Epilogue - Poppy
Six Months Later
The nursery is finished.
I stand in the doorway, one hand resting on the swell of my belly, watching the afternoon light spill through the windows.
The walls are a soft sage green—a compromise between the pale yellow I wanted and the dark forest Gabriel suggested.
The crib is white oak, handcrafted by an artisan Gabriel flew in from Denmark.
The mobile above it features tiny silver stars and moons that catch the light when they spin.
It's beautiful. It's perfect. And six months ago, I never could have imagined standing here.
"You're supposed to be resting."
Gabriel's voice comes from behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, his hands settling on my stomach. The baby kicks in response—she always kicks when she hears her father's voice—and I feel his sharp intake of breath against my neck.
"She's active today," I say.
"She knows I'm here." There's wonder in his voice, even now, even after months of feeling her move. "She knows her father."
Her. We found out the sex two months ago. A girl. Gabriel went very quiet when the doctor told us, and later that night, I found him in the nursery, sitting in the dark, staring at nothing.
I don't know how to raise a daughter, he'd said. I don't know how to protect her from the world without becoming the kind of man she needs protection from.
Then we'll learn together, I'd told him. That's what we do.
It's become our mantra—we'll learn together. A constant reminder that neither of us knows what we're doing, and that's okay. We're figuring it out as we go.
"Your mother called," Gabriel says, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "She wants to know if she should bring the bassinet she found at that antique shop, or if we have enough baby furniture to furnish a small country."
I laugh. "She's excited. Let her be excited."
"I'm not complaining. I'm merely observing that our daughter will have more places to sleep than she could use in a lifetime."
Our daughter. The words still send a thrill through me every time he says them.
My mother has changed in the past six months—slowly, tentatively, like a flower remembering how to bloom after a long winter. When I first told her I was staying with Gabriel, she was terrified. She begged me to reconsider, to run, to disappear the way she had.
But I held my ground. And eventually, cautiously, she began to accept it.
The turning point came when Gabriel invited her to the estate for dinner. I was nervous—terrified, really—about how that evening would go. Two people who had every reason to distrust each other, sitting across a table, trying to find common ground.
But Gabriel surprised me. He was gentle with her. Patient. He answered her questions honestly, even the hard ones. He didn't try to charm her or manipulate her—he just let her see him, the real him, and trusted that it would be enough.
It wasn't enough, not at first. But it was a start.
Now she visits every few weeks. She's in therapy, finally processing twenty-five years of fear and trauma. She's even started dating—a quiet man named Robert who works at the library near her apartment. She's building a life, a real life, for the first time since she ran.
Dwayne Thomas is finally, truly dead. Not just his body, but his shadow. The hold he had on both of us, severed at last.
"Also," Gabriel adds, his tone shifting slightly, "Josiah and Benedict have confirmed they're coming this weekend."
I turn in his arms to look at him. "Both of them? Together?"
"Apparently, my impending fatherhood has inspired an unprecedented display of family unity."
His brothers. I've met them twice now—once when Gabriel formally introduced me as his partner, and once at a Brotherhood gathering I still don't fully understand.
Josiah, the eldest, is carved from the same cold marble as Gabriel but with an edge of sardonic humor that makes him slightly more approachable.
Benedict, the youngest, is warmer, quicker to smile, though I've seen flashes of the same darkness that lives in Gabriel lurking behind his easy charm.
They terrified me at first. Three Ambrose brothers in one room is enough predatory energy to make anyone's survival instincts scream.
But they've surprised me too.
Josiah sent a case of high-end prenatal vitamins when he learned about the pregnancy, along with a note that read: For the mother of the first Ambrose heir in a generation. Try not to let Gabriel smother you. It was the closest thing to warmth I'd seen from him.
Benedict has been more openly enthusiastic.
He calls every few weeks to check on me—not Gabriel, me—asking about cravings and symptoms and whether I've chosen a name yet.
Last month, he sent a stuffed rabbit that probably cost more than my first car, with a tag that said For my niece, from her favorite uncle.
