Epilogue
DAMIEN
I’ve seen a lot of things in my life that made time feel like it was stopping. Fights. Fire. The way fear looks on a man’s face right before he decides to run or stay. But nothing—not a single damn thing—comes close to the sound of a newborn drawing its first breath.
No matter how many times she does it, it feels like a miracle. I can’t help but look at my little trouble maker like the fucking warrior she is.
Vincent is sitting at the head of the bed, Willow’s hand in both of his. She’s pale, damp hair stuck to her temples, eyes half-shut with exhaustion and something fierce behind it.
Cast stands at her other side, one hand braced at her shoulder, the other gripping the rail like it’s keeping him from breaking apart. And despite us having four birthing videos already, I am on filming duty.
“Breathe with me, Willow,” the nurse says softly. “Good. That’s it. Again.”
She obeys, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. Her body trembles. The sound she makes isn’t a scream—it’s deeper than that, guttural, pulled from somewhere ancient.
Vincent leans close, whispering to her, his forehead resting against her temple. “You’re okay. You’re almost there.”
The nurse says, “One more, Willow. Almost there.”
And Willow, in true Willow fashion, grits her teeth and says, “You said that three contractions ago.”
Vincent’s voice is rough as he presses a kiss to Willow’s forehead. “She always lies near the end. You know that baby.”
“You got this, Trouble,” I call out and the glare she gives me, fuck if looks could kill I would fucking disintegrates on sight.
She laughs—hoarse, half a sob—and another contraction grips her. The muscles in her arms tighten; her whole body draws inward like a wave building force.
“Now,” the nurse says.
Willow pushes.
Every line of her face hardens—determined, furious, beautiful. Her voice fractures into raw sound. Cast presses his palm to her shoulder, grounding her. Vincent’s whisper turns into steady encouragement, the rhythm of his words keeping pace with the pulse of the monitor.
Then the sound cuts through the air—thin at first, a trembling wisp of noise that barely seems real.
A cry.
It quivers, uncertain, like his lungs are learning how to work. Then another follows, fuller, stronger, echoing off the sterile tile and glass. It sharpens into something fierce, a protest and a promise all at once. The kind of sound that splits a life cleanly into before and after.
The nurse’s gloved hands move quick, sure, catching him in one smooth motion. A rush of warmth, the slick gleam of new skin, the faint steam of him rising in the hospital light. “He’s here,” she breathes, her voice small against the sudden enormity of the moment.
Willow collapses back into the bed, a shudder leaving her body as though she’s exhaled the entire world. Her skin gleams under the lights—damp, flushed, radiant. Her chest lifts and falls in shallow bursts, every breath edged with exhaustion and relief.
The nurse sets the baby on Willow’s chest. Skin against skin. The small, slick body curls instinctively toward her warmth.
He’s red, wet, perfect. His tiny fists open and close as if trying to grab the world.
Willow blinks through tears, her hands trembling as she touches him. Her fingertips trace his back, his shoulder, the soft curve of his skull. She laughs, then cries harder. “Hi,” she whispers. “Hi, baby.”
Vincent’s hand joins hers, steady and shaking all at once. He presses his thumb to the baby’s back, his lips parting soundlessly before he finds the words. “You did it,” he murmurs to Willow. “You did it, love.”
Cast wipes at his face with the back of his hand, pretending it’s just sweat. He clears his throat, voice rough. “He’s got her mouth.”
Vincent lets out a breath that sounds half like a laugh, half like surrender. “And my nose. Poor kid.”
The baby cries again, louder this time, lungs announcing his place in the world. Willow smiles through it, eyes shining, and presses a trembling kiss to his damp hair.
“Matthew,” she whispers. “His name’s Matthew.”
I steady the camera, my throat thick. “I think that’s perfect, baby,” I murmur, zooming in on her sweet, tear-streaked face.
She laughs softly, half-asleep, half-in awe, and lifts Matthew’s tiny hand. His fingers curl around her thumb.
“Say hi,” she coaxes, voice barely a breath.
The newborn hand opens once—small, uncertain—and she helps him wave toward the lens.
The frame wobbles as I blink against the sting in my eyes. Behind her, Vincent leans closer, his head bowed over both of them, and Cast’s reflection catches faintly in the hospital glass, arms folded, smiling like a man who’s seen too much and finally understands peace.
In the glow of it, Willow looks up at me, at all of us, her voice the gentlest thing I’ve ever heard. “He’s perfect.”
