Epilogue
Three Months Later
Saint
By midnight, Bricks and Moth have turned escort rotation into a blood sport.
They’re standing in my office beneath the logistics board, arguing over the northern handoff crew with the grim commitment of men deciding the fate of empires instead of whether Kip is too stupid to manage a fuel stop without causing a scene.
Bricks has a mug of gas station coffee in one hand, which he keeps drinking despite claiming it tastes like burnt engine runoff.
Moth has his tablet tucked against his forearm, stylus moving every few seconds as he corrects the board with the smug restraint of a man who knows he’s right and has chosen to be unbearable about it.
“I’m telling you,” Bricks says, pointing his mug at the map, “if you put Kip on that route, we’re going to lose the shipment, the truck, and probably Kip. And I’m not saying that last one is a tragedy, but Tally gets sentimental when prospects die stupid.”
Moth doesn’t look away from the board. “Kip has the fastest response time out of the last three trial crews.”
“Kip braked for a plastic bag.”
“It moved unexpectedly.”
“It was a bag, Moth.”
“It crossed his lane of travel.”
Bricks turns toward me with the slow disbelief of a man looking for sanity in the wrong room. “You hear this shit?”
“I’ve been hearing it for twenty minutes,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I’m starting to think the bag had a point.”
Moth’s stylus pauses. “The bag is not the operational concern.”
“It is if Kip files an incident report about it,” Bricks mutters. “Kid writes like he’s being paid by the word and threatened by punctuation.”
The argument should annoy me more than it does.
A few months ago, it would have. Back then, everything in this office carried a sharper edge, the routes, the risks, the men waiting for my orders, the knowledge that Sol might walk through the door at any second and turn a working disagreement into a loyalty test.
Now the office feels different, though the board is more crowded than ever.
Lines cut across territory we took from the Rogues.
Notes run in three different hands. Moth’s precise marks.
My heavier corrections. Oisín’s neat black script tucked into the margins, catching the overlaps no one else saw until he pointed them out with that quiet little crease between his brows.
Hell, he was the one who found that the Reapers haven’t actually touched our shit at all, just another sore point from the old Rogue club.
Oisín’s all over the operation now and not because he’s my husband and everyone is afraid to tell him no.
He earned his place by being so good at the work that even Moth stopped pretending not to be impressed.
Oisín sees routes the way some people hear music.
He remembers which drivers get sloppy after midnight, which gas stations have cameras that point toward the wrong part of the lot, which towns have enough county patrol boredom to make a convoy look interesting.
He remembers names too, which has turned out to be more dangerous than the maps.
Men like being remembered. Prospects who used to panic when I looked at them now hover near Oisín with files in hand, waiting for him to explain what they missed without making them feel like they should walk into traffic for the good of the club.
The members love him, which I should’ve expected and somehow didn’t.
Tally has all but adopted him, which is bullshit because she now takes his side in every argument even when he’s wrong.
Especially when he’s wrong. Last week he moved a fuel stop without telling me first, and when I pointed out that maybe the president of the club should know when a live route shifts, Tally told me he wouldn’t have had to move it if I’d listened the first time.
Oisín stood behind her trying very hard not to smile.
He failed. I let him get away with it because I’m apparently the kind of man who now lets my husband smile at my expense in front of witnesses.
Bricks calls that growth. Moth calls it destabilizing but useful. I call both of them annoying and move on.
“Spring Street stays out,” Moth says, drawing a clean line through the old stop. “Oisín was right about the sightline from the motel.”
Bricks makes a disgusted sound into his coffee. “Of course he was. Pretty little bastard’s always right lately.”
“He was right before. You noticed late.”
“See, that’s why people want to hit you.”
Moth finally turns his head. “People want to hit me because I correct them.”
“No, people want to hit you because you correct them like you’re doing charity work for the stupid.”
“That is often accurate.”
Bricks opens his mouth, probably to make the argument worse, but the office door opens before he can get there revealing Oisín in the doorway wearing my shirt.
Only my shirt.
It hangs loose on him, black fabric slipping off one shoulder, sleeves falling past his wrists where his fingers curl around the doorframe.
His hair is wrecked from sleep, dark curls flattened on one side and wild on the other.
There are no bruises left on his face unless a man knows exactly where to look and has spent too many nights memorizing what violence stole and time slowly returned.
The cuts on his arm have healed into thin pale scars and his ribs have healed, too.
Harlan cleared him last week with a list of warnings Oisín listened to solemnly, then immediately began negotiating like medical advice was a trade agreement.
I've been trying my best to let him heal but fuck, it's hard.
His eyes find mine, soft with sleep and warmed by something far more deliberate. “It’s bedtime,” he says.
