Epilogue 2 Ghosts Dont Stay Dead
Lila - Two Years Later
It's around seven PM, a couple of years after that chaotic, wonderful pancake morning and the announcement of our third baby—a little boy we named Caleb, who is currently attempting to teach Wolfy how to fetch a surprisingly slobbery teething ring. A comfortable quiet has settled over the house, a rare lull between dinner and the even more elaborate chaos of three kids’ bedtime routine now. Leo, a studious seven-year-old, is curled up on the rug, his eyes wide with wonder as Ethan reads from a worn adventure book, his voice a low, captivating rumble. Charlotte, now a fiercely independent five-year-old, subtly tortures her stuffed wolf nearby, humming a tuneless song. I lean against the kitchen island, sipping my tea, my gaze drifting to Bastian, who stands by the lounge doorway, engrossed in a report on his tablet. The air feels peaceful, a settled, everyday kind of peace that still, after all this time, makes my heart ache with gratitude.
That is, until the low buzz of Bastian’s phone cuts through the serenity. It’s not his usual ringtone, but a specific alert tone reserved for urgent security matters for Wicked Sanctuary. A sound that, even now, makes a tiny, almost imperceptible knot tighten in my stomach, a leftover reflex from darker days.
He straightens, tapping his tablet off, his brow furrowing slightly. Answering, his voice low. "Cross... Yes, Mark, what is it?" A pause. His gaze intensifies. "O’Rourke? At the main gate?" Another, longer pause, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. "But he's on active assignment with the Devereux girl. Is there a problem with the Devereux detail?" His voice is even, but there’s a current of something – concern, maybe irritation – beneath the surface. "Alright. Send him through to the main house."
He hangs up, his expression thoughtful, a hint of disquiet in his hazel eyes. He looks towards Ethan. "That was Mark at the gate. Grim’s here."
Ethan sits up straighter. "Grim? But isn't he...?"
"Exactly," Bastian cuts in, his gaze sweeping over us – me, the kids, the peaceful scene. His eyes linger on me for a fraction of a second longer, a silent reassurance. "He’s supposed to be primary on Charlotte Devereux. I don’t like him showing up unannounced like this. Something's not right."
My chest tightens almost imperceptibly, a faint reminder of instincts that never fully fade. My hand rests lightly on my still-flat stomach, feeling the faint, familiar flutter of a new life, a secret joy I'm cherishing before sharing it with the world, before our children learn they'll have a new sibling to love. Finding comfort in the life it carries, grounding me amidst the sudden ripple of uncertainty.
A few minutes later, the distinct crunch of tires on the gravel drive announces an arrival, followed by the solid thud of a car door. Bastian moves towards the front door, already knowing who it is.
The atmosphere shifts instantly as he opens it. Kieran O’Rourke, Grim, stands framed in the doorway, blocking the fading evening light—a looming presence that brings with it the chill of the outside world.
The sheer size of him and the maze of scars visible beneath his black t-shirt stand out starkly against our cozy surroundings. My heart races slightly as his steel-grey eyes scan the room, his gaze landing on me, recognition mingled with something unreadable.
"Princess," he rumbles, the nickname both familiar and oddly gentle. His gaze sweeps over Leo, Charlotte, and Caleb briefly. "Got your hands full, huh? Suits you. Motherhood."
Before I can even reply, a chorus of excited squeals erupts from the living room. "Grim!" Leo and Charlotte shout in unison, their earlier quiet forgotten as they scramble to their feet and launch themselves towards the doorway. Caleb, startled by the sudden noise, looks up from his teething ring with wide, curious eyes.
They barrel past Bastian, making a beeline for Grim's legs, each latching onto a denim-clad thigh with delighted shrieks. "Grim! Grim! You're back!" Charlotte yells, burying her face against him. Leo, slightly more composed but equally thrilled, just grins up at the formidable man, his glasses slightly askew.
The tension in the room doesn't exactly break, but it shifts, a flicker of warmth chasing away some of the chill Grim carried in. A rare, almost imperceptible softening touches Grim’s usually harsh features as he looks down at the two small figures clinging to him. His large, scarred hands, normally weapons in their own right, gently ruffle Leo’s hair, then Charlotte’s dark curls.
"Alright, you little monsters," Ryker calls out from his spot on the couch, though his voice is laced with amusement. "Give the big guy some air, will ya? Don't be pests." He winks at Grim over their heads. "He's got grown-up, boring stuff to talk about, not how many cookies you managed to sneak today."
Grim lets out a low chuckle, a sound so infrequent it’s almost startling. "They're alright, Cage," he says, his gaze still on the kids. To them, he adds, "Good to see you two, too. Been keeping your dads out of trouble?"
