Epilogue
JACE
Ten months later
“Corn hole?” Sasha narrows her eyes at me and Sire.
“Yes.” I laugh, tossing the little red bag into the air. “It’s what it’s called. It’s a game where you toss little bags filled with corn kernels into a hole in a board. See?”
I demonstrate. Pitching my bag into the air, we watch it sail before it lands on the angled wooden board, sliding up it until it’s precariously teetering at the edge of the opening.
“Can’t get it in the hole, brother?” Sire smirks, razzing me.
“See!” This is why Sasha’s suspicious. She stomps. “Cornhole is pussy and prick joke.”
Standing by Nick, Grant, and Loch—the fuckers are staying out of it—Sire surrenders his hands, his daughter, Bluebell, asleep in his baby carrier. “Swear to God it’s not. It’s the name of the game.”
Sasha juts her dainty chin. “I ask Axel. He will say is cornhole? Not sex joke?”
Ah, a little sister. She knows which brothers are fun and which are ferocious; all for her sake, of course.
“Sure.” I point across the picnic tables. “Go ask him. He’ll tell you it’s cornhole and that he sucks at it.”
In flared blue jeans and a tight white shirt, her dark hair always worn in a retro style with a headband, our sister looks way too cute, storming across the Dead Good Brewery’s white gravel outdoor area.
Low red Adirondack chairs are gathered in circles. Wooden picnic tables are peppered here and there. Outdoor space heaters make the mild February day even warmer as string lights glow, even on a sunny afternoon, illuminating the relaxed crowd.
Most are shutterbugs, here for the brewery’s annual photography competition. Some are here for a small brewers’ competition as well.
The kings and queens decided to turn it into a gathering. With growing families, it’s hard to get everyone together.
But with a mother like ours, it’s a monthly mandate.
No excuses.
I grin, watching Sasha march right up to Axel, who’s got Lyona on his knee and Lev bugging him for another giant pretzel. He glances at us while Sasha points our way, pissed off and pretty.
Axel shakes his head. Annoyed. Amused. Always the head King.
It’s our fault. We really do joke about pricks and pussies a lot. All the babies we’re making lately don’t help. It’s like a population boom that Sasha’s English vocabulary can’t handle.
But then I catch her.
Sasha peers up through her thick lashes, biting her lip, and swaying with a sweet smile. Axel’s too distracted by Lev to clock it, but I follow Sasha’s coquettish gaze, flirting with…
Oh fuck.
Remi Lawless?
He’s a dead man if Axel catches a whiff of this. And that’s saying a lot, given that Remi’s a contract killer.
At least he’s stealth. Remi barely grins back, his menacing glare only melting for Sasha before he rips it away, focusing on the microbrewers here for the Winter Warmers competition.
Luna’s one of them. Here to win with her caramel ale. Shit’s delicious and sure to piss off Bishop. Again. Those two have some hot, bottled-up hate, for sure.
Gotta admit, the vibe here is lively.
“Think Mom will let her do it?” Sire mutters, clocking the brewing drama. “Think she’ll let Sasha work here?”
“Pft.” Grant fists a can of beer. “Fuck no. But it won’t stop our sister. She’s like a pitbull with cute bangs.”
“That’s my twin. When we want something, we get it and don’t let go.” Loch toasts Sasha with his pint before turning to Alena. “Right, Babygirl? Need more ginger ale?”
Alena’s reclining in a chair behind us, sunglasses on, rubbing her pregnant belly with a giant yawn. “Nope. I need a nap.”
Loch leans down, giving her a puckered kiss before tucking a green blanket tighter around her. “Close your eyes, Babygirl,” he whispers warmly. “I got ya.”
Like he’d ever leave Alena’s side. But at five months pregnant? He’s like us. Doting and deadly for his queen.
Grant heaves a relieved sigh. “Y’all keep doing it. Have all the babies so me and Delphine don’t have to.”
“You really don’t want ’em?” Nick swigs his ale. “Not at least one?” He and Zar are waiting for their second to be born via surrogate. Speaking of, Zar’s disappeared to the family restroom to change Zarina’s diaper.
“Nah, man.” Grant sounds serious. “Child-free is a legit choice. It’s what me and Delphine want. We’re happy without ’em.” He shrugs. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Nick yawns, exhausted. “Zarina’s teething. It’s a struggle sometimes. You wait.” He points at me. “This is the calm before the storm.”
The best storm.
Keep my life in the eye of the hurricane of fatherhood, and I’ll be happy.
With my body aimed at Vivian, I’m ready to pounce if she needs me. I’ll always guard her. Some habits never die.
