Epilogue
DESTINY
Christmas at Cal’s ranch looked like someone had taken every broken thing in our lives and wrapped it in garland.
Fresh pine hung over the mantels. Candles glowed in every window.
The big ranch house smelled like cinnamon, woodsmoke, roasting meat, coffee, and the sugar cookies Skye kept insisting were “for the kids” while every grown biker in the place stole them off cooling racks like criminals.
Outside, snow dusted the fences and settled soft over the red dirt, turning the whole world quiet and silver beneath a bruised winter sky.
Inside, nothing was quiet.
Nothing.
Nate and Lily were arguing over whether Cupcake should be allowed to wear a tiny Christmas sweater.
Cupcake, who absolutely belonged to Lily and had only come because Lily claimed she suffered from “holiday separation anxiety,” had responded by crawling under Cal’s enormous leather chair and hissing at anyone who approached with festive intentions.
“She is not a doll,” Lily snapped, clutching the sweater.
“She’s a terrorist with whiskers,” Nate said. “The sweater might soften her image.”
“Her image is none of your business.”
“She bit my boot.”
“You probably deserved it.”
“I was standing still.”
“Threateningly.”
Nate looked at Dylan. “Your girlfriend’s best friend is mean.”
Dylan, who was leaning against the kitchen island with a mug of coffee in one hand and one eye on me, said, “I’ve been aware.”
Lily pointed at him. “You’re still on probation.”
Dylan lifted his mug in surrender. “Yes, ma’am.”
That had become one of my favorite things.
Dylan Degan, terrifying San Diego Royal Bastard, contractor, survivor of bullets and bad decisions, accepted Lily’s disapproval with the patience of a man who knew she had earned it.
He never tried to charm her out of protecting me.
Never teased her for crying when I moved.
Never acted like her grief had been dramatic, even though it absolutely had been.
He just made sure her guest room had a good mattress when she visited San Diego, stocked matcha in the cabinet, and pretended not to notice when Cupcake inspected his boots like a customs agent.
A year ago, I would not have believed in this room.
Not for me.
Not like this.
Edge stood by the fireplace with his arms crossed, pretending he was not emotional while Regan adjusted the ornaments on the tree for the fourth time.
Tarak and Callum were in low conversation near the windows, their expressions grave enough that they were probably discussing club business or the correct way to carve brisket, both of which men seemed to approach with equal intensity.
Skye and Regan had cornered Cal near the pantry, smiling in a way that made his face go flat with suspicion.
“No,” Cal said.
Regan blinked innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked.”
Skye tilted her head. “Looking is not a crime.”
“It is when the two of you do it.”
“You’re lonely,” Regan said.
“I own cattle.”
“That is not companionship.”
“One bull has more personality than half the men in this room.”
River, passing with a beer, said, “Rude but fair.”
Cal pointed at him. “Don’t encourage them.”
I laughed into my cider.
Dylan’s hand found the small of my back.
Not possessive in the old way. Not claiming territory in a room full of men who could kill him for breathing wrong near me. Just there. Warm. Steady. A reminder.
I leaned into it without thinking.
That was new too.
Not wanting him.
I had wanted him for years.
Trusting the want.
Letting my body answer without fear immediately dragging shame behind it.
Dylan had moved slowly with me after the house.
Not because the heat between us had cooled.
If anything, finally having permission made it worse.
Better. Both. But the first time we made love in the bungalow had changed something.
It had taken the longing out of the shadows and put it somewhere real.
After that, there was no more almost. No more stealing.
No more pretending desire was proof we were doomed.
We were not doomed.
We were just late.
And late, I had learned, was not the same as lost.
His construction business had grown faster than even Callum expected.
The legitimate arm of the San Diego chapter now had crews, contracts, inspections, actual accountants, and Nate wearing a hard hat once because he claimed it made him look “approachably rugged.” Dylan spent his days rebuilding houses and came home with sawdust on his boots, pencil marks on his hands, and a tired smile that still found me first. I worked surgical shifts in San Diego, learned new doctors, new rhythms, new hallways.
I had my apartment still, because I was stubborn and Dylan loved me enough not to rush.
But more and more of my life had migrated to the bungalow.
A sweater in the bedroom chair. My favorite mug in the cabinet.
Spare scrubs in the laundry. A stack of books on the nightstand.
The mother-of-pearl cuff on my wrist more days than not.
The house no longer felt like a question.
