Epilogue
MARIE
“I’m pregnant.”
Those two words took a long time to come out of my mouth, but it’s the only way Trick would believe it. Now, the room is dead silent.
But then Trick cuts the tension. “You’re…you’re sure?” he blurts, one hand going to his bandaged thigh. The question is half-laugh, half-daze. “Not that I’m doubting your word, baby girl, just…holy crap.”
A shaky laugh escapes me. “Yes, Trick. I’m sure.”
Sam strides straight to me, pulls me into his arms, and kisses me deeply. Before he can even speak, Hugo steals me away, picks me up, and spins me in the air before planting an even deeper kiss. Abruptly, a thick arm inserts between us, and Trick hooks me into his bloody embrace, kissing me dizzy.
When they’re finally done with my mouth, a nervous laugh comes out of me. “You’re not mad?”
They laugh like that’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. Sam—my stoic—grins like a madman. “Are you nuts? That’s the best news in the world!”
“Really?”
Hugo takes my hands in his. “Love, I recognize that tonight has been an evening of extremes for all of us. So, I wish to make this clear. There is nothing you could have told us that would make us happier.”
Trick pipes up, “I thought you were leaving us. Giving us a baby is way, way better than that.”
“Leaving you?”
“Obviously, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to us, and you’re smart enough to know that we’re too dumb for you, so?—”
“Don’t make me poke your bullet hole, mister.” Not that I would. Just saying the words makes me sick. But I wasn’t about to listen to him insult the men I love.
He holds his hands up in submission. “Alright, alright. No need for further violence, little mama. We’re having a kid!” he practically shouts, eyes shining. “We’re gonna teach ’em to fish, fix cars, speak French, and bake cookies. All the important stuff.”
A giddy laugh bursts out of me. Even if we don’t know the logistics of whose baby just yet, that detail doesn’t matter because we’re in this together.
And I don’t know why, but I love hearing him call me little mama . But all the joy I’ve experienced in the past minute or two washes away when I see Dad’s face. He’s so disappointed in me, so angry. But knowing how the guys feel and knowing how I do too, I’m refusing to accept it.
I turn to face my father, who’s still posted up by the far wall, watching this display with arms crossed and brow furrowed. My chest tightens at the reminder that not everyone in this room is celebrating. “Dad,” I say quietly, stepping closer. “I know you’re still angry with me. But you’re going to be a grandfather. Do you…want to be in their life, or is this the end?”
There it is—the ultimatum I never wanted to deliver but had no choice in. I read his face as easily as any book. Fear, sadness, a distant longing, and behind it all, a seed of hope he’s trying to hide. I hold my breath, waiting.
He lets out a long, weary sigh. “Marie, you sure know how to corner a man. Truth is, after seeing how they saved my life tonight, I can’t rightly say they’d be bad fathers. I’ve seen them fight for the people they care about. Lord knows they’d do anything to protect you. And you them.”
“We came here to protect you , Dad. Because we’re a family. It might not be the family you pictured, but we’re the ones you’ve got. That is, if you want us.”
He swallows something down. His anger, perhaps. He grimaces, then shrugs. “I don’t like my daughter in a relationship with three men, and I don’t like the gossip that’s going to come with it. But if we’re talking about my grandchild…well, I guess they could do worse than you boys.”
The guys breathe, and I think I do too. “Thank you. It means everything that you’ll be part of our child’s life. Even if it’s complicated right now.”
Dad just grunts. “One day at a time.”
A sudden, abrupt sway from Trick catches my attention. “Woah…is it just me, or is the room spinning?” Before any of us can respond, his knees buckle. Sam and Hugo both lunge forward, catching him under the arms.
“Easy, buddy,” Sam murmurs, guiding Trick down to the couch. “That bullet was no joke. You’re still losing blood, and you’ve got whiskey in your system.”
Trick’s eyelids flutter. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just need a minute.”
I kneel beside him, tucking one of the throw pillows under his head. “You need more than a minute, you big dummy. You need rest. A hospital?—”
Hugo sets a careful hand on my shoulder. “We did all we could here. Another set of fresh bandages might help. Then, if his bleeding doesn’t stop soon, we’ll take him to the ER in the next parish. But let’s not drag him there if we can stabilize him ourselves.”
