now, I am the monster’s keeper. And the monster is the only thing keeping the world from breaking me.
The low, primal rumble of a Harley-Davidson engine vibrates through the floorboards, distinct from the wind or the house settling. It is a sound that lives in my marrow now—a heartbeat of chrome and thunder.
"Daddy!" Maddie scrambles up, abandoning her crayons.
The growl of the bike cuts out, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on the porch. The front door swings open, and the air in the room shifts instantly. It becomes heavier, thicker, charged with the kind of static electricity that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
Shane Gunnar fills the doorway.
Fresh from the auto shop, he looks like every delicious sin I have ever dreamed of committing.
Dust from the mountain road coats his Broken Halos cut, the black leather creaking as he moves.
Grease stains smear his jeans, the denim straining over thighs that are thick enough to crush bone.
He doesn't say a word; he just stands there, his massive 6'5" frame blocking out the sun, his eyes cataloging every breath we take.
It is a ritual. Every time he comes home, he scans the room for threats, for tears, for anything that might have disturbed his property while he was gone. Only when his dark gaze lands on me—and stays there—does the tension in his massive shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
"Daddy!" Maddie launches herself at his legs.
Shane catches her with a grunt of effort, lifting her high enough to make her squeal with delight. He kisses the top of her curly head, his massive, scarred hand encompassing her entire back. "You good, Mads? No trouble while I was at the shop?"
"No trouble," she announces, her arms wrapped around his neck. "I didn't have any bad dreams. Bee says the monsters are scared of you because you're too big and you have a loud bike."
Shane’s eyes lock onto mine over Maddie’s shoulder. A silent, heavy weight passes between us—a shared memory of the night in the safe room, of the promises made in the dark. The hunger in his gaze hasn't faded over the months; it has sharpened into something predatory and permanent.
"Yellow," he rumbles, his deep baritone vibrating through the floor and up my legs. "Is that what we’re arguing about?"
"The painting needs it," Maddie says. "And Bianca made garlic bread. I can smell it."
"Go wash up for dinner, ladybug." Shane sets her down with a gentle nudge toward the hallway. "I need a minute with Bianca."
Maddie scampers off, her footsteps fading toward the bathroom down the hall.
The silence that follows is thick and expectant. Shane stays by the door for a moment longer, his gaze raking over me. He looks at the paint smudges on my tank top, the way my curls are tied back in a messy knot, and the flush that is already rising on my chest just from being in his proximity.
"You're staring, Sergeant," I say, my voice sounding breathier than I intend.
"Checking my property." He pushes off the doorframe and starts toward me. His walk is a prowl—slow, deliberate, the movement of a man who knows exactly what he owns. "Making sure everything is exactly where I left it."
"I haven't gone anywhere, Shane. I never do."
He stops inches from me. The scent of him—motor oil, expensive leather, cold mountain air, and that raw masculine musk—hits me like a physical blow. My pulse jumps under his gaze, and I don't even try to hide the fact that I am already drenched for him.
He reaches out, his rough, calloused thumb tracing my jawline. He pauses at a smudge of blue paint on my collarbone, rubbing it firmly until the skin reddens. "You're a mess, Bee."
"Creative expression," I tease, though my breath hitches as his hand slides down to cup the back of my neck. His grip is firm, possessive, his thumb resting right over my carotid artery. He can feel the frantic, wet thrum of my heart.
"You're mine," he murmurs. It is his mantra. He says it when we wake up, when he leaves for the clubhouse, and the second he returns. It is the anchor that keeps me from drifting back into the gray girl I used to be.
He doesn't lead me to the kitchen. He turns and leads me toward the back door, heading for the detached garage. He punches the code into the keypad, and the heavy door rolls up with a mechanical grind.
"Rule one is dead, Bee," he grunts, pulling me inside.
The garage is a temple of steel and grease, but one corner has been transformed.
A professional-grade studio setup sits next to his workbench—high-end easels, racks of premium canvases, and a ventilation system that smells of success.
It is his way of telling me that my world and his are now inseparable.
"This is your space," he says, pinning me against the wall next to a fresh canvas. "Right next to mine. So I can watch you while I work. So I know exactly where you are."
"I'm yours, Shane," I whisper, the words a vow.
His pupils blow wide until the gray of his irises is just a thin, jagged line.
He doesn't kiss me gently. He captures my mouth in a searing, territorial claim that tastes of grit and work.
I open for him instantly, my hands tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, wanting the weight of him to crush me.
He groans, a low, guttural sound of hunger, and hooks his fingers into the waistband of my shorts. He doesn't bother with the button. He rips the denim, the sound of tearing fabric echoing against the metal roof of the garage. He wants me raw. He wants me now.
"God, I miss you," he growls against my lips. "Four hours at the shop and all I can think about is the way you felt on the rug last night. All I can smell is your pussy on my skin."
"You were only gone for four hours," I gasp as he lifts me, my legs locking around his waist.
"Too long."
He frees his cock, thick and heavy, already thrumming with a need that matches my own. He doesn't tease. He lines his thick, twitching cock up with my drenched pussy and rams it home in one powerful, bone-deep thrust.
I scream, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he begins to pound into me.
He is massive, occupying every inch of my depth, stretching my walls until I am soaked and weeping with my own juices.
He isn't just fucking me; he is marking his territory in the middle of the afternoon, with the sun still high, proving to the mountain and to me that I am his property.
"Mine," he rasps, his hips setting a brutal, relentless pace that has me clawing at the leather of his cut. "Tell me who owns this pussy, Bianca."
He slams his full weight into me, his thick cock bottoming out with a force that makes the heavy wooden bench groan.
I toss my head back, my spine arching as the rough timber of the wall scrapes against my sensitized skin, my breath hitching as the raw, punishing friction of his heavy balls slaps against my soaked thighs.
"You," I sob, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "Only you, Shane. I’m yours."