Epilogue
COURTNEY
The smell of fresh-cut pine and expensive sawdust smells a thousand times better than any designer perfume I’ve ever wasted money on in Chicago.
It hangs heavy in the master bedroom, a thick, earthy scent mixing with the aroma of the man himself—weathered leather, hot motor oil, and that deep, musky spice radiating off Austin after a day working the land.
I run my hand along the smooth, sanded edge of the new windowsill.
Three months ago, this wood was a nightmare of dry rot and invasive mold, flaking away under my fingertips like the rest of my family’s neglected legacy.
The glass was so cracked the mountain wind whistled through the halls like a taunting ghost. Now, the frame is solid oak. Reinforced. Airtight.
Just like us.
Outside, the late afternoon sun begins its slow dive behind the jagged, purple silhouette of Grizzly Peak, casting long, bruised shadows across the yard.
Patches of vibrant green fight through the thawing mountain mud where the winter snow has finally retreated.
Down near the equipment shed, Austin’s massive frame dominates the space as he swings a heavy axe, splitting logs for the fireplace.
I know I should focus on the stack of files James dropped off this morning.
Wade Legal is officially open for business on Main Street, and the response from the valley has been overwhelming.
James has been a godsend, helping me navigate local politics and transitioning the old Wade records into my care.
He focuses on the larger estate trusts now, leaving the "gray area" defense and local disputes to me. It is the most fulfilling work I’ve ever done.
For the first time in my career, the law feels like it bleeds real blood.
But I can't look away from the man in the yard.
Austin wears a simple charcoal thermal henley, the fabric one flex away from shredding across his broad shoulders.
Sleeves pushed up to his elbows reveal the corded, tattooed muscles of his forearms working in a brutal, hypnotic rhythm.
Every swing displays controlled violence, raw power channeled entirely into providing for our home.
Our home.
The words still send a heavy, liquid throb straight to my core.
I spent a decade running from the memory of the boy who looked at me like I was his entire universe, terrified of the man he was becoming.
I thought I wanted a safe, sterile life in a high-rise.
True safety means sleeping beside the most dangerous predator on the mountain, his arm draped over your waist like a steel shackle.
Austin pauses, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. By habit, he scans the perimeter—checking the tree line where the Costa scouts used to linger, checking the long driveway. His vigilance hums constantly under the surface. Then, his gaze snaps up to the window.
He sees me.
Even from twenty yards away, the impact of his eyes feels physical. Possessive. Utterly focused.
He doesn't smile. He just stares, chest heaving from exertion, holding my gaze until my breath hitches. He drops the axe into the stump with a dull thud I feel in my own marrow, then turns to stalk toward the back porch.
I step away from the window, heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Three months later, and he still affects me like the very first night. The "Thunderbolt" hasn't faded. It has hardened into something denser. Something permanent.
I hear the heavy, rhythmic tread of his boots on the stairs. The screen door creaks open downstairs. He doesn't stop in the kitchen for a drink. He is coming straight for me.
I stand by the bed when he fills the doorway.
He brings the crisp mountain air in with him, the scent of the woods clinging to his clothes and warring with the heat radiating from his body.
He is beautiful in his grit—sawdust in his dark hair, a smudge of grease on his cheekbone, shirt damp with sweat.
He looks like a beast who has just finished a hunt and has come home to claim his mate.
"You're staring again, Courtney," he rumbles. The low, gravelly vibration travels through the floorboards and settles right between my thighs. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his massive arms.
"I was admiring the craftsmanship," I say, voice breathy and thin. I try to summon the professional attorney persona, but around him, I melt. "The window looks perfect. No drafts."
"The window's fine." His eyes drop, dragging slowly over my body. I’m wearing one of his old flannel shirts over leggings, the fabric swallowing me and hanging off one shoulder. He makes no secret of the fact that he loves seeing me in his colors. "You didn't eat your lunch."
"I wasn't hungry."
He pushes off the doorframe, closing the distance in three long, predatory strides. The room suddenly feels microscopic. He towers over me, blocking out the fading light, his presence encompassing everything. He reaches out, his calloused thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
"You need to eat," he murmurs, the command wrapped in velvet. "I want you healthy. I want you strong."
"I am strong, Austin. I'm just..." I trail off, hands coming up to rest on his chest. His heart beats against my palms—slow, steady, and powerful. Like a war drum.
"Just what?" He wraps his hand around the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my head back. His eyes search mine, looking for the ghost of a doubt. He doesn't realize I am not afraid of his darkness anymore; I am addicted to it.