But I look at Vincent and Cast, because sure he’s perfect but only because half of him is her, and she is perfect in every little way.
Thank you for spending Christmas with Willow and her men
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~ Love and chaos
Sophie
If you haven’t read Jasmines book get to it now Ruthless Raiders.
Here is a sneak peek…
Landon
They buried my sister in Potter’s Field—the graveyard of the forgotten, where the world sends its nameless dead, as if no one ever loved them.
My sister, the brightest light in my life since I was four, died alone on the side of a road two counties away.
They laid her to rest as a Jane Doe, like she’d never mattered to anyone.
I stand at the edge of Potter’s Field, rancid air thick with flies, smoking a joint as if I might somehow spot her in the emptiness.
The land stretches out, wide and unkind—dirt packed hard, grass sparse and brittle. Wooden stakes lean crooked under the sun, nameless markers rotting into the ground. No headstones. No flowers. Just row after row of the disappeared.
I scan each hollow dip in the soil like it might open up and give her back to me. But they all look the same. Hollow. Abandoned. Loveless.
“Been out here for hours, man,” Isaiah murmurs behind me. “We don’t know when, or where they buried her.”
I turn around and narrow my eyes on Isaiah. His moss green hair covers his eyes as he stares off into the distance, not making eye contact with me.
He sighs, his shoulders concaving into his chest a bit. “It happens to the best of us.”
I suck in a sharp breath and lock my gaze on the silver piercings lining the curve of his ear like stars in a constellation. “I want out, Zay.”
“There is no out, Lan.” He doesn’t even look at me—just shifts his weight and shoves his fists deeper into his hoodie pockets like he’s digging himself into the ground.
Isaiah Cross. Best friends with Xavier—the next in line to head the Raiders—and his half-brother on their mother’s side.
Isaiah was born into this shit the moment his father croaked and he turned up at the Raiders’ house at thirteen looking for his mother, who claimed Isaiah was a stillbirth.
That whole scene was a shitshow. Let’s just say Mom’s no longer around, and Isaiah’s got the scars to prove he wasn’t exactly welcomed home.
But none of that matters to the current head, Marcus, who is full blooded brothers with Xavier and would have killed Isaiah years ago if it wasn't for Xavier constantly putting his neck on the line for him.
Regardless, all that means is if he says there’s no out, then there’s no out. Period.
But I snort anyway, more venom than humor in the sound.
“Bullshit,” I say, voice sharp as I pass him the joint and exhale a long stream of smoke into the bleeding orange sky.
The Raiders are the largest motorcycle gang in the South, with their Texas chapter reigning as the nerve center of the entire operation.
They're not just muscle—they're enforcers, executioners, and street-level kings with deep ties to the Italian Mafia.
If the Mafia is the brain, the Raiders are the fist. And when that fist swings, it breaks bones. Crossing them means crossing Italy—and no one’s reckless enough to do that.
No one, except the Cartel.
Zay smiles, just barely—his lips quirk crooked and cold. He flicks the ash, eyes unreadable, and lifts the blunt to his mouth. “If you want out,” he murmurs, slow and deliberate, “I’ll give you out.”
“I thought you said there was no out.”
“There’s not.” He nods, lips curling around the words. “The out is death, Landon.” He holds the joint between his fingers like a loaded gun and points with his chin. “I’ll bury you right over there. Shallow grave. Save us both the trouble later.”
I snatch the blunt back, drag hard—burning it straight to the filter like it might burn this feeling out of me. My lungs rebel, cough ripping up my throat, but I ride it out. “I can’t follow Marcus after this,” I say, voice ragged. “This is his fault.”
Zay’s eyes narrow. “You knew what kind of man Marcus was when you swore in.”
“I joined for my sister.”
“And Kelly knew who Marcus was.” His voice doesn’t even waver. Just flat and brutal, like a blade pressed against my ribs. “We all knew. You don’t get to play the victim now.”
I want to hit him. Just once. Just enough to crack that fucking jaw he keeps clenching like the truth doesn’t even taste bitter to him.
“You chose to be a brother,” he says. “You think I can just let you walk?”
“I’m not asking.” I say, my voice more even than I expected it to be, because the minute I found out my sister was missing, and then dead, I have been spiraling.
I feel like I can’t fucking breathe and the thought of pledging loyalty to the man who had my sister hooked on fucking meth for the past four years and then excommunicated from the only place she knew in this entire country is fucking mad and I won’t do it.