Epilogue
Lyra
Spring
Styker’s cabin is different in spring.
Sunlight pours through the pines in thick golden shafts, turning the dust motes into slow-dancing sparks that drift across the wide plank floors. The air smells of warm sap and the faint sweetness of the wildflowers I picked yesterday.
I stand barefoot on the porch, toes curling against the sun-warmed wood, the boards smooth from years of feet that never belonged to me until now.
The screen door creaks behind me. I don’t turn. Don’t need to.
The shift in the air is enough—the sudden warmth at my back, the faint scent of coffee and cedar and the particular heat that belongs only to him.
Stryker slides his hand around my waist, palm flat against the bare strip of skin where my tank top has ridden up, fingers splaying wide like he is measuring the exact size of the space he now owns.
His mouth finds the curve where my shoulder meets my neck, open and slow, teeth grazing just enough to make my breath hitch.
“You’re brooding.” The vibration of his voice against my skin travels through me to settle low in my belly.
I lean back into him, letting his chest take my weight, letting the solid wall of him remind every cell in my body that I am held. “I’m thinking.”
“Same thing.” His voice curves with amusement, rough and warm and familiar, in a way that still steals the air from my lungs some mornings.
He brings his free hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, knuckles brushing the shell, lingering.
I feel the calluses he earned on ranges and ropes and missions I will never fully know the details of, and the rasp of them against my skin makes me shiver despite the heat of the day.
What did I ever do right in my life to deserve being loved by a man like him?
I remember every sunrise he has been there when I opened my eyes. Every nightmare he has pulled me through with hands that never shake. Every ordinary Tuesday he has made my chai exactly the way I like it and kissed the top of my head like I’m the most treasured gift in the universe.
His thumb traces the edge of my ribcage, slow circles that make my skin prickle and my thighs press together under the thin cotton of my shorts.
“You okay?” The question is quieter now, the teasing gone, replaced by that low note he only uses when he is bracing for impact, when he is preparing to catch whatever I throw.
I turn in the circle of his arms, palms sliding up the hard planes of his chest, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The fabric is warm from his body, and his heart beats steady under my touch, strong and sure and mine.
“I am.” The words come out softer than I expect, thick with everything I still struggle to name. “I really am.”
His eyes search mine, dark and fathomless, the way they always do when he is cataloguing every flicker across my face.
The tension in his jaw eases by slow degrees, the microscopic shift only someone who has memorized the terrain of him would notice.
His forehead drops to rest against mine, breath mingling warm between us.
“Good.” One word, rough with relief. Then his hand moves, sliding into the pocket of his jeans, emerging with a small velvet box the color of midnight.
My heart slams against my ribs, hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
“Stryker…”
The corner of his mouth lifts, wicked and tender all at once, and he presses the box into my palm, closing my fingers around it with both of his hands.
The velvet is soft, worn in places like it has been carried for weeks, waiting for the right morning.
I open it with fingers that tremble only slightly.
Inside, on a bed of black satin, rests a large, beautiful, platinum, heart-shaped locket. Unable to help myself, I open it. On one side is a tiny picture of us at a recent black-tie event. It’s fun, irreverent, and it’s captured us looking at each other with absolute devotion.
The other side is empty. For the family we’ll have one day?
Emotion rises so fast; it steals my breath, thick and hot behind my eyes. I swallow once, twice, but the tears come anyway, sliding warm down my cheeks. He catches one with his thumb, smears it across my skin like he is marking me.
“You’re getting really good at this whole feelings thing,” I manage, the words scraping out around the lump in my throat.
“Don’t push it.” The growl is ruined by the way his mouth curves, soft and devastating.
He takes the necklace from the box, fingers steady where mine are not, and moves behind me. The chain is cool against my throat as he fastens it, the heart settling just above the hollow between my collarbones.
His hands linger, palms sliding down my arms, then around my waist again, pulling me back against him until I feel every inch of his body aligned with mine.
I reach up, fingers closing around the pendant, feeling its weight, small but undeniable. It rests against my skin like an anchor made of light.
He presses his mouth to the sensitive place between my neck and shoulder, and he grazes me with his teeth, just enough to make me shiver. Heat sparks low in my belly, familiar and urgent.
“Come inside.” With his lips, he trails fire along the line of my jaw. “I want to make you breakfast, be sure you have energy before I spend the rest of the day in bed ruining you.”
“So bossy,” I whisper, turning in his arms to wind mine around his neck.
His eyes glint, dark and hungry and absolutely certain. “Sweetheart, you have no idea.”
The laugh that tears out of me is real, echoing off the pines and the wide blue sky.
He kisses me then, slow and deep and devastating, tasting like coffee and springtime and every tomorrow we have not yet lived. When he pulls back, his hand wraps around mine, fingers laced tight, and he leads me inside.
Want to know what happens when a battle-scarred Dom with a lethal past decides the innocent woman who walked into his playroom is the one temptation he’ll no longer resist?
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