Epilogue
GAbrIEL
Adull ache still pulses from my ribs with each breath as Saint and Jade circle each other on the training mats.
Despite the climate-controlled room, sweat beads on Saint’s forehead, catching the morning light that streams through the high windows of the manor’s basement gym.
The gym holds the clean scent of leather and sweat, undercut by the faint chemical tang of disinfectant that lingers no matter how many bodies pass through.
Micah bounces on the balls of his feet on the mat, his excitement radiating through the room like electricity, while Jade tracks every movement.
“Keep your guard up,” I call to Micah, adjusting my position on the bench to ease the pressure on my still-healing ribs.
The stitches came out three days ago, but the deeper tissue damage lingers, as does the sling, which means I’m sidelined while Saint gets back to training.
Saint shifts, feet sliding across the padded floor. “Micah, watch how I distribute my weight. Never commit to one foot.”
“Got it.” Micah attempts to mirror the stance, his movements eager but uncoordinated. His front foot slides too far forward, throwing him off-balance.
Jade snorts, flipping his black hair out of his vision. “If you stand like that in a real fight, you’re fucked.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Saint tells Micah. “You’re learning. Nobody starts perfect.”
Micah’s hands come up, fists clenched too tight, knuckles white with tension. “I’m trying, but my body won’t cooperate with my brain.”
“Loosen your fists.” Saint taps Micah’s wrist. “You’ll break your thumb like that.”
Saint demonstrates the proper form, his movements economical.
“Like this?” Micah asks, adjusting his stance.
“Better,” Saint says. “Now, basic block sequence. Remember, it’s not about strength. It’s about redirecting force.”
Jade steps forward, demonstrating a lightning-fast combination that Micah has no hope of following. His hands blur through the air, stopping just short of contact. “Block, counter, step, strike. Simple.”
Micah’s mouth falls open. “That was not simple.”
“Jade,” I warn, “slow it down.”
“Ignore the speed. Focus on the sequence.” Saint demonstrates at half pace, each movement broken down into parts.
His patience never wavers, even when Micah keeps dropping his guard or telegraphing his strikes.
What strikes me most isn’t Saint’s skill.
He moves with brutal efficiency when his life depends on it.
No, what catches my attention is how contained he is.
There’s no desperate energy fueling his movements, no tension hunching his shoulders or cording his neck.
His breathing remains even, his focus complete but not frantic.
“Shit!” Micah stumbles backward after missing a block, Saint’s open palm connecting with his chest in a controlled tap.
“You’re anticipating wrong,” Saint explains. “Don’t focus on my hand. Focus on my center mass. The hand is just the endpoint.”
“This is impossible!” Micah complains, but he resets his stance, determination etched in the set of his jaw.
Saint’s lips curve upward. “Come on, you’ve already improved from where you started.”
A month ago, I wouldn’t have believed Saint could be so at ease in Rockford Manor. The man before me bears little resemblance to the bristling bundle of anger I first met, who snapped and snarled at me every time I came close.
Jade lunges forward, testing Micah with a flurry of light jabs. Micah backpedals, arms flailing as he tries to block, trips over his own feet, and lands hard on his ass.
“Fuck!” The curse echoes through the gym.
Saint laughs as he extends a hand to help Micah up. “You lasted three seconds longer than my first time.”
Micah’s frustration melts into hope. “Really?”
“No,” Saint grins. “But you will next time.”
Jade throws a towel at Micah’s head. “You telegraph every move. You’re still thinking too much.”
“How am I supposed to stop thinking and remember seventeen different steps at the same time?” Micah flings his arms wide in exasperation.
Saint positions himself behind Micah, adjusting his stance with gentle pressure on his elbows and shoulders. “Muscle memory. Your body learns even when your brain’s still catching up.”
I take a sip of water, the condensation on my water bottle chilling my palm. When Jade first suggested resuming training sessions for Micah after the fight with Darrow and Winters, I expected resistance from Saint. Instead, he jumped at the chance to get his body moving.
“Again,” Saint says, stepping back into position. “This time, focus on your footwork.”
Micah resets, his brow furrowing in concentration. His next attempt flows better, still clumsy but with flashes of coordination that weren’t there before.
“There you go,” Saint encourages. “Keep your weight centered.”
Watching Saint coach Micah through basic defensive moves, I realize Saint has begun to relax and has stopped checking the door for signs of danger. He’s laughing and joking with Micah and Jade. And he hasn’t mentioned returning to his old apartment even once.
This is who Saint might have been without Winters, juvie, and years of pushing down his trauma. A man who finds joy in movement, who can laugh at mistakes instead of treating them as fatal failures.
Micah manages to block two of Jade’s strikes in succession, and his whoop of triumph brings a smile to my lips. Saint catches my eye across the room, and he winks before turning back to correct Micah’s elbow position.
Killing the man who abused him didn’t erase the scars, but it ended the constant vigilance born of knowing he could be found again, allowing Saint to accept help and channel his trauma without turning it inward.
Jade throws a surprise kick that Micah somehow manages to sidestep.
“Not bad,” Jade praises. “For a beginner.”
“I’m a natural,” Micah declares, striking a pose that would get him flattened in any real confrontation.
Saint rolls his eyes. “A natural disaster, maybe. Let’s work on your stance again.”