Bricks lowers his mug with theatrical care. “Well, I guess the president has been summoned.”
Oisín doesn’t look away from me. “He has.”
Moth looks down at his tablet, but the corner of his mouth does something almost human. “We can continue the rotation review without him.”
“Don’t encourage this,” I tell him.
“I’m encouraging efficiency.”
“You’re encouraging mutiny.”
Oisín steps farther into the office, bare feet silent against the floor, and lifts one hand in my direction.
He wiggles his fingers once, lazy and sweet and absolutely aware of what it does to me.
Four months together, and he still gets away with looking at me like that in my own office, in front of my men, like the whole club can wait because he’s decided I belong somewhere else for the night.
“We still have a few things to finish,” I say, even though my body has already made its decision. My cock presses against the seam of my pants, the need to sink into his sweet ass overruling every other rational thought.
Oisín hums like he’s considering being reasonable and finding the idea disappointing. “That’s fine. I’ll go back to bed alone.”
Bricks snorts. “Terrible fate.”
“It is,” Oisín says, finally glancing at him. “The bed is too big, and Saint gets difficult when he pretends he doesn’t need sleep.”
“I’m not difficult,” I mutter.
Oisín’s mouth curves, the softness in him sharpening just enough to drag heat through my spine. “Fine. Stay here with your maps. I’ll be very tragic about it. Or you could come to bed, bruise me properly, and fuck me unconscious so I can finally sleep.”
Bricks makes a sound like he’s trying to choke on coffee and laughter at the same time. Moth closes his eyes with the weariness of a man who has endured too much.
I stand so fast my chair hits the wall behind me. “Harlan gave you the all clear?”
Oisín chuckles, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe like he knows exactly how close I am to forgetting there are witnesses. “I’m nearly good as new.”
“Nearly isn’t all.”
“Saint.” His voice dips around my name. “I am healed enough to know exactly what I’m asking for.”
Bricks sets his mug down. “For the record, I am still in the room.”
Oisín smiles at him. “Then stop listening so closely.”
“That is not how sound works, sweetheart.”
Moth, still staring at his tablet, says, “Bricks, your objection would carry more weight if you weren’t smiling.”
“I’m smiling from trauma.”
“You’re smiling because Saint just got yanked out of a logistics meeting by a sleepy man in his shirt.”
Bricks points at him. “And I’m grateful. I was about two minutes away from throwing this coffee at your board.”
Oisín looks back at me, and whatever joke had been sitting in his mouth softens into something more dangerous. “Come to bed, Saint.”
That’s all it takes.
The growl comes out of me before I can decide to contain it, and Bricks makes a satisfied sound like I’ve proved a point he intends to bring up for the rest of my life. I cross the office, every map and route and argument falling behind me with each step.
My hand closes around the side of Oisín’s throat, firm enough to feel his pulse jump but not enough to hurt before dragging him into a rough kiss. He melts into it with a pleased sound that goes straight through me.
Four months, and he still ruins me with one breath against my mouth.
His fingers catch in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I crowd him back against the doorframe without taking him anywhere he doesn’t want to go.
The kiss tastes like sleep and heat and the kind of trust I still don’t think I’ve earned enough to stop being careful with.
He bites my lower lip lightly as my grip tightens by instinct before I ease it again.
Behind me, Bricks coughs out, “Whipped.”
I pull back just enough to look at him over my shoulder. “Say it again and I’m giving all your paperwork to Demo.”
Bricks grins. “That’s not a threat. That’s an act of war against the English language.”
Moth finally looks up from the tablet. “Go take care of your husband. We have the board, and if something catches fire, I’ll let Bricks handle it first so we can determine whether the emergency deserves your attention.”
“Rude,” Bricks says.
Oisín’s hand slides into mine, fingers threading through mine, reminding me that work can wait. I squeeze Oisín’s fingers and look back at Bricks and Moth. “Seriously, don’t call me unless something’s on fire.”
Moth lifts one brow. “Visible flames or metaphorical?”
“Visible flames. Active casualties. Structural collapse. If Demo starts crying, give him a task.”
Bricks raises his mug. “What if I start crying?”
“Do it quietly.”
Oisín laughs and tugs me into the hall before Bricks can answer. He’s silent until we get back to my bedroom. “You’re very easy to summon these days,” he says.
I close the door behind us and back him gently against it, one hand braced near his head. “You’re very hard to ignore.”
“I know.”
“Brat.”
“Husband,” he corrects.
That word still does something to me. It did when it was strategy. It did when it became a warning. It does more now that it means home.
But for once, nothing needs to be won.
Only kept.