It felt like an answer waiting for me to stop being afraid of saying yes.
“Destiny.”
I turned.
Edge stood beside me.
My father had softened over the last year in ways most people would never notice.
His voice was still rough. His eyes still missed nothing.
He still looked at Dylan like he was one mistake away from being buried behind Cal’s barn.
But when he touched my shoulder now, it was gentler than it used to be, like he had finally accepted I was no longer something he could shield from every hard thing.
“Walk with me,” he said.
My stomach tightened automatically.
Dylan straightened.
Edge looked at him. “Not you.”
Dylan’s jaw ticked.
I patted his chest. “Stay.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he stayed.
Growth.
Outside, the cold hit my cheeks sharp and clean.
The ranch stretched beneath moonlight and snow, fences dark against white, horses shifting in the distance.
Edge walked beside me toward the porch steps, quiet for so long I started to wonder if this was one of those conversations where men thought standing near each other counted as emotional honesty.
Finally, he said, “You happy?”
I looked out over the ranch.
The answer came easier than I expected.
“Yes.”
Edge nodded.
One hard dip of his chin.
“Good.”
I glanced at him. “That’s it?”
His mouth moved slightly. Not a smile exactly. Edge adjacent.
“No.”
Of course.
He leaned against the porch rail, looking out at the land instead of me. “I’ve spent a lot of years thinking keeping you safe meant keeping things from you. Men. Truth. Stories. Pain.”
I went still.
“The older you got, the harder it got,” he said. “Because you had her face sometimes.”
Mandy.
He did not say her name.
He did not have to.
My fingers moved to the turquoise ring on my hand.
“But you were never her,” he said.
The words went through me so deeply I almost sat down.
Edge looked at me then.
“You’re mine,” he said. “And you’re yours. Took me too damn long to understand both can be true.”
My eyes burned.
“Dad.”
His jaw tightened at the word like it still hit him somewhere soft.
“I don’t like that he hurt you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t like that he waited.”
“I know.”
“I don’t like how much I understand why.”
That one surprised me.
Edge looked toward the glowing windows, where Dylan stood inside with Nate and Callum, laughing at something while still watching the porch like his body knew where I was even when his eyes were elsewhere.
“He was scared,” Edge said. “Doesn’t excuse it.”
“No.”
“But fear makes men stupid.”
I huffed a wet laugh. “That seems generous.”
“It makes men dangerous too,” he said. “To themselves. To women who love them. To futures they think they don’t deserve.”
I stared at him.
For a moment, I did not see the untouchable man everyone else saw. The club legend. The father with blood on his hands and loyalty carved into his bones.
I saw the man who had once loved Mandy, lost Regan, lost years, carried guilt, and somehow found his way back to us all.
“He loves you,” Edge said.
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“You trust him?”
I looked through the window.
Dylan had turned toward us again. His eyes found mine through the glass.
Not impatient.
Not afraid.
Just there.
“I do.”
Edge nodded once more.
“Then I’ll learn to live with it.”
That was probably as close as Edge would ever get to throwing rice at a wedding.
I leaned into him.
For one second, he froze.
Then his arm came around me.
Hard.
Protective.
Home.
“Merry Christmas, Dad,” I whispered.
His hand tightened against my shoulder.
“Merry Christmas, baby girl.”
When we went back inside, Regan noticed my face immediately and burst into tears.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“No, you’re not,” she said, wiping under her eyes. “You look healed. It’s upsetting.”
Skye handed her a napkin. “That’s beautiful.”
“It’s rude,” Regan said. “These children keep growing.”
“I’m twenty-four,” I said.
“Rude,” Regan repeated.
Lily appeared beside me, eyes narrowed. “Did Edge make you cry?”
“Yes.”
“Emotionally or threateningly?”
“Emotionally.”
She considered that. “Acceptable.”
Then Cupcake shot out from under Cal’s chair wearing the Christmas sweater Nate had apparently succeeded in applying, streaked across the room like a furry missile, and knocked over a basket of ribbon.
Lily gasped. “My baby.”
Nate pointed. “Festive terrorist.”
Cal stared at the chaos on his floor. “That cat is never coming back.”
Cupcake attacked the ribbon.
Lily crouched. “She’s expressing holiday joy.”
“She’s expressing felony,” Nate said.
For a while, the whole house dissolved into laughter, threats, and Cupcake-related negotiations. It was ridiculous. Loud. Warm. Mine.