Epilogue
Dalla
Three months later…
The summer heat is brutal, even with the air conditioning cranked up to full blast.
I'm sprawled on the couch in the living room of the house we share with Doran and Revna, wearing one of RJ's t-shirts and a pair of shorts that barely fit anymore.
My belly has popped in the last few weeks—no more hiding it under loose clothing, no more "is she pregnant or did she just have a big lunch" speculation.
I am visibly, obviously, gloriously pregnant.
And I've never been happier.
The last three months have been a whirlwind.
The New York runway show was a massive success—my collection received rave reviews, orders poured in, and suddenly I was the "designer to watch" according to every fashion publication that mattered.
Greer has been fielding calls from retailers and stylists and even a few celebrities who want custom pieces.
My little dream of making clothes that matter has turned into something real.
Something lasting.
And through it all, RJ has been right beside me.
We eloped three weeks after the proposal.
No big ceremony, no hundreds of guests, no drama—just us, my parents, and a justice of the peace in the backyard of my childhood home.
I wore a simple white dress that Revna helped me pick out.
RJ wore a suit that made him look like a GQ model.
We said our vows under the same oak tree where he proposed, with fireflies blinking in the twilight and my mother crying happy tears.
It was perfect.
The house is quiet now.
Doran and Revna are at the compound for some club business, which means RJ and I have the place to ourselves for the afternoon.
A rare occurrence these days.
Between my career taking off and his new consulting work with the Mackenzies—training, strategy, the kind of work he can do remotely or on his own schedule—we're both busier than we expected to be.
But not too busy for this.
Never too busy for each other.
RJ emerges from the kitchen with two glasses—lemonade for me, iced tea for him.
He's barefoot, wearing jeans and nothing else, his tattoos on full display.
The Irish Brotherhood symbols on his arms, the newer piece on his ribs that he got last month—a small Viking compass, a tribute to my heritage, to the family he married into.
Even after three months of marriage, the sight of him still makes my heart skip.
"You look comfortable," he says, settling onto the couch beside me.
"I look like a whale."
"You look beautiful." He leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead, then my lips, then—bending lower—the swell of my belly. "Both of you do."
I run my fingers through his hair as he rests his head against my stomach.
This has become our thing—quiet moments where he talks to the baby, tells him about the world he's going to be born into.
It started as a joke, something I teased him about, but now I find myself looking forward to it.
There's something unbearably sweet about watching this hardened soldier whisper promises to my belly.
"Hello, little man," RJ murmurs against my skin. "It's your da. Again. Your mam thinks I'm ridiculous for talking to you so much, but I don't care. You're going to know my voice before you're even born."
The baby kicks in response—a solid thump against RJ's cheek that makes him laugh.
"He agrees with me," he says.
"He has hiccups. It's not the same thing."
"It's exactly the same thing. He's communicating." Another kick, stronger this time. "See? He's saying 'I love you, Da. You're my favorite.'"
"He's saying 'stop squishing me, I'm trying to sleep.'"
RJ grins up at me, his gray eyes soft with a happiness I still can't quite believe is real.
Three months ago, he was a Brotherhood soldier with no ties, no roots, no future beyond the next mission.
Now he's my husband, lying on our couch in our home, talking to our son.
Our son.
We found out two weeks ago.
The ultrasound tech pointed to the screen with a knowing smile and said, "Looks like you're having a boy."
RJ went completely still beside me—frozen, barely breathing—and then he laughed.
Actually laughed, this full-bodied sound of pure joy that I'd never heard from him before.
A boy. We're having a boy.
"Have you thought any more about names?" I ask, running my fingers through his hair.
He groans. "We need to decide. He can't just be 'little man' forever."
"I don't know, I kind of like it. 'Little Man Malone.' Has a ring to it."
"Very funny." He shifts so he's lying beside me, his hand resting on my belly, thumb stroking lazy circles. "What about Cillian? It's traditional. Strong. My grandfather's name."
"Cillian Malone." I test it out, feeling how it sits on my tongue. "It's nice. Very Irish."
"That's the point. He's half Irish—he should have a name that reflects that."