Leo nods seriously. "Mostly." Charlotte just giggles again.
A laugh escapes me, charmed by the unexpected scene. "Thanks, Grim. And yes," I add, letting my eyes flick toward the others with a playful glint, "these three definitely keep my hands full. It's a beautiful kind of chaos they create." A blush warms my cheeks at my own words, but it’s a happy flush, comfortable and content.
He offers a curt nod before turning his attention to the men, cutting straight to the point as he slaps a photograph onto the coffee table.
We all lean in. My heart skips seeing the image—a woman, maybe late twenties, with hair like wildfire and eyes of green glass. There's a bruise blooming on her cheekbone, but her chin is held high, radiating stubbornness and resilience. I don’t know her, but the men seem to; the shift in their expressions speaks volumes. A familiar pang resonates—I see a shadow of my own past defiance in her eyes, but this isn't my fight. This is theirs. Wicked Sanctuary's.
"Charlie Devereux," Grim states, his voice flat, delivering the information like it’s a simple fact rather than a potential storm brewing on the horizon. "Contract's active."
Ryker glances at the photo, a smirk playing on his lips, probably about to joke about the 'little firecracker'. But Bastian shoots him a silencing look, the weight of command evident. He knows this isn’t gossip; it’s serious business.
Ethan's posture changes, his intent gaze locked onto Grim. "So, Reed made his move?" he asks quietly, confirming the suspicion that they know more than they’re letting on.
Grim’s jaw tightens. "Not directly. Not yet. But she kicked the nest hard today. Publicly." His eyes find Ethan’s, holding steady. "You know her type, Mercer. She's all fire and no goddamn foresight." A flicker of grudging respect crosses his face. "She’s poked the sleeping bear. Now it’s awake, and it’s pissed."
Bastian steps closer, arms crossed, his hazel eyes piercing as they meet Grim’s. "And you’re still confirmed as the primary guard?"
Grim nods, his expression serious. "That’s why I’m here. I need your help. She’s in deep and won’t be able to handle this alone. Time's running out."
Bastian exchanges a glance with Ethan, the weight of the situation settling in. "Got it. We'll need a plan," he asserts, authority clear in his voice.
Grim nods again, relief briefly showing in his expression. “I’ll brief you on everything I have.”
"Alright then," Bastian says, his tone all business now. "Office. Let's go."
As Grim, Ethan, and Ryker start to move in that direction, Bastian pauses beside me. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead, his hand briefly cupping my cheek. "We'll be in there for a little while, Little One," he murmurs, his gaze searching mine. "Are you alright to handle the bedtime brigade on your own tonight?"
A small smile touches my lips. "Of course, Daddy," I reassure him quietly. "Go. Figure things out. Keep the monsters at bay." The words are light, but he hears the unspoken trust beneath them, I trust that they will handle this, just as they always do, keeping the darkness far from our door. "Let me know if you need anything from me."
He nods once, a flicker of warmth in his eyes despite the serious set of his jaw. "We will." With a final, lingering touch, he turns and follows the others, leaving me to prepare the kids for bed.
After a while, as I finish putting Leo, Charlotte, and a finally sleepy Caleb to bed, the sound of the men returning from the office reaches me. They look more serious than before; things are clearly not good.
Grim pauses by the door, his formidable presence casting a long shadow. He looks back at me and then at the guys, a resolve in his eyes. "I’ll keep you all updated," he says before stepping back out into the cool evening air.
I move to the window, watching him disappear into the evening fog rolling in from the ocean—a solitary shadow blending into the grey. A shiver traces my spine, not of fear for myself, but a kind of empathetic echo for the woman in the photograph, for the storm Grim is walking into. But this time, the shiver is different. It doesn’t carry the icy tendrils of personal dread.
My world is here, within these walls, with my family. Their battles in the shadows, the ones fought by Wicked Sanctuary, are what keep our world safe. It's a familiar ache, the knowledge that danger exists, but it's tempered by the fierce, unwavering wall of protection these men represent – not just for me anymore, but for any innocent caught in the crossfire.
My battles are fought, scars healed into memories, but this peace, this family, is mine—a fierce and blessed light. The hint of a new storm on the horizon is just that—a hint. It’s out there, in their world of shadows and danger, the world Wicked Sanctuary navigates. It doesn’t touch the sanctuary we’ve built here. Yet, I can’t shake off the tension left in Grim’s wake. He walks willingly into war, but Wicked Sanctuary will be ready, poised for whatever challenges lie ahead to support him. They always are. And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that my men will handle it, keeping that danger where it belongs: far away from us, far away from home.