Epilogue
Vance
Two years later
The soft gurgles crackle through the baby monitor on the nightstand, and I feel the corner of my mouth lift before I even realize it.
Lucy’s eight months old now, and every damn day she finds new ways to remind me how completely she owns me.
I push off the wall outside the nursery door—where I’ve been standing for the last ten minutes just listening—and step inside quiet.
Wynter’s at the changing table, folding another stack of those impossibly small clothes that seem to multiply when we’re not looking. She doesn’t turn, but her shoulders relax the second she senses me. She always knows when I’m close. Always has.
“She’s fine,” she says softly, adding a onesie to the pile. “Just talking to her stuffed animals.”
“I know.” I cross the room in two strides, slide my arms around her from behind, and pull her back against my chest. Her body fits mine like it was carved for the spot—soft, warm, still the only thing in this world that can make my heartbeat steady when everything else is screaming. “Just needed to see her. And you.”
She leans into me, head tipping back against my shoulder. Even after everything—Vegas, the compound, the blood, the baby—her scent still hits me the same way it did that first night. Clean cotton, faint vanilla, and something that’s just her. My wife. The mother of my child. Mine.
“You’re supposed to be in a meeting,” she reminds me, tilting up for a kiss.
“Ended early.” I brush my lips over hers—gentle, because she’s still the most precious thing I’ve ever touched. “Diesel’s handling the rest.”
She smiles against my mouth, and I feel the last of the day’s tension bleed out of my shoulders.
The club still needs me. The violence still lives in my hands.
But everything has a different weight now.
I don’t fight for respect or fear anymore.
I fight so this—my wife folding tiny clothes, my daughter babbling in her crib—stays safe. Stays mine.
I press another kiss to her temple. “How’s she been today?”
“Perfect.” Wynter turns in my arms just enough to look up at me. “Diesel took her on a tour of the garage. I think she’s gonna be a mechanic when she grows up.”
The image flashes—my princess in grease-stained overalls, tiny hands on a wrench—and something fierce and proud swells in my chest. “As long as she doesn’t date until she’s thirty,” I mutter, only half joking.
Wynter laughs—that soft, bright sound that still feels like a gift every time I hear it. “Good luck with that, Daddy.”
The word lands low in my gut like it always does. I growl against her ear, “Careful, baby doll.”
Lucy’s gurgles shift—more insistent, edging toward fuss. Nap’s ending.
“I’ll get her,” I say, already moving.
Wynter leans against the doorframe to watch as I lift our daughter from the crib.
Eight months and she still feels impossibly light in my arms—like I could break her if I forgot how careful I have to be.
But she never flinches. Never cries when I pick her up.
Just looks up at me with those big eyes—Wynter’s eyes—and pats my stubble like it’s her favorite toy.
“There’s Daddy’s girl,” I murmur, voice dropping to the soft register I didn’t even know I had until she was born. “Did you have a good nap, princess?”
“Ba-ba-ba,” she answers solemnly, like she’s explaining the secrets of the universe.
I nod seriously. “Very insightful.”
Wynter laughs again from the doorway, and my gaze flicks to her.
She’s glowing—motherhood has softened her edges, rounded her in places that drive me fucking insane, made her stronger in ways I didn’t think possible.
She’s more beautiful every day, and it still floors me that she chose this life. Chose me.
“What?” she asks, catching the way I’m staring.
“Just thinking how lucky I am,” I tell her, honest. Raw. “How close I came to never finding you.”
Her expression goes soft. “Vegas was the best mistake I never meant to make.”
I cross to her, Lucy balanced on one arm, and tug Wynter against my side. My family. Right here. Worth every scar, every kill, every nightmare I still wake from sweating.
“Bath time first,” she says, reading me like always. “Then dinner. Then, if someone goes to sleep easily…” Her voice drops, teasing, promising. “…we might have some adult time.”
My cock twitches at the suggestion. Some things never change.
“She’ll sleep,” I say with absolute certainty. “I’ll read her three stories if I have to.”
Bath time ends the way it always does—me soaked, Lucy giggling, both of us conspirators in the mess. Dinner is pureed sweet potatoes on every surface. Bedtime routine is elaborate: three stories, soft singing from Wynter, my hand on Lucy’s back until her breathing evens out and she’s gone.
We slip into our room. Wynter changes into one of my t-shirts—looks better on her than it ever did on me. The second her head pops through the collar, I’m on her, pulling her against me.
“Missed you,” I murmur into her neck, hands already sliding under the shirt. “Been thinking about this all day.”
“Me too,” she breathes, arching when my thumbs brush her nipples—still sensitive, still perfect.
I guide her back to the bed, slow, deliberate. Push the shirt up. Kiss down her stomach, trace the faint stretch marks with my mouth like they’re holy. They are. Proof she carried my child.
“Still my baby doll,” I tell her, voice rough. “Still so fucking perfect.”
She threads her fingers through my hair as I settle between her thighs. The taste of her—familiar, addictive—pulls a groan out of me. I work her slow at first, then harder, tongue and fingers until she’s gasping my name, thighs trembling.
When I push inside her, it’s home. Hot. Tight. Mine. I move careful at first—savoring every inch, every small sound she makes.
“Mine,” I growl against her neck, pace picking up. “Forever mine.”
“Yours,” she whispers, nails in my shoulders. “Always yours, Daddy.”
That word snaps the leash. I grip her hips, drive deeper.
“Such a good little girl,” I praise, feeling her clench hard around me. “Still Daddy’s perfect little girl, even now.”
“Please,” she begs, voice breaking. “Please, Daddy.”
“Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she gasps. “All of you. Inside me.”
I groan, the sound tearing out of me. “Want to put another baby in you. Want to see you round with my child again.”
“Yes,” she says, fierce and sure. “Give me another baby. Breed me, Daddy.”
The words rip through me. I flip us—her on top now—hands on her hips guiding her as she rides.
“Look at me,” I demand. “Look at me while I fill you up.”
Her eyes lock on mine—love, trust, complete surrender. When she comes, it’s with my name on her lips, body pulsing around me. I follow hard, driving up deep, emptying inside her with a low roar.
After, she’s draped over my chest, soft and sated. Through the monitor, Lucy’s breathing is steady, peaceful.
“Did you mean it?” Wynter asks sleepily. “About another baby?”
“Yes.” I stroke her hair. “But only if you want it too. No pressure.”
She props her chin on my chest, looks up at me with those eyes I’d kill for. “I want it. Lucy should have a sibling. Someone to navigate this crazy life with.”
Joy—fierce, possessive—floods me. My family growing. My girls safe. My world right.
“Diesel’s gonna need a bigger baby carrier,” I mutter.
She laughs against my skin. “The toughest biker gang in the southwest, brought to its knees by a baby.”
“Two babies,” I correct, already picturing it.
She kisses my chest, right over my heart.
I pull her closer, whisper against her hair. “I love you, baby doll.”
She murmurs something soft, already drifting. I close my eyes, listening to both my girls breathe—one in my arms, the other through the monitor.
From Vegas to this—from blood and chaos to quiet nights and tiny clothes—this is mine. This is us.
And I’ll burn the world down before I let anything touch it.