Epilogue
. . .
Woodrow
One year later
One year. Exactly one year since that night in the parking lot when everything shifted—when I saw Priscilla standing there, fragile and fierce, and knew without question that she was mine to claim, mine to keep, mine to protect at any cost.
I lean against the nursery doorway, arms crossed over my chest, watching my girls in the soft glow of the nightlight.
Priscilla stands beside Sophia’s crib, one finger tracing our daughter’s chubby cheek with that gentle reverence she always has for her.
Six months old and Sophia Rose Walker already owns me completely—tiny fists, dark eyes that are mine, stubborn little mouth that’s all her mother’s. She’s perfect. They both are.
“She’s got your nose,” I say, keeping my voice low so I don’t wake the baby. “And your stubbornness.”
Priscilla turns, catching my eye with that small, knowing smile that still hits me like a fist to the sternum. She backs away from the crib carefully and comes to me. I hold out my hand; she takes it without hesitation, letting me pull her into the hallway and straight into my arms.
She fits against me like she was carved for this spot—soft curves, warm skin, the faint scent of baby powder and her shampoo mixing with everything that’s uniquely her. I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in.
“She’s perfect,” I murmur. “Like her mother.”
She presses closer, face against my chest. “We made something amazing, didn’t we?”
My arms tighten. “We did. And we’re not done yet.”
My girls. My entire fucking world, right here in this house.
I’d burn cities down for them. I have burned pieces of the world down for them—Donovan was only the beginning.
Every loose end, every whisper of a threat that could’ve touched Priscilla or Sophia, I severed.
Quietly. Permanently. Blood on my hands doesn’t bother me when it means they sleep safe.
Priscilla doesn’t know the details. She doesn’t need to. She only needs to know I kept my promise: nothing touches what’s mine. Ever.
I guide her toward our bedroom, palm firm at the small of her back. She moves with me easily, trustingly, the way she always does now. My perfect match. My salvation.
“Is she down for the night?” I ask, already knowing Sophia’s been sleeping through since last month.
Priscilla nods, lips curving. “Out like a light. We’ve got at least four hours before the next feeding.”
“Good.” I close the bedroom door behind us and turn the lock with a soft, deliberate click. “Because Daddy needs his little girl tonight.”
The heat that flares in her eyes is instant, familiar, addictive. One year later and she still responds to me like she did that first night—maybe even more now, with the weight of everything we’ve built between us.
She steps closer, fingers already working the buttons of her blouse. “I need you too,” she says softly. “Always do.”
I watch her undress, making no move to help.
I like this part—watching her reveal herself to me, piece by piece, no shyness left.
Motherhood has changed her body in ways that make my mouth water: fuller breasts still heavy from nursing, softer hips, those faint silver stretch marks across her stomach that I trace with my tongue every chance I get.
They’re not flaws. They’re proof. Proof she carried my child.
Proof she’s mine in every permanent way.
When she’s bare, she stands there unafraid, eyes locked on mine. She knows what she does to me. Knows the power she holds right back.
“Beautiful,” I growl, finally closing the distance. “Mine.”
“Yours,” she answers, reaching for me, helping strip my clothes away with quick, practiced hands. “Always yours.”
She’s more beautiful now than the first time I saw her through that bookstore window—more confident, more sensual, more everything. I lift her like she weighs nothing, carry her to the bed. Her legs wrap around my waist immediately, hands in my hair, mouth finding mine with the same hunger I feel.
“Need to be inside you,” I tell her, laying her down, covering her with my body. “Need to feel you around my cock.”
“Yes,” she breathes, thighs parting, welcoming me. “Please, Daddy.”
That word still lights me up like nothing else. I capture her mouth in a hard kiss as I line up and push inside in one slow, deep thrust. We both groan at the feel of it—her tight, wet heat gripping me like she was made for this, for me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, starting to move. “So tight. So perfect. My beautiful girl, my perfect wife, the mother of my child.”
She arches beneath me, nails biting into my shoulders, meeting every thrust with a roll of her hips. “Yours, Woodrow. All yours.”
My control frays fast when we’re like this. The careful restraint I keep everywhere else falls away until there’s only need—raw, possessive, primal.
“Going to fill you up again,” I rasp against her ear. “Put another baby in you. Keep you round with my children for years to come.”
Her breath hitches, body clenching tighter around me at the words. “Yes,” she moans. “Want that. Want everything with you.”
My hand slides between us, finding her clit, rubbing in the exact rhythm I know will break her. “Come for me first,” I order. “Let me feel that sweet pussy milking my cock.”
She shatters almost immediately—crying out my name, walls pulsing hard around me, pulling me deeper. It’s too much. I follow right after, driving in deep and coming with a guttural groan, spilling inside her, marking her all over again.
I stay buried in her as long as possible, reluctant to let go. When I finally slip free, I roll us so she’s tucked against my chest, head under my chin, soft curves pressed to my harder lines.
“I love you,” I tell her, the words steady now after a year of saying them. “More than I have words for.”
She smiles against my skin. “I love you too. More every day.”
We lie there in the quiet, listening to the soft hush of the baby monitor, to the steady rhythm of our breathing. Safe. Whole. The way neither of us ever were before the other.
“You saved me,” she murmurs, already drifting. “That night in the parking lot, you saved more than just my body. You saved all of me.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head, hand stroking slow down her spine. “No, you saved me, Priscilla. I’m nothing without you.”
Her breathing evens out as sleep takes her. Only with me does she let go like this—completely unguarded, completely safe.
My palm drifts to her stomach, spreading wide over the flat plane.
She thinks I haven’t noticed yet—the subtle fullness in her breasts when I touch them, the way she’s been queasy in the mornings and trying to hide it, the wistful looks she gives Sophia like she’s already picturing another baby in her arms.
I’ve noticed every single change. I always do.
Another child. Another piece of us. Another life to guard with everything I am.
My family. My reason. My everything.
I pull her closer, kiss her forehead one last time, and let sleep come.
Tomorrow she’ll tell me what I already know. I’ll act surprised, thrilled, the way she deserves. Tomorrow we’ll keep building this life we clawed out of darkness.
But tonight I hold her—my wife, my little girl, the mother of my children—feeling her heartbeat sync with mine, knowing every brutal thing I’ve done was worth it for this.
Worth it a thousand times over.