She’s twenty steps away, sitting in a chair and cozied under a blanket, feeding our son. This is our first time out with him, and she’s soaking it up. Sunshine. Laughter. The photography buffs. You couldn’t keep her away.
“Speaking of a storm,” Loch mutters to Sire. “Any word?”
Sire’s mouth hardens as Nick shakes his head. Grant looks away, seething, making Loch clench his jaw.
We don’t say the names. We’re trying to move on. Ruslan died last year, and I can’t say we grieved. Can’t say we cared.
But something shifted from that moment—a sense of being untethered. But unlike losing a parent you love, when you feel lost for a while, we felt liberty.
A strangling rope loosened, and we were free.
Guess I hope Ruslan found peace; I don’t wish hell on anyone.
It’s the other name we don’t mention: Sheremetev.
Not that we forget the threat. Not that we leave Sasha unguarded. Glancing around the grounds of the brewery, the barns, stables, and homes that dot The Lawless Ranch, Bratva soldiers are hiding, some in plain clothes.
Tariel, the new Pakhan, is keeping his promise. Until Sheremetev is caught, we have peace and protection.
But you can only live so long in the shadow of your abuser. Every day, you step out of the darkness and into the light. Light we’ve found. Light Sasha’s finding.
“Who pooped the party over here?” Wren bursts into our somber circle, carrying a large paper food tray of fried pickles.
“Hell, yes,” Sire whoops as we descend like vultures, grabbing some.
“Arrête!” But Delphine slaps our hands. “It is for the queens. Did you have babies? No. Do you make milk? No. Do you—”
“I make cream for you, ma chère.” Grant wraps around her. “Doesn’t that count?”
She swats Grant’s arm, laughing, but that’s my cue. A queen’s reminder as subtle as a sledgehammer.
“Gonna see if Viv is hungry.” I leave them to find my world.
Squatting in front of Viv in her chair, I peek under the baby-blue blanket. “How’s he doing?”
She coos, wiping his little mouth. “Full, burped, and asleep.”
Wordlessly, we have a routine. When she’s done feeding Ansel, it’s dad time. Cradling him, she stands and helps me wedge his little body, so cute in his newborn pajamas, into the front pouch of my dark-gray shirt.
“What is that?” Ruby marvels at my apparel, impressed.
“A Dad Shirt,” I answer, lifting the pouch to cradle his downy head in a lion-eared beanie. “It’s a form-fitting shirt with a pouch up front.”
“Oh my god.” Ruby palms Vivian’s shoulder. “Where were those when Lyona was born?”
Vivian laughs. “It’s genius, right?” She beams up at me, caressing my abs before craning her lips for a kiss.
Of course, my queen gets one. “And he looks so hot.” She makes me proud, telling Ruby, “It’s like Jace is a giant, sexy, kangaroo dad covered in ink.
” Then she whispers to me, “You are so getting laid tonight, big guy.”
“No rush, Smokeshow,” I whisper back, knowing the doctor’s orders.
Sure, my cock’s ready like a giant missile for her. It always is. I yearn to love her.
But it’s only been seven weeks, and we all know my history of being willing to wait forever for Vivian.
“I got one for Nash and Nyx too. He looks so Daddy in it.” Vale points at him, standing by Axel. Guess their newborn daughter is so tiny and Nash is so big, wearing his black Dad Shirt, Ruby hardly noticed.
“That’s it.” Ruby throws her hands up. “Next baby we have, Axel’s getting a Dad Shirt.”
“I got three,” I boast.
“They’re on every future baby registry.” Mom cuddles on Roman’s lap, lounging in the circle of chairs. “I’ve already ordered two in army green for Loch.”
Mom and Roman look way too content, and I’m happy for them. But the fuck if I’m ever calling him Dad.
“Viv!” A woman’s voice grated with nerves nears. I glance up, and it’s Harlow in a rage, striding our way. Even on the weekend, she’s wearing a white business jacket. Mind you, it’s paired with jeans, heels, and a lace top underneath, but Viv’s best friend is always wound tight and ready for war.
“I’m so sorry.” She rushes to Vivian and gently grabs her hands.
“Thank you for inviting me. I’m so glad you and Ansel were able to get some fresh air.
” She nods toward Nadine and the others.
“This was a lovely day. Truly.” She hisses, “But I can’t take another second of that man.
He’s slicker than owl shit, and smells even worse. ”
That man?
I glance across the outdoor area, over to the silver silo where Wilder’s leaning against his hog. Sunglasses on. Booted ankles crossed. Toothpick twirling in his big smirk. And he’s doing that thing—twiddling his fingers at Harlow—seems to make every pussy hiss.