"But what about something Nordic? My family has traditions too.
" I've been thinking about this more than I want to admit.
My whole life, I've been surrounded by names like Runes and Tor, Revna and Dalla.
Names that carry weight, that connect us to something ancient and powerful.
Names that mean something. I want our son to have that too.
"What were you thinking?"
"I don't know. Maybe... Stellan? Or Lars? Those are both strong warrior names."
"Stellan Malone." RJ makes a face.
"What about Erik? That's Norse but it doesn't sound too foreign. Erik the Red was one of the greatest Viking explorers."
"Erik Malone." He considers it, rolling it around in his mind. "I don't hate it."
"High praise."
He laughs, pulling me closer. "What if we do both? A Norse first name, an Irish middle name. Or the other way around. That way he gets something from both sides of his family."
"Cillian Erik Malone?"
"Or Erik Cillian Malone."
We look at each other, neither one convinced.
This is how every name conversation ends—with a dozen options and no decisions.
We've been through countless lists, baby name books, family trees on both sides.
Nothing quite feels right yet.
"What about something that works in both traditions?" I suggest. "There has to be some overlap."
"Like what?"
"I don't know... Finn? That's Irish but it sounds Nordic."
"Finn Malone. That's actually not bad." He props himself up on one elbow. "Finn means 'fair' or 'white' in Irish. What does it mean in Norse?"
"No idea. I'd have to look it up." I make a mental note to text my dad later. He'd know.
"We have time," I say finally. "Four more months to figure it out."
"Four more months," he agrees. "We'll figure it out."
We'll figure it out.
That's become our mantra, the answer to every impossible question.
Where will we live? We'll figure it out.
How will we balance two careers and a baby? We'll figure it out.
How do two people with complicated pasts and dangerous families build a normal life?
We'll figure it out. Together.
RJ's hand traces lazy circles on my belly, following the movement of our son beneath the skin.
The baby has been active today—kicking and rolling, making his presence known.
The doctor says he's healthy and strong, measuring right on track. A fighter, just like his parents.
"I still can't believe this is real," RJ says quietly. "Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I have to check. Make sure you're still here. Make sure I didn't dream all of this."
"I'm still here."
"I know. But I check anyway." He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "You know what I was doing three months ago? Killing people. Taking orders. Living out of a duffel bag with no idea where I'd be next week, let alone next year."
"And now?"
"Now I have a wife. A son on the way. A home." He shakes his head slowly. "A family. An actual family."
"Is it everything you hoped for?"
"It's more." He leans down and kisses me—soft at first, then deeper. "So much more."
The kiss shifts, changes.
His hand slides from my belly to my hip, pulling me closer.
I can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my—his—t-shirt.
Even five months pregnant, even exhausted from the summer heat and the constant demands of a growing baby, I want him.
I always want him.
"We have the house to ourselves," he murmurs against my lips.
"We do."
"And you look incredibly sexy in my shirt."
"I look like I swallowed a watermelon."
"You look like you're carrying my child." His hand slides under the hem of the shirt, fingers tracing up my side. "That's the sexiest thing I've ever seen."
I laugh, but it turns into a gasp as his hand finds my breast.
Pregnancy has made everything more sensitive—every touch amplified, every sensation heightened.
His thumb brushes across my nipple and I arch into him, wanting more.
"RJ..."
"I've got you." He helps me sit up, then pulls the shirt over my head.
For a moment, he just looks at me—the swell of my belly, the changes in my body, all the evidence of the life we're creating together. "Beautiful," he breathes. "So fecking beautiful."
He kisses me again, and then we're moving together—slow and careful, mindful of the belly between us.
He guides me onto my side, settling behind me, his chest warm against my back.
This has become our favorite position lately—intimate and close, his arms wrapped around me, his hand on my stomach.
"Okay?" he asks, always checking, always making sure.
"More than okay."
He slides into me slowly, and I sigh at the feeling of fullness, of connection.
We move together in an easy rhythm, unhurried, savoring every moment.
His lips brush the back of my neck, my shoulder, the sensitive spot behind my ear.
