Epilogue
KAILA
One Week Later
Sunlight hits the dust motes dancing in the blue glow of the server racks, but I don’t move.
I can’t. Two hundred pounds of solid, unyielding heat is wrapped around me, an arm heavy across my waist like a steel bar, and a leg thrown over my thighs.
Daniel doesn’t sleep; he recharges while maintaining a perimeter. And apparently, I am the perimeter.
My nose is buried in the crook of his neck. He smells like cedar, unscented soap, and that unique, ozone-sharp scent of overheating electronics. It’s the best smell in the world. Better than fresh coffee. Better than the sterile air of the high-end server rooms I used to break into.
I shift, trying to regain some circulation in my left arm.
Daniel’s grip tightens instantly. He doesn’t wake up. The vibration in his chest settles into a dark, proprietary hum against my ribs as he pulls me closer. His beard scratches my shoulder.
"I need to pee, Daniel," I whisper.
One eye opens. It’s the color of a frozen lake, clear and sharp and utterly awake. There’s no grogginess. No blinking. Just instant target acquisition.
"Hold it," he rumbles, his voice like gravel in a blender.
"That’s not how biology works, Daniel."
"Five more minutes." He buries his face in my hair, inhaling deep. "You smell like me."
"I am wearing your shirt. I am in your bed. I am literally covered in your DNA from last night. Of course I smell like you."
He angles his chin in a sharp, singular motion. "Good."
He releases me, but only enough so I can slide out. He watches me walk to the small bathroom attached to the loft, his gaze heavy, physical. I can feel it on my skin, hotter than the shower steam. I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink.
The dark circles that have been a permanent fixture under my eyes for eight months are gone. The tension that used to pull at my mouth has dissolved. I look safe.
I wash my face and brush my teeth with the spare brush he produced from a drawer like a magic trick our first night here.
When I come back out, Daniel is already at the monitors.
He’s wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, his back a landscape of muscle and old scars.
He’s typing with one hand, the other holding a mug of coffee he must have brewed while I was in the bathroom.
Competence radiates off him, more intoxicating than the caffeine.
"Perimeter check?" I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
"Always." He doesn't look away from the screens. "Costas are quiet. Too quiet. But the chatter on the dark web has shifted. They aren't looking for Kaila Reyes anymore."
"Because she’s dead," I say, the words tasting strange on my tongue.
He spins the chair around. "Because she’s gone. Kaila Gunnar is right here."
He holds out a hand. I take it, and he pulls me between his knees. His thumbs trace the line of my hip bone over the oversized t-shirt.
"Kevin is awake," he says. "He’s down in the mess hall. Eating Tiffany’s cinnamon rolls like he’s never seen food before."
My chest tightens. "He’s okay?"
"He’s fine, Kaila. Bruised. Steady enough to keep his hands from trembling. Shane has him talking about baseball. The kid is resilient."
"He’s not a kid. He’s nineteen."
"He’s a kid to me." Daniel presses a kiss to my stomach. "Get dressed. We’re going to town."
I blink. "Town? As in, outside the gates? Where people can see us?"
"You’re my Old Lady. You’re not a prisoner. And we have business."
"What business?"
He smirks, and for a second, the brooding Tracker looks almost boyish. "Christie at the Cozy Cup is threatening to riot if she doesn't get a look at you. And we need to sign some papers."
"Papers?"
"Marriage license. Unless you want to live in sin."
"I thought you hacked the state database and backdated it three years?"
"I did." He stands up, towering over me. "But I want to do it real. I want the ink on the paper. I want the ring on your finger. I want the whole damn town to know that if they look at you sideways, they answer to me."
Heat climbs my throat, a sudden, sharp constriction in my chest. I punch him lightly in the arm. "You’re just doing this so you can drag me to the hardware store afterwards."
"Frank got a new shipment of copper wiring," he admits, deadpan. "But mostly, it’s the ring thing."
The drive into Pine Valley is different this time.
The first time I was in this truck, I was a captive.
I was terrified, freezing, and plotting five different ways to stab him with a soldering iron.
Now, the heater is blasting, country music is playing low on the radio, and Daniel’s hand is resting on my thigh, his thumb drawing lazy circles on my jeans.
The snow is piled high on the banks of the winding road, turning the trees into white-dipped sculptures. It’s beautiful. I never noticed the beauty before. I was too busy looking for sniper nests.
We park on Main Street, right in front of the Cozy Cup. The town looks like something out of a snow globe—red brick buildings, fairy lights strung across the street, smoke curling from chimneys. It’s disgustingly charming.