"Josiah wants to discuss the trust fund," Gabriel continues. "He's been working with the lawyers to ensure our daughter is protected, financially and legally, from the moment she's born."
"And Benedict?"
"Benedict wants to teach her to ride horses." Gabriel's mouth quirks. "He's already selected a pony. I told him she needs to learn to walk first."
"He's excited."
"They both are, in their own ways." He pauses, something complicated moving behind his eyes. "I didn't expect that. I didn't expect them to care."
"She's their niece. Their family."
"The Ambroses have never been particularly sentimental about family."
"Maybe that's changing." I reach up, cupping his face in my hand. "You changed. Maybe they can, too."
He doesn't respond, but I see the flicker of hope he's trying to suppress. Gabriel has always held himself apart from his brothers—the oldest child, the dangerous one, the weapon their father honed for violence. He's never believed they saw him as anything more than a useful tool.
But I've watched them together, these past months.
I've seen the way Josiah's eyes follow Gabriel with something that looks almost like concern.
I've seen the way Benedict gravitates toward him at family gatherings, seeking his approval even while pretending not to.
They're not close—not yet, maybe not ever—but there's something there.
The foundation of something that could grow, if they let it.
"Come," Gabriel says, shaking off the moment. "I have something to show you."
"Another surprise? You've given me enough surprises to last a lifetime."
"This one is different."
He leads me down the hall, past our bedroom—our bedroom now, the one I've shared with him for six months—and toward the east wing of the estate. I know where we're going before we get there.
The studio.
He had it built for me in the first month after I moved in.
A massive space with north-facing windows, perfect natural light, and enough room for all my equipment and more.
I've spent countless hours here, losing myself in my work, finding peace in the click of the shutter and the slow reveal of images in the developing trays.
But today, something is different.
The door is closed, and Gabriel stops in front of it, turning to face me with an expression I can't quite read.
"I need you to understand something before you go in," he says. "This isn't a gift. It's not something I'm giving you because I think you need it or because I want to control your reaction to it. It's just... something I wanted you to have. Something I thought you should see."
"You're scaring me a little."
"Don't be scared." He takes my hands, pressing a kiss to each palm. "Just... look. And then tell me what you think."
He opens the door.
The studio looks the same as always—the long tables, the equipment, the prints hanging on the walls. But in the center of the room, on an easel I've never seen before, is a painting.
Not a photograph. A painting.
I move closer, my heart climbing into my throat.
It's a portrait. A woman with dark hair and fierce eyes, her chin lifted in defiance, her hands cradling the swell of her pregnant belly. Behind her, barely visible in shadow, is the silhouette of a man—protective, possessive, present.
It's me. It's us.
"I commissioned it," Gabriel says quietly from behind me. "From an artist I've admired for years. I gave her photographs, descriptions, tried to explain what I wanted to capture. I don't know if she succeeded. I don't know if anyone could capture what you are to me."
I can't speak. My throat is too tight, my eyes burning with tears I can't seem to stop.
"You don't have to keep it," he continues, and for the first time, I hear uncertainty in his voice. "If you hate it, if it feels like too much, I can—"
"It's perfect." The words come out broken, barely audible. "Gabriel, it's perfect."
I turn to face him, and I see my own emotion reflected back at me—the overwhelming, terrifying, beautiful weight of what we've built together.
"I love you," I tell him, for the hundredth time, for the thousandth time, knowing I'll say it a million more times before we're done. "I love you, and I love our daughter, and I love this life we're making. Even the dark parts. Even the scary parts. All of it."
He pulls me into his arms—carefully, always so carefully now, mindful of the belly between us—and holds me like I'm the most precious thing in the world.
"I don't deserve you," he murmurs against my hair.
"Probably not."
"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you anyway."
"I know." I pull back, smiling up at him through my tears. "That's why I stay."
***
The weekend arrives faster than expected, and with it, Josiah and Benedict.
I watch from the library window as their cars pull up the drive—Josiah's sleek black Mercedes, Benedict's slightly flashier Aston Martin. Even in their choice of vehicles, their personalities are evident.
Gabriel joins me at the window, his hand finding mine.
"Nervous?" he asks.
"Should I be?"