We divide and conquer the problem. Dad leaves for his first aid kit, Sam helps Trick get comfortable, and I run for towels while Hugo gloves up again to examine the wound.
When we finish rewrapping Trick’s leg, the wound is no longer bleeding through. He’s drifting in and out of consciousness, but he insists he feels “just peachy.” Sam elevates his leg on a couple of cushions, and we agree to keep an eye on him for the next few hours, in case we need an ER run.
Sunrise creeps through the cracked curtains of my father’s living room, illuminating the chaos left in the wake of last night’s fight. Outside, Auclair’s four finest are examining things, two coroner vans collecting whatever they find. Inside, there’s the splintered doorframe, scuffed floors, an overturned lamp—signs that we narrowly escaped disaster.
Sheriff Copeland comes back in, a raised brow on her face when she looks at Trick. “Ezekiel 23:20. The donkey emissions scripture?”
He grins. “See? Enlightening.”
Her exasperated laugh echoes in my house. “Never change, Trick. Never change.”
“Don’t plan to. Except for my leg.” He yawns.
She looks at Sam, and he nods, letting her know Trick will be okay. She sighs, relieved. “Okay, big guy. Talk later.” She leaves.
My heart thumps hard in my chest as I look around at the men who mean the world to me. I’ve been cleaning, but my stomach growls loud enough that I know it’s time to eat, so I switch to cooking.
Golden light streams through the windows, highlighting just how trashed Dad’s house has become. I couldn’t see it all to clean it before. But with full morning sunlight, the damage is impossible to miss. The scuff marks on the walls, broken bits of furniture, a hole in the drywall. Dad eyes the damage with a resigned sigh.
“You just can’t have a peaceful night around here, can you?” I say softly, trying for a note of levity. My nerves still feel jittery from all the adrenaline.
Dad shakes his head. “Looks like we’ve got some fixing up to do.”
“We can handle most of the repairs,” Sam offers, voice firm. “It’s the least we can do, considering the damage is partly our fault.”
Hugo slides off the stool, rolling his sleeves. “I can work a hammer well enough,” he says with a half-smile, “although I suspect Sam’s better at it. Let’s see what we can do.”
Dad huffs. “Y’all helped build my house. I expect full support.” There’s a little glimmer in his eye when he says it, and that tells me things are going to be okay as far as we’re all concerned. He gestures to the toolshed out back. “Plenty of nails and boards out there. Might as well get started.”
They head out the back door, leaving me inside with a still-woozy Trick. I find eggs, flour, and the fixings for pancakes. The quiet act of measuring and mixing feels almost surreal after the insanity of last night. But it’s a welcome slice of calm.
As I pour batter onto a sizzling griddle, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the microwave door—disheveled hair, bruises forming on my arms and throat, and a faint tear track on one cheek from earlier.
How did I get here? I wonder briefly. Then I smile to myself. Oh yeah, because a human trafficker decided I was a target. He’s not coming back, that I am sure of. He said something about a buyer who wanted me in particular, but he never gave details.
I push it out of my mind. He was just a psycho making up bullshit. I never want to have to threaten someone with a knife again in my life, but it was effective. And now, I get to live my life the way I want to.
A life with three men who’d lay it all on the line for me.
I flip the pancakes just in time for Sam to reappear, dusty and sweaty from hauling a stack of wooden boards. He sets them down by the door and slides behind me, hooking his chin over my shoulder. “Smells good,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my temple.
My heart flips. “Thought you were working outside.”
Sam gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Hugo’s got the muscle memory for repairs. I’d just be his glorified assistant anyway.” He offers a small grin. “And I trust your cooking more than I trust my hammering skills.”
Warmth floods my cheeks, and I realize how domestic this all feels. Another wave of surreal joy washes over me. Is this what life could be?
I fill a plate with fresh pancakes and hand it to Sam, who carries it into the living room. Trick is awake enough to eat, albeit groggily. Hugo comes in a few minutes later, wiping sweat from his forehead, and Dad trails behind him, each of them grabbing a stack.
