Chapter 10 Destiny （Epilogue）
Destiny
Epilogue
The scent of charred garlic is the first sign of the apocalypse.
I stare in despair at the blackened bits stuck to the bottom of the pan, the sauce I’d been so carefully reducing now looking more like a tar pit. A curl of smoke rises, a final, mocking salute to my culinary ambitions.
From the living room, the low rumble of the television taunts me, the cause of my attention being absorbed.
The rumble of motorcycles grows louder by the second, snapping me out of my current state.
Oh, no.
My heart plummets. They’re here. Now. And I’m serving them… this. A hysterical thought pops up in my mind. Is it too late to just order a pizza and hide the evidence?
Before I can even reach for my phone, the front door opens, and the familiar, heavy cadence of Hammer’s boots fills the hallway. His voice, a low gravel that always settles me, is followed by others. I clutch the spatula like a lifeline, my knuckles white.
He appears in the kitchen doorway, his large frame blocking the light for a moment. His eyes find me instantly, flicking from my panicked face to the smoking pan and back. A faint, knowing smirk touches his lips.
Behind him, Warden fills the space, his presence quieter but just as substantial. And beside him, Leah, his “friend.” The one who patches them up, who knows their secrets. The one I’m still trying to get used to outside of the clubhouse.
My face burns hot at the idea of feeding them this disaster. I don’t want word to go around that Hammer’s fiancée can’t cook for squat.
Hammer doesn’t hesitate when he spots my panic. He crosses the kitchen in three strides. “Why don’t you two find something to watch?” he says over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving me. “We’ll be out in a minute.”
The moment they’re gone, the dam breaks. “This was supposed to be great,” I whisper, the words tight with frustration. “I wanted it to be great.”
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he moves behind me, his chest pressing against my back, his arms circling my waist. He lets out a long, low groan, burying his face in the curve of my neck.
It’s the sound of a man who’s been separated for an eternity, not just a single afternoon running club errands.
The tension in my shoulders instantly begins to fall apart.
“Missed you,” he murmurs, his lips finding the sensitive skin beneath my ear.
I melt against him, the spatula clattering onto the counter. All the anxiety, the need for everything to be perfect, seems to bleed out of me at his touch. This is his magic. His ability to ground me when my thoughts are spinning into chaos.
“It’s ruined,” I protest weakly, gesturing at the pan. “It’s a catastrophe.”
He nuzzles deeper, his stubble a delicious scratch against my throat. “Smells fine to me.”
“You’re lying. You’d eat charcoal if I served it to you.”
“Damn right, I would.” He shifts, turning me gently in his arms until I’m facing him. His hands come up to cradle my face, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. “Listen to me. This is perfect.”
I blink up at him. “Hammer, it’s burned.”
“I don’t care.” His voice is low, fierce, and utterly sincere. “They don’t care. We’re here. You’re here. In our home. You cooked.” He says the last word like it’s a monumental achievement, a sacred offering. “If no one else wants any, I’ll eat every single bite. You’re overthinking it, sweetness.”
He leans his forehead against mine, his eyes closing for a second. “No one died from your cooking last time, either.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me, thinking of the slightly undercooked pasta from a week ago. He’d eaten two helpings without a single complaint.
The worry doesn’t vanish completely, but it shrinks, overshadowed by the sheer, solid force of his belief in me. He isn’t looking at the burned sauce. He sees the effort, not the failure.
“Now,” he says, his voice dropping into that intimate register that’s meant only for me. He brushes a final, soft kiss against my lips. “Stop hiding in here. Come be with your friends.”
I nod, the last of the resistance leaving my body. I am all in. Giving the disastrous pan one last, dismissive look, I snatch my phone from the counter.
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice steady now, a small, genuine smile touching my lips as I look up at him. “But I’m ordering pizza. You can make your noble, stomach-pumping sacrifice when it’s just the two of us.”
A real, full-blown grin—a rare, sun-breaking-through-storm-clouds sight—spreads across his face. He swats me playfully on the backside as I pass, a gesture so domestic and light it feels like a revolution. “Deal.”
And as he leads me out of the kitchen, away from the minor disaster and into the warm chaos of our found family, I know, with a certainty that roots deep into my soul, that no perfectly cooked meal could ever taste as good as this imperfect, beautiful life feels.