Epilogue #2
Marie looked down through the glass, her dark eyes luminous under the arena lights, her lips parting in that soft, breathtaking smile that had shattered my armor in an Adirondack basement three years ago.
She pressed her hand harder against the glass, her thumb aligning with mine through the two inches of acrylic, mouthing five words that cut straight through the deafening roar of the stadium:
I love you. Come home.
I nodded once, my jaw softening, my pulse sitting low and heavy in my chest.
Let the media write their columns about the hundred-million-dollar extension and the first-line ice time. Let the league hand out their trophies.
The only victory I would ever fight for was waiting for me behind the security gate.
* * *
Midnight settled over our lakeside home in a blanket of clean, Adirondack silence.
Down the carpeted hallway, the nightlight in the nursery glowed pale amber, the baby monitor on my dresser carrying only the slow, rhythmic breathing of our daughter sleeping beneath her quilts.
The master bedroom suite was vast, walled in rough-cut cedar and native stone, the glass terrace doors looking out over the moonlit waters of the lake. In the hearth, thick birch logs burned down to deep orange embers, casting long, warm shadows across the dark charcoal linen of our platform bed.
Chosen closed the heavy timber bedroom door with a quiet, solid click.
He didn't turn on the lamps.
He walked across the wide floorboards in bare feet, wearing only dark flannel pants, his broad, scarred chest gleaming in the amber wash of the fire.
The sheer physical mass of his frame—two hundred and thirty pounds of bone, muscle, and absolute devotion—dominated the room, bringing with him the dark scent of cedarwood, winter wind, and the lingering heat of the ice.
He didn't speak. He stepped into my perimeter at the foot of the bed, his hands coming down on my hips, lifting me effortlessly off the floorboards until I was seated on the high edge of the mattress.
"Chosen," I whispered, my voice thick with sleep and heat.
"Shh," he rumbled, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety rasp that made my stomach flutter with sweet, familiar surrender completely devoid of fear.
He stepped between my parted knees, his heavy thighs bracketing mine, crowding me into the charcoal linen. His hands slid beneath the hem of my silk camisole, his large, calloused palms making direct contact with the bare skin of my waist.
His skin was blistering hot against mine, rough from the stick, but his touch was an agonizing, slow-burn worship that stole the air from my lungs.
He smoothed his hands upward, over my ribs, over my shoulder blades, sliding the thin straps off my shoulders until the silk pooled at my waist.
His dark eyes, black with dilated hunger in the firelight, swept over my bare skin with an awe so profound, so unreserved, it brought a hot prickle of tears to the back of my eyelids.
"Look at you," he murmured, his face dipping down, his mouth pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to the hollow beneath my throat. "My wife. The mother of my child. You're everything to me, Marie. All mine."
"All yours," I breathed, my hands rising to tangle in the short, damp hair at the back of his neck, pulling his face down to meet mine.
He lowered his heavy frame over mine with slow, sacred gravity.
The mattress took his weight without a sound as he settled his hips between my thighs, his forearms taking his mass so he sheltered me against the dark linen without crushing my breath.
The physical friction was an unhurried, devastating claiming that drove every remaining thought from my mind.
His mouth took mine with deep, rhythmic demand, tasting of mint and unshakeable covenant, drinking my soft whimpers as his hands laced through mine, pressing our palms flat against the pillows on either side of my head.
Our platinum bands clicked together in the gloom—an indestructible circle of metal sealing our skin.
He moved with agonizing, commanding patience, his hips meeting mine in a slow, deep cadence that set my marrow on fire.
"Good girl," he growled against my lips, his breath hot and ragged as his forehead pressed into mine. "Feel that, Marie? That’s my life. That’s our family. That’s where you belong."
"Chosen... please," I sobbed into his mouth, my back arching off the charcoal sheets, my legs wrapping tight around his waist as the release broke across my nervous system in long, shuddering waves of pure, blinding ecstasy.
He followed me over the edge with a low, guttural roar that vibrated against my sternum, his hips locking against mine in a deep, absolute surrender that poured his entire soul into my flesh.
The quiet returned slowly, settling over our bodies like warm snow.
I lay curled against his left flank, my cheek resting flat over the black ink of his compass rose tattoo, my fingers tracing the jagged surgical scar on his collarbone.
Beneath my ear, his heart beat with an unhurried, heavy forty-eight-beat rhythm—an indestructible engine that kept the world at bay.
Chosen shifted, pulling the heavy down duvet up over our bare shoulders to keep out the lake draft. His massive arm locked around my waist, his large, calloused hand splaying flat over my abdomen, holding me flush against his ribs.
He tilted my chin up with his thumb, his dark eyes looking down into mine with an unshakeable, eternal peace.
"From that concrete hallway in Sloan Arena when you told me my knee was soft," he whispered into the dark, his lips grazing my forehead, "to this bed tonight."
He kissed the antique silver signet ring on my pinky, his voice thick with gravel and the sacred weight of an unbreakable promise.
"You are my only team, Marie," he vowed, his breath warming my skin as the embers faded to gray. "My only home. And I will love you until the ice burns out."