The tension between them is far from gone, but it’s less suffocating now. We all share a bizarre, post-battle breakfast in the living room, because the kitchen table is blood coated from Trick’s impromptu surgery.
Dad takes a bite, eyes flicking to me. “Always did love your mom’s pancakes. You got her talent.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I catch Hugo’s eye. He gives me a slight smile. Sam carefully helps Trick sit up against the couch pillows so he can eat, and the man devours his plate in minutes, making delirious mmm -ing noises that draw out a chuckle from Dad despite himself.
Trick wipes a drip of syrup from his chin. “Sorry, Preacher,” he says around a mouthful, “but your daughter’s cooking is officially heaven.”
Dad’s expression twitches—part amusement, part annoyance—but at least he doesn’t snap a retort.
When the plates are empty, Sam gathers them up. That’s when Hugo sets his plate down, levels me with a thoughtful gaze, and says, “Marie, there’s something I wanted to ask you. Something we all want to ask, actually.”
“What’s going on?”
Hugo clears his throat softly. “We were wondering if you’d consider moving in with us. Properly.”
“Move in? For real?”
Hugo’s gaze is gentle. “We want to take care of you—and the baby—together. It just makes sense, no?”
Trick wiggles his eyebrows, though the movement makes him wince. “And I think we can all agree that once I’m healed up, there’ll be a hell of a lot more fun if we’re under the same roof.” His suggestive wink earns him a not-so-subtle elbow in the ribs from Sam.
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I can’t help a tiny grin. Then, I glance over at my father. He’s staring up at the ceiling in a silent prayer.
“Dad?” I venture softly, though I have no idea what I’m expecting him to say. “You gonna lose your mind if I say yes?”
He huffs, lips pursing like he’s biting back a scathing remark. Finally, he mutters, “That congregation of mine is going to have a field day. If you move in, they’ll probably hold an emergency prayer circle.”
Sam’s mouth quirks, and I suspect he’s suppressing a wry grin. “Once they see the baby, they’ll all melt. No one will care how that child came into this world.”
This is the life I want. I know that down to my bones. Turning back to the guys, I clasp my hands together, heart pounding. “Yes,” I say, the word slipping out before I can overthink it. “I’d love to move in with you.”
A collective wave of relief washes over the three of them. Trick flashes that trademark grin, Sam’s eyes gleam with a rare joy, and Hugo’s lips curl in a gentle smile. Even Dad, in the corner, closes his eyes like he’s accepting a minor defeat. Maybe in time, he’ll see it’s more of a victory—for all of us.
“Then it’s settled,” Sam says. “We’ll handle the logistics. We’ll get you moved in as soon as we can. Like us, you can have your own bedroom, and we have other spares to make a perfect nursery.”
The mention of the baby sends a rush of warmth through me. I press a hand to my stomach. “Thank you.”
Dad clears his throat. “Well, if we’re done planning to scandalize the entire parish, I’ve got a half-broken door out back. I could use some more help before y’all run off to your love nest.”
Sam picks up the hammer from the floor, handing it to Dad. “Lead the way.”
As the men shuffle outside to mend the door, I wipe the table that served as Trick’s operating station and straighten a few pictures my father has on the wall.
One day , there will be pictures of my child here too. Our child.
Yes, the path ahead will be messy and full of complications. Yes, the folks in town will gossip. And yes, Dad’s acceptance is still tenuous at best. But for the first time, I’m not running from the future—I’m excited about it.
I move to the window, watching them work on the door in the early morning sun—Sam measuring carefully, Hugo holding boards in place, Dad barking instructions, and Trick snoozing on the couch. This is my family. Unconventional, sure, but so are most great things in life.
There’s a soft knock at the windowsill. Sam glances up, catching my eye, and he gives me a small, private smile that says, Come on, we need you out here. I return his smile, heart light. Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I head outside to join them, stepping over bits of broken wood and shattered glass, into the brand new day that lies ahead.
The End
Dear precious reader, thank you for reading Inked Daddies!
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