“Love you. Call you later.” Harlow pecks Vivian’s cheek, then sashays toward the parking lot. That swing in her ass? It’s telling Wilder to kiss it.
“What’s going on with them?” Ruby wonders.
Vivian sighs. “You know how they say opposites attract?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, those opposites? They attack.”
Ruby grins. “Sounds hot; I should know.”
“Yeah, a hot mess, trust me.” Vivan rests a burp cloth on my shoulder, fussing with it. I try to steal another kiss from her, but she turns away, glancing over her shoulder.
I chuckle. “Hey, care to give your husband a little lip lock?”
“Yeah, uh…” She keeps her eyes on the barn house, the brewery’s main building.
“Wanna go inside for the competition?” I ask. “See who entered?”
“Nope.” Nervously, she whips around, smiling at me. “Nope, let’s stay here. It’s too crowded in there, and Wren and Delphine are bringing us snacks, and I’m fine with my lemonade and—”
“Viv.” I laugh, softly bouncing with our baby. “Woman, you got a bee in your britches. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I—” She glances over her shoulder again. “I just…”
I follow her stare. She’s eyeing Bishop, walking our way.
Heads always turn for Bishop—he’s a hot hunk in a Henley—but he’s unfazed. Hiding something behind his back. A shit-eating grin on his face. Boots aiming our way.
Oh fuck.
“Viv…” I groan. “Whatdaya do?”
“Don’t be mad.” She turns around, stepping into my shadow, our little bundle between us. “But me and Ansel”—she cups our son’s head—“we entered one of your photos in the contest, and I think…” She starts clapping. “Jace, I think you won!”
“He sure did.” Bishop’s teeth glint in a big smile. “Congratulations, brother.” He offers his hand, still hiding something in the other.
“Thanks, man, but what…” I look at him, then Viv. “What… what photo did you enter?”
Yeah, I’ve been taking hundreds of Vivian and will never stop. My wife’s natural beauty captivates me; her pregnancy photos were breathtaking.
And with Ansel, I have a ritual: I take a picture of him every morning, right after he wakes. I’m sure I’ll take thousands in his lifetime, but it’s amateur stuff. Photos for us. Stuff from my heart. Nothing competition worthy.
“A few weeks ago…” Viv cups my hand, cradling Ansel. “I saw the photos you developed. The ones you took with the black-and-white film.”
“With the stash I gave you,” Bishop adds.
Months back, I built a darkroom in our house, but I didn’t know Viv went in there. She’s been staying away from the chemicals.
“Yeah,” Vivian continues. “You’d been in the darkroom a lot, and I was curious. Guess I’ve been missing it, and then I saw this one, Jace—you must’ve taken it on your own, using the timer—and I just cried. Shocker, I know. But it’s beautiful, unfiltered emotion.”
“It is, man.” Bishop nods. He’s starting to make my family gather around, curious. “It’s the kinda shot our dads would’ve loved.”
He nods toward Remi and Wilder, respectfully hanging back, but I know they’re judges. They take this photo competition seriously.
“It was unanimous, man.” Bishop grins, impressed. “We all agreed, and that shit’s rare ’round here.”
From behind his back, he presents the framed photo with a discreet blue ribbon on its corner.
The image grabs my heart every time I see it; I know why Vivian submitted it.
It’s me in the nursery. We had just come home from the hospital; I was trying to let Vivian get some sleep. So I set up the camera and wanted to capture my first moment alone with my son.
I’m bare-chested and holding Ansel pressed to my heart, letting him feel it beat for him, letting him feel the warm sunlight streaming in the window. He was just two days old. His little naked body cradled in my hands. His face serene. My gaze forever on him.
“Oh, son.” Mom’s hand flies to her lips. “It’s beautiful.”
Vivian nods, her proud tears spilling while Wilder sounds moved. “Gorgeous composition, man. The light is velvet. Don’t know what ISO you used, but it makes the stillness dramatic.”
Just when you think Wilder’s careless, you hear the deep care in his words.
“And it’s the story you told,” Remi adds. “Father and son: it’s a lifetime of love captured in one moment.”
I swallow, nodding. Can’t disagree. Can’t speak. Can’t feel anything but the instinct to hold my son tighter and wrap my arm around Vivian.
“God, Jace.” Vale gushes at the photo. “You look like a king with his prince.”
“A lion with his cub,” Wren insists.
“Yeah, man, it’s a winner.” Loch can’t stop admiring the photo. “Didn’t know you were hiding the talent.”
“I did.” Vivian wraps her arms around Ansel and me. “It’s what his heart can capture now that it’s free.”
I hold her and my son and glance around at my family, wishing I could capture this moment, our story.
But some moments are more than picture perfect.
They’re meant to be lived.
THE END