Chapter 75 - Wolfson
I sit on the edge of Frankie’s bed and watch Kaya sleep.
She sprawls on her back, tiny fist curled, and mouth slack in perfect peace. I’m in love beyond words.
Today’s my last day on the island before heading back to Colombia. I’ll be back next month, but a month feels huge when she’s this small. She’ll grow and change and do something new I won’t see.
The thought tightens my chest in a way I don’t love.
Frankie stands at the window with her glass, bourbon catching the light and dark Amarena cherries bouncing along the bottom. She stares out at the ocean the way she often does, her mind somewhere else.
The image lines up too neatly with the details she wrote in her journal. The night she waited for Monty. The night Denver took her.
“Would you change anything?” I ask quietly.
“No. Nothing.” She turns from the window, green eyes cloudless. Then a smile. “Everything brought us here. Full circle. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Beautiful? Hmm. I never imagined a life where I worked for a cartel. Not once.
But that’s not how I see this.
I was born in hell, raised there, hurt there, trapped inside it for twenty-three years with a devil who starved, raped, and broke me in places so dark I stopped hoping for daylight.
This path with the cartel? It isn’t corruption.
It’s redemption. Deliverance. Repossession of a stolen life. And justice for so many others.
I’m a vigilante. That part is obvious now. I move through the underworld, slaying monsters like the one who stole my childhood.
There will always be more Denver Strakhs. More Rhett Howells. More Adrian Crowes. The names change. The damage doesn’t.
I don’t pick the cities or the countries stamped on my passport. I don’t kick in doors or spill blood in alleyways. Jag made damn sure of that.
But I’m traveling the world with him, sitting in surveillance vans and hotel rooms full of screens and murmuring voices, watching patterns tighten, lies unravel, and traps slam shut.
Dove travels with us, too. Always at our sides. Happy and safe.
But I’m not a saint.
When we’re in Colombia, I let my inner wolf out. A wolf built in the Arctic Circle.
Cold taught me patience. Hunger taught me precision. Survival taught me how to play with blood. I know weapons. I know how fear sounds when it runs out of places to hide. That makes me useful in rooms where monsters finally have to answer for what they’ve done.
When the cartel needs information pulled from a human trafficker, I step in. I let my knives do the work and my animal nature sink into their bones.
In those moments, I don’t see the prisoners.
I see the doctor.
I see Denver.
I see every night I suffered in pain.
And when I walk out of the torture room, Jag and Dove are always there. My hands are steady. My heart is clear, and the world is safer than it was before.
I love this life. The purpose. The rebellion. The savage annihilation of sexual predators and the systems that protect them. The way every day asks something of me and gives something back. It’s an adventure shaped by survival and stubborn joy. It’s more than I ever let myself want.
My life makes sense now.
With Dove and Jag.
With The Freedom Fighters.
I came full circle the long way around.
From victim to vigilante.
From prey to hunter.
From discarded to wanted.
From alone to ours.
From nothing to this.
“Yeah.” I return Frankie’s smile. “It’s fucking beautiful.”
I still go to therapy. That part doesn’t stop just because my life finally fits.
Sometimes it’s just me and the couch and the slow work of learning how to breathe through memories that still have teeth. Sometimes Dove comes with me. Sometimes Jag does. Sometimes all three of us sit together, laying our histories out on the table.
Sometimes, when I’m tired or caught off guard, a panic spike will sneak up on me. But they’re smaller now. Shorter. Nothing like that day in the shower.
Talking helps. Dove, Jag, and I discuss our childhoods like adults. No competition. No minimizing. Just truth.
Jag talks about the streets and the things he did to keep Dove alive. Dove talks about guilt and anger and about learning to forgive a younger version of herself. I talk about Hoss and the cliff and the long road back into my skin.
We don’t fix each other. We hold space. We check in. We laugh when things get heavy and stop when they need stopping.
Healing isn’t loud. It’s consistent. It’s choosing to stay. It’s waking up and realizing the night didn’t take anything from us.
I still have scars. I always will. But they don’t run the show anymore.
I do.
“You know…” Frankie’s cheeks rise, dimpling with mischief. “I just saw Jag and Dove heading toward the dock. Definitely up to something.”
“Don’t do it. Don’t—”
She makes a jerk-off gesture.
At my deadpan stare, she pushes her tongue into her cheek in a blow job motion.
“They’re up to… What?” I mimic her tongue movement and squint at her. “Chewing tobacco? Practicing whale calls? Brushing their molars?”
She snorts through a laugh. “What am I going to do without you?”
“Oh, my little red wary berry.” I walk toward her, open my arms, and gather her up. “You’re going to enjoy the blessed silence for approximately twelve minutes before you miss me terribly and cry into your pillow.” I kiss her cheek. “But don’t worry. I’m extremely hard to get rid of.”
