Chapter 74 - Dove
One year later
The Strakh island pulses with ordinary miracles.
The couch faces the wide windows, ocean light slanting in while the TV murmurs news about falling markets and border disputes. None of it reaches us.
I watch Wolf instead.
He holds his little sister in the crook of his arm. She’s four months old and already controlling every man in the room. He nuzzles her nose with his, makes ridiculous snorting sounds, and whispers nonsense like it’s classified information.
Her red hair declares allegiance to Frankie, but as she studies Wolf with a serious little face, her brows pinch in a severe expression that’s pure Monty.
Whenever she throws a fit, she clenches her tiny fists. That’s all Leo.
But right now she’s calm, issuing small, satisfied grunts that are unmistakably Kody.
We were all here for her arrival. Frankie’s husbands argued over names for weeks leading up to the birth. So Frankie solved it herself.
Kaya.
After Kody’s mother. After Monty’s childhood friend. The name stuck the second she said it.
Jag stands behind the couch with Monty, both of them half-turned toward the TV screen, deep into talks about global politics, fiscal consequences, or whatever boring shit they call relaxing.
Jag is in his element, a hacktivist at heart.
Monty counters a point. Jag nods and pushes back.
It’s a friendly chess match, all restraint and respect.
Frankie and I share the loveseat. She has that post-baby glow that’s more about relief than sleep. She tells me about her return to the hospital after maternity leave and how much she needed to be a nurse again.
Monty slid easily into his new role as a stay-at-home father, taking the night shifts and controlling diaper changes and feeding schedules. Frankie talks about it like it’s normal.
It is now.
I tell her about the car Wolf surprised me with last week. Another vintage beauty, rescued and ready to restore. He buys me a car for every occasion. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays. Once, because I had a sinus infection.
My collection is obscene at this point, rivaling Luke’s, and it makes me laugh every time I step into the garage. I love the cars, sure. But I love the way Wolf watches me work on them more.
Across the room, he pries his eyes off Kaya and looks up at me, giving me a blinding, proud, big-brother smile.
He’s taken his art to the next level, past skill, past reputation, and into something that feels inevitable. Everyone at the citadel wears his work on their skin. Jag and I included.
He finished Jag’s leg sleeve last month. It’s a mural of places and moments, and at its center is the face of a blue-eyed Arctic wolf, its muzzle breaking through the surface of an icy river, in a rise of ink and smoke.
Mine is smaller, tucked high on my thigh. Wolf designed it exactly to my specifications. A circle formed by three figures in motion. A jaguar in mid-prowl. A wolf curved opposite it. At the center, a dove in flight.
I also have a Trail Cat on my arm, with a black shirt and red boots. Jag pets it every time he sees it.
Wolf has been working on himself, too. His scars keep him from touching his chest, so he inked upward and outward, shading his throat, arms, and shoulders in symbols and fragments of his life.
Not the bad parts. The good ones. Places.
People. Moments that made him feel safe and alive.
His ink is a record of joy, layered and intentional, growing as he does.
Jag glances over at me mid-sentence, checking in with a look that says, You good? I nod. Wolf grins and returns his attention to Kaya.
This is us now. No scrambling. No apologies. No waiting for the other shoe. We fit. We choose each other daily, without bargains or fear.
I’m deliriously happy. With Jag’s protective love. With Wolf’s feral devotion. With the life we built and keep choosing to live.
The broadcast in the background stutters, and a banner flashes across the TV screen.
Breaking News.
The living room shifts. Sound sharpens. My breath catches before I know why.
The anchor’s voice turns grave as footage rolls through emails, voice recordings, and red strings connecting names I already know by heart.
Adrian Crowe’s buried files and financial records have finally been dragged into the light. Decades of money trails. Front charities. Private jets. Offshore accounts.
Amid the flashing of videos and interviews are the words that fist my throat and pull me to my feet. Trafficking, underage girls, bought, moved, silenced…
Clips cut fast. A famous face, handcuffed and defeated. Another one, older and powerful, being rushed into a car. A Supreme Court justice, jaw clenched. A Hollywood legend, hiding his face. And the big one, the former U.S. president, surrounded by agents, his expression pale and furious.
I don’t gasp. I already knew every monster’s name.
The U.S. government has been trying to indict these powerful men for decades. And a criminal syndicate brought them down in twelve months.
That is vigilante justice.
Then the reporter says the one name I’ve been waiting for.
The man who bought my mother from Adrian Crowe.
My vision blurs, and my chest caves in.
Jag found him months ago. He and Wolf went after him with single-minded focus and deadly patience, peeling apart his multibillion-dollar software empire piece by piece. Contracts voided. Boards turned. Allies gone. Billions of dollars rerouted to offshore accounts controlled by the cartel.
Now the truth is pouring out on live television, and there he is, dragged forward, wrists bound, eyes wild.
Exposed.
Finished.
The tears come, hot and relentless. I fold in on myself, and Jag is there instantly, arms around me, holding me as my legs give out and relief crashes in.
Wolf moves just as fast, passing Kaya to Leo before kneeling before me, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, my mouth. His own eyes shine, tears streaking down his face.
On the screen, the reporter mentions the ongoing speculation that Adrian Crowe was assassinated by an unknown terrorist group. The perpetrator remains at large.
Wolf looks at me. Then at Jag.
For one breathless second, we all stare at one another.
Then we break, laughing and crying at once, the sound torn out of us, ugly and free and impossible to stop.
The baby fusses somewhere behind us. The TV shuts off. The world finally shifts its weight.
I cling to them both, shaking, lighter than I’ve ever been.
It’s over.
It’s really fucking over.