As they reset, I notice how Saint positions himself not with his back to the wall, but in the center of the mat, back to the door, moving through the space with trust that he’s safe here.
It gives me hope that Saint is starting to trust that he has a place here, a family he can rely on.
The thought brings to mind the envelope I reduced to ash the other night without ever breaking the seal. Sitting here, with Saint laughing with Micah and arguing footwork with Jade, the doubt I once carried has nowhere left to stand.
Family isn’t something to be confirmed by a lab. This right here is what matters, and it has nothing to do with blood.
The session winds down as Micah collapses onto the mat, chest heaving with exertion. Saint stretches his arms above his head, muscles shifting beneath his sweat-soaked T-shirt.
The physical effort hasn’t even touched him. His breathing remains steady, controlled in a way that speaks of years of conditioning. Jade tosses water bottles to each of them before grabbing a towel for himself to wipe away his sweat.
“Same time Thursday?” Saint asks, rolling his neck to release the tension.
Micah groans from his position on the floor. “If I can walk by Thursday.”
Saint nudges Micah’s foot with his own. “You did well today.”
Jade snorts, gulping water. “At this rate, you’ll be ready to fight a toddler by Christmas.”
“Fuck you,” Micah replies without heat, throwing an arm over his face to block the light.
I stand from the bench, ignoring the twinge in my ribs. “Micah’s learning fast. He blocked that last combination.”
“Pure luck,” Jade says, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward.
Saint grabs a fresh towel from the nearby rack and mops up his sweat before pulling his damp shirt over his head in one fluid motion.
The fabric peels away to reveal skin mapped with old scars, some from his time in juvie, others from street fights, and the thin lines he carved himself during darker moments.
The old scars remain, a roadmap of pain etched into his body. But nothing new has been added to the collection.
Saint catches me staring and pauses, towel loose in his hand. Vulnerability flashes across his face before he tosses the towel around his neck and grabs a clean shirt from his gym bag.
Pride surges through me that he’s stopped leaving the room to change and has started wearing short sleeves around the family.
He arches a brow. “Something on your mind, Gabe?”
Knowing I’d embarrass him if I told him I was proud, I shake my head. “Just thinking we should grab lunch after this.”
“Sounds good.” He pulls on the fresh shirt, concealing the evidence of both past pain and present healing.
Jade collects the water bottles, tossing them into the recycling bin by the door. “I’m out. Aaiden’s waiting upstairs with the security briefing for tonight’s gala.”
“Catch me up later,” I reply, my attention still fixed on Saint.
As Jade and Micah exit the gym, leaving us alone, my mind catalogs the changes in Saint over the past few weeks.
The way he comes to me when nightmares wake him, instead of disappearing for hours.
How he channels his restlessness into jobs with Rowan, returning with bruised knuckles but intact skin.
The regular workouts with my brothers, burning excess energy through disciplined physical exertion.
“You’re staring,” Saint says, zipping up his gym bag.
“Just appreciating the view.” The quip comes automatically, but we both know there’s more beneath it.
Saint approaches, stopping close enough for the familiar scent of clean sweat mingled with my soap from this morning’s shower wraps around me. “You don’t have to keep worrying. It’s been over a month since the last time.”
I nod, my throat constricting. Even after weeks of waking up beside him, these rare moments of raw honesty still catch me off guard.
“I know.” Alone with him now, I step forward to wrap my good arm around him and whisper into his ear, “I’m proud of you.”
A rumble rises in his chest. “Found better ways to deal with shit.”
Warmth rises up my neck. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hand drops to my ass and squeezes before he releases me, and he turns serious. “If the urge starts again, I’ll tell you, okay?”
“Okay.” I step back.
“Rowan offered me a job next week,” he continues, watching my reaction. “Nothing dangerous. Just surveillance on a new gang that’s trying to move in on his territory.”
“Call if you need backup.”
Relief flashes across his face, so quick I almost miss it. Then he slings his gym bag over his shoulder and heads toward the door, expecting me to follow.
We walk to the elevator, and Saint steps inside, hitting the button for our floor without asking. Another small sign of how intertwined our lives have become.
“Lunch, then shower?” he suggests as the doors close.
“Sounds good.” I lean against the elevator wall, careful of my shoulder.
Saint’s fingers drum on his thigh in a rhythm I recognize as a sign of excess energy. “I had some thoughts about the gala security. The service entrance is a vulnerability.”
Another healthy outlet and a sign he’s becoming more comfortable with my family. Maybe soon he’ll start to consider himself part of us, the same as Micah now does.
“We can video call into the meeting while we eat,” I suggest.
He snorts. “Video calling to a meeting happening in the same house. Fucking billionaires.”
Okay, so maybe it will take a bit more time.
“It’s a big house,” I protest.
His hand brushes mine as the elevator ascends, and I curl my fingers around his, squeezing once before letting go as the elevator slows.
The doors open, and Saint steps out first, heading toward our suite with easy familiarity. I follow, watching him move through Rockford Manor with the cautious confidence of someone becoming comfortable with the space.
He doesn’t belong here yet. Not in the way Micah does. Not in the way my brothers do.
Patience and persistence have always mattered most when it comes to opening Saint’s heart. I’ll keep choosing him, the way I did from the start, until this place becomes his home, too.
Every night we go to sleep together, we choose each other again, and so long as we keep doing so, we can deal with whatever else the world throws at us together.
The End