"Just happy," I whisper.
The hard lines around his eyes relax a fraction. He leans down, pressing his forehead against mine. "Good. Stay happy. I'll handle the rest of the world."
He shifts, hand sliding down my spine to cup my hip, pulling me flush against his hard thighs.
I feel the ridge of him through his jeans, heavy and thick.
He is always ready for me. That biological imperative he talked about from the start—the need to mark, to claim, to ensure I can't belong to anyone else—never sleeps.
"I finished the nursery," he says quietly.
My breath catches. We’ve been calling it the "spare room" for weeks. He’s been in there for days, sanding the original wide-plank floors, painting the walls a soft cream.
"You did?"
"Yeah." He pulls back to look at me, gaze intense. "Built the crib frame this morning. Solid oak. Strong enough to hold a Gunnar."
Static charges the air in the room. We haven't used protection since the night the Costas first tested our borders. He has been relentless in his pursuit of that singular goal, a primal drive to knit our souls together through blood and bone.
"You're very confident," I say, a nervous, excited laugh bubbling up.
"I'm determined," he corrects, voice dropping an octave.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the edge of the mattress. I sit heavily, looking up at him as he stands between my knees, hands on his hips like a king surveying his conquest.
"Take it off," he orders softly.
I don't hesitate. I unbutton the flannel shirt, letting it slide down my arms to pool on the floor. I am not wearing a bra. My tits feel heavy and swollen with the early changes of pregnancy, my nipples hardening into tight, sensitive points instantly in the cool air. Austin’s pupils blow wide, the silver-gray of his irises disappearing into a black pit of pure, predatory hunger.
"Beautiful," he grunts, his voice a jagged scrape of sound.
He drops to his knees between my legs, his massive, calloused hands spanning my waist with a grip that claims every inch of my skin.
He leans in, burying his face in the deep cleavage of my breasts, his mouth hot against my skin as he inhales the scent of his successful claim.
"You smell different today. Creamy. Like milk and honey."
A tremor racks through me, starting at my toes. He knows. On some instinctual, animal level, he already knows.
He pulls back, his large, scarred palm sliding down my belly to cover my womb. The heat of his hand seeps through my leggings, marking the exact spot where his seed has taken root and our lives are colliding. "Is it done?" he asks, his voice a raw, intense growl that vibrates through my bones.
"Did I catch you, Courtney? Did I finally put a baby in you?"
I cover his hand with mine. My fingers look so small against his scarred knuckles. "I went to see Dr. Grace this morning. While you were at the hardware store."
Austin doesn't breathe. For a man who faces down knives and guns without flinching, the stillness in his frame betrays him. The blood drains from his face, leaving the scars stark against his skin.
"Tell me," he rasps.
I lean forward, wrapping my arms around his neck. "You caught me, Austin. You really caught me."
The sound he makes is guttural—a mix of a roar and a sob of relief.
He buries his face in my neck, arms wrapping around me so tight it nearly bruises, lifting me off the bed to crush me against him.
I feel the violent shudder running through his massive frame as the tension he carried for a decade finally snaps.
"Mine," he growls into my skin. "Mine. Mine. Mine."
"Yours," I agree, tears pricking my eyes. "Always."
He pushes me back onto the pillows, following me down with a fierce, possessive weight. He doesn't try to take more; he just holds me there, pinning me to the mattress, his lips tender as he kisses my eyelids and my nose.
"I told you," he whispers. "I told you I'd never let you go again."
"I know," I murmur, tracing the scars on his back.
He rolls to the side, hauling my body with him until I’m pinned against his massive frame. He drapes a heavy, tattooed arm over my stomach, his hand splayed wide in a gesture of absolute ownership over the life growing inside.
"A boy," he says decisively, eyes closing.
I smile, snuggling into his chest. "Or a girl."
"Doesn't matter," he mumbles, sleep already pulling at him. "As long as they have your eyes. And my temper."
"We’re doomed if they’ve got your temper, Austin."
He chuckles, a low rumble against my back. "The club will protect them. I will protect them. No one touches what’s mine."
I look out at the mountains turning purple in the twilight. The eastern cliffs are silent, and the town of Pine Valley winds down below us. The world is full of noise and danger, but in here, in this house built on a foundation of obsession and second chances, everything finally feels quiet.
I place my hand over his on my stomach.
"I love you, Austin."
He kisses the back of my neck, grip tightening just enough to remind me.
"I breathe for you, Courtney. Only you."
The End