Daniel kills the engine but doesn't move. He scans the street. Left. Right. Rooftops. Alleyways.
"Clear," he mutters.
"You can relax, you know. You deleted me."
"I never relax." He opens his door. "Come on."
The moment we step into the cafe, the smell hits me—roasted beans, sugar, and cinnamon. It’s warm and noisy and alive.
The noise dies instantly.
Eyes track us with raw curiosity. Daniel Gunnar is a myth to most of these people.
The Nomad who never stays. The Tracker who haunts the mountains.
Seeing him walk in the front door, in broad daylight, with a woman’s hand tucked firmly in his, is apparently the equivalent of seeing a unicorn order a latte.
"Well, look what the blizzard blew in."
A petite woman with dark hair and an apron that says Espresso Yourself leans over the counter. There she is. Christie, the central node of the Pine Valley information network. If the NSA had her, terrorism would be solved by Tuesday.
"Christie," Daniel nods. "Two blacks. And whatever pastry has the most sugar in it."
"How about you, Kaila?" Christie’s eyes dart to me, sparkling with mischief. "You’re out in public now; you really caught the tracker."
"Technically, he caught me. I just hacked his firewall."
Christie laughs, a bright, chiming sound. "I like her. She’s got sass. You need sass, Daniel. You’re too grumpy."
"I’m not grumpy," Daniel angles his chin in a sharp, singular motion. "I’m focused."
"Focused on being grumpy," Christie corrects. She hands me a massive blueberry muffin. "On the house, honey. Welcome to Pine Valley. If you need to know which mechanic rips you off or which hairstylist burns scalps, you come to me."
"Noted," I say, taking a bite. It’s heavenly.
We take a table in the back corner—Daniel’s choice, obviously. Wall at our backs, full view of the entrance.
"She knows," I whisper.
"She knows everything," Daniel says, sipping his black coffee. "Mike, the owner, is solid. But Christie talks. By noon, everyone from the hardware store to the Lodge will know we’re here."
"Is that safe?"
"It’s intentional." Daniel leans forward, his voice dropping. "The Costas thrive in the dark. They use secrets. By putting you in the light, by making you a part of this town, we take away their leverage. If anything happens to you now, it’s not just an MC problem. It’s a Pine Valley problem.
And these mountain people? They don’t like outsiders messing with their own. "
He reaches across the table, taking my hand. His fingers are rough, calloused from wire strippers and gun grips.
"You’re one of us now, Kaila. You have a tribe."
I look down at our joined hands. For so long, it was just me and Kevin. Us against the world. The idea of a tribe—of a whole town, a whole club—standing behind me is terrifying. And wonderful.
"Speaking of the tribe," Daniel says, checking his phone. "Logan just texted. We need to get back. The 'ceremony' is set for sundown."
"Ceremony?" I choke on my muffin. "I thought we were just signing papers?"
Daniel smirks. "Logan is the President. He likes pomp and circumstance. And apparently, Tiffany and Avery have been planning a party since I brought you through the gates."
I groan, dropping my head onto the table. "I don't have a dress. I own jeans and a hoodie I stole from you."
"Don't worry," Daniel’s hand squeezes mine. "I think the sisterhood has that covered."
The sisterhood did, in fact, have it covered.
I am standing in the "Chapel"—the meeting room of the Clubhouse—wearing a white lace dress that fits like it was made for me. Apparently, Marie at Velvet & Lace is a wizard who can size a woman based on a text description from a biker. It’s vintage, knee-length, with long sleeves and a high neck, but the back is completely open.
It’s classy, but with an edge. Perfect.
Savannah, Logan’s wife, is fussing with my hair. She’s beautiful and kind, but there’s steel in her spine. You’d have to have steel to be married to the MC President.
"Stop fidgeting," she scolds gently. "You look beautiful."
"I tug at the lace on my wrists," I admit, staring at myself in the mirror propped up on a chair. My eyes scan the room for the nearest exit. "A week ago, I was eating cold beans in a cabin and coding exploits to destroy your husband’s servers."
Savannah laughs. "And now you’re marrying the guy who guards the servers. Life comes at you fast in Pine Valley."
The door creaks open. It’s Kevin.
The bruises on Kevin’s face have faded to a dull yellow-green, and he’s clean. Shaven. Wearing a button-down shirt that is definitely too big for him—probably one of Shane’s.
"Hey," he says, leaning against the doorframe.
"Hey yourself." I turn to face him. "How are you holding up?"