His hand strokes my belly, feeling our son move even as we move together.
"I love you," he whispers. "Both of you. So much."
"I love you too."
The pleasure builds slowly, a rising tide instead of a crashing wave.
When I finally come apart, it's gentle and sweet, RJ following moments later with a soft groan against my neck.
We stay tangled together afterward, catching our breath, neither of us wanting to move.
"Worth the wait," he says eventually.
"What wait? We had sex yesterday."
"Twenty-four hours is a very long time."
I laugh, turning in his arms to face him.
His hair is mussed, his eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction.
He looks happy. Relaxed.
At peace in a way I'm not sure he's ever been before.
"I was thinking," I say, tracing patterns on his chest. "After the baby comes, maybe we could visit Ireland. Let your Da meet his grandson."
"He'd like that." RJ catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. "We could stay at the Mackenzie estate. Liam's offered us a cottage on the grounds whenever we want it."
"A cottage in Ireland. Very romantic."
"We could make it our thing. Summers in Jacksonville, Christmases in Dublin. Give the little man the best of both worlds."
Both worlds.
Norse and Irish.
Florida and Dublin.
Fashion designer and Brotherhood soldier.
We're a family of contradictions, of impossible combinations that somehow work.
"I like that," I say. "He'll be the most well-traveled baby in history."
"He'll have stories to tell." RJ's hand drifts back to my belly, protective and possessive. "About his badass designer mam who took New York by storm. About his Viking grandfather and his Irish great-grandfather. About the family that would burn the world down to protect him."
"Let's hope he never needs that last part."
"Let's hope." But there's something fierce in RJ's eyes, a promise that has nothing to do with hope and everything to do with certainty.
If anyone ever threatens our son, they'll have to go through both of us.
And may the Gods help anyone who tries.
The baby kicks again, strong and sure, like he knows we're talking about him.
"He's going to be trouble," RJ says fondly. "I can already tell."
"With our genes? Absolutely."
"Stubborn as hell."
"Dangerously charming."
"A complete nightmare for anyone who tries to mess with him."
I grin up at my husband—this man who walked into my life as a bodyguard and became my everything.
Who saw me at my worst and my best and loved me through all of it.
Who killed for me without hesitation and cried over an ultrasound image.
Who makes me laugh when I want to scream and holds me when I want to fall apart.
"Sounds perfect to me," I say.
"Yeah." He kisses me one more time, soft and sweet and full of promise. "Perfect."
Outside, the summer sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
Through the window, I can see the backyard where Revna and I have started planning a garden—tomatoes and peppers and herbs, things we can grow together, things our kids can play in someday.
Somewhere in the house, a phone buzzes with a message we'll check later.
Probably my mom, asking about doctor's appointments.
Or Greer, with another exciting opportunity.
Or one of the countless people who've become part of our life in ways I never expected.
The world keeps spinning, full of danger and uncertainty and a thousand things we can't control.
There will be challenges ahead—sleepless nights and difficult conversations and moments when we have no idea what we're doing.
There will be times when the past catches up with us, when the shadows of who we were threaten to darken who we're becoming.
But there will also be this.
Lazy summer afternoons with nowhere to be.
A baby who kicks when his father talks to him.
A family that spans two continents and two cultures and a love that somehow holds it all together.
I think about everything that led us here—the danger and the fear, the kidnapping and the rescue, the moment when RJ stepped into my life and everything changed.
I think about Solveig and her thirty years of hatred, about how easily it all could have ended differently.
But it didn't. We survived. We found each other. We built this.
And now, lying in my husband's arms with our son growing inside me, I know that everything we went through was worth it.
Every moment of terror, every tear, every sleepless night.
It all led here, to this moment, to this life.
To this family.
"Hey, RJ?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
He looks at me, curious. "For what?"
"For finding me. For saving me. For building this life with me." I touch his face, memorizing the lines of it, the way his eyes soften when he looks at me. "For making me believe that happily ever after isn't just something in fairy tales."
"It's not a fairy tale." He pulls me closer, his hand on my belly, our son kicking against his palm. "It's our reality."
The End