“Fine. Go.” She pushes me, grinning adorably. “Get out of here.”
I wriggle my fingers at her and leave with a lingering look at Kaya’s sleeping form.
Outside, I welcome the mild breeze. Summer in Colombia is thick and heavy, pressing in from every side. Sitka’s summer is quieter. Lighter. It smells like salt and pine and cold water.
I stroll toward the dock as the sun slides into the ocean in a wash of gold and blue.
And there she is.
I bought a yacht.
Not just any yacht.
A floating Magic Kingdom.
Towers, turrets, and elaborate railings crank the castle-on-the-water vibes to eleven. A three-person throne sits on the upper deck. One of my favorite places to ride Jag’s cock while Dove rides mine.
The figurehead on the bow features an ornate carving of a bare-breasted woman with wings for arms, stretched forward as if gliding over the sea. She does her job, protecting the crew, appeasing the sea gods, and turning me on every time I see her.
Her name shines in gold letters painted along the hull.
Blue Princess.
I love this ridiculous, beautiful thing. I love that I get to share it with them.
When we’re in Alaska, we sleep on the yacht. Sometimes, we drift along the coastline and wake up to mountains. Or we follow the water south, all the way to the mainland.
I step onto the deck already grinning, my sandals flopping as the Blue Princess rocks beneath me. I’m ready to see my people, to steal a kiss, crack a joke, and rub dicks with Jag, hopefully while we’re inside our woman.
I find them at the railing on the upper deck, silhouetted against the gloaming sky.
The view is spectacular, golden red bleeding into dark blue and catching the water on fire. Jag and Dove don’t seem to notice, their attention rapt on each other.
He stands behind her, his face buried in her neck, and their bodies moving as one. Her skater dress is hiked to her tits, baring all her flawless skin for Jag’s hands, as his cock slams inside her with zero apologies.
His shorts sag around his ankles, a testament to urgency and poor planning.
I hang back and watch. Because honestly? They’re the best view in Alaska.
Jag is all force and intention, a man who chooses with his whole body. Dove is motion and attraction, gravity wrapped in skin. Together, they’re my center of mass, the balance point of my existence.
I love them the way storms love coastlines, by shaping them, testing them, and returning again and again until the ground knows my name.
My love for them isn’t soft. It’s primal and permanent. It punctures with needles and leaves eternal marks. It says Stay and Mine and Here in the same breath.
Watching them pries me open. Radiance floods in. Calm locks into place, and I stand there grinning like I’ve cracked the code to the universe.
They’re my northern lights.
My Arctic Circle.
My proof that happily-ever-afters exist.
He grips her chin and turns her head, capturing her lips in a savage kiss. Her hips buck helplessly as he drives her against the railing, rutting and groaning and devouring her mouth with a talented tongue.
His other hand works between her legs, parting her pussy for his relentless thrusts, fingers stroking her clit, and making her wild.
I’m so fucking hard it hurts.
“You better get over here before she comes.” Jag lifts his head and finds my eyes.
“The question is…” I stroll toward them as if I don’t have a pitched tent in my pants. “Which ass do I want tonight?”
Jag rarely bottoms. Like never. If I pushed for it, he would bend. But I prefer him topping. He’s so fucking good at it.
“Mine.” Dove moans. “Please, Wolf. Fuck my ass while he’s inside my pussy.”
That’s her favorite.
“Grab the lube.” Jag pivots, impaling her on his cock while his fingers spread her open for my eyes.
My pace quickens. I snag the lube from the cabinet on my way and shed my shorts before I reach them.
The rest of my clothes follow. Then lube. Then my hands are on her, skimming along her thighs, where they wrap around his waist. I cup her backside, grease her tiny back hole, and caress her cunt where it stretches around his thrusts.
“I love you,” I say to them.
They exchange a glance, a flush of shared knowing, and turn to me, their faces warmed by the sinking sun.
“We love you,” they answer together.
Their eyes glow, honey and amber blended into one quiet moment, and the world holds still long enough for me to know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
When I sink inside her ass, we all moan together.
The waning sunlight dances along our joined bodies, throwing shadows across his flexing muscles and catching the sheen of sweat on her skin.
We fuck against the railing with my back to the edge, rocking and kissing and chasing that blissful drop.
I angle backward over the rail with Jag and Dove in my arms and the world waiting below. When I dip too far, they twist and reach for me at the same time, hands grabbing and scrambling to pull me to safety.
“This is it.” I straighten and kiss Dove, then Jag, laughing through it because my chest can’t hold this much joy quietly. “This is my fairy tale.”
Their grips tighten, and I know with complete certainty that they have me.
Forever after.
They’ll never let me fall.
———————————————
Thank you for walking the edge of the world with these feral Alaskan men.