Epilogue
ARIELLE
The first thing I notice is the quiet.
No howling wind, no rattling windows, no distant engines. Just the soft crackle of a fire and the slow, steady thump of a heart beneath my ear.
Davin’s.
I burrow closer on instinct, fingers fisting in his thermal, breathing in cedar smoke and leather and something that smells like home.
For half a second, I let myself hover between sleep and waking, floating in that sweet space where danger is still a bad dream and I haven’t yet remembered that the world can be cruel.
Then, I hear snoring from the living room. Gus. It’s a tiny, snuffling chainsaw. My lips curve.
Okay. Not a dream.
I blink my eyes open.
Davin’s side of the bed is empty, thermal rumpled, sheets still warm. In his place is a folded red flannel with a note tucked on top in his scrawled, no-nonsense handwriting.
Stay in bed. No peeking. —D.
I grin.
Yeah, right.
Slipping out from under the covers, I tug on his flannel. It hangs to mid-thigh, smelling like him.
I crack the bedroom door, noticing a soft glow emanating from the end of the hallway.
I tiptoe its dark length, grimacing at every squeaky floorboard. Then, I gasp.
Davin’s cabin—his bare-bones, Grinch-ass, strictly-functional cabin—has exploded in Christmas.
A huge pine tree stands in the corner by the front window, branches sparkling with white lights and mismatched ornaments.
Some are clearly new, shiny red and gold balls, snowflakes, tiny silver stars.
Others are older, dented metal and wood, like they’ve been sitting in a box in someone’s attic for years.
A plaid tree skirt pools at the base of the trunk, wrapped around a few carefully placed presents. Red and white stockings hang from the mantel, one with a scrawled D, one with an A … and one tiny bulldog-faced one with a GUS in crooked Sharpie letters.
Warm yellow lights are strung along the ceiling beams, draped over the curtain rods, twined around the railing by the door. The coffee table is covered in a red-and-green plaid runner with three little candles and a bowl of peppermint candies.
It looks like a Christmas card crawled in here and settled down to live.
“Wow…” My voice trails off.
As if on cue, Gus waddles toward me in a red knit sweater that I absolutely did not buy him.
I blink. “Is that … does his sweater have reindeer on it?”
Davin grimaces. “Callie sent it. Said if I didn’t put it on him, she’d tell Mateo to come up here and Christmas-judgment my ass.”
Gus pauses by the tree, the tiny bell on his collar jingling. The sweater is bright red with prancing reindeer, little snowflakes, and a huge white pom-pom on the hood.
I clap a hand over my mouth. “He’s so cute, I can’t breathe.”
“Looks like a furry bratwurst,” Davin mutters. “With issues.” He steps closer until we’re a hair’s breadth apart.
Gus trots between us, pawing at my ankle until I scoop him up. “What did I tell you, Princess. A total cockblocker,” Davin groans, but there’s a new softness in his voice.
The pug squirms in my arms, twisting so he can lick Davin’s hand.
“Traitor,” I whisper into his fur.
Davin watches us, cerulean eyes warmer than I’ve ever seen them.
For a moment, the whole world narrows to this: a decorated cabin, a ridiculous pug in a reindeer sweater, and a man who used to swear he’d never do gentle looking at me like I hung the damn stars.
“Morning, Princess.”
He wears a dark green henley and worn jeans, barefoot, hair rumpled from sleep.
“Merry Christmas,” he adds.
My throat tightens. “You … did all this?”
He shrugs, awkward, like it’s no big deal that the man who threatened to throw my pug into a snowbank now lives in a Hallmark snow globe. “Wolfe brought a team sled up early, dropped supplies. Callie and Mateo sent the tree and half this crap. I just hung it.”
“Just hung it,” I repeat faintly, taking everything in. “There are lights on your beams.”
“Yeah, well.” He clears his throat. “You said you wanted Christmas.”
Emotion swells in my chest, warm and fierce. “Davin…”
His mouth quirks. “Did I do okay?”
I laugh, watery, stepping closer to him. “But you hate Christmas.”
“I hate noise and fake cheer and parties,” he corrects, sliding his free hand to my waist. “Don’t hate watching my girl lose her mind over twinkle lights.”
My heart does something ridiculous in my ribcage. “Your girl?”
“Pretty sure we established that,” he says, voice roughening. “Repeatedly.”
Heat scorches my cheeks at the memories. “Yeah, but, like … in front of your tree? With your stockings?” I glance over his shoulder. “You even gave Gus a stocking. He’s going to lord that over you forever.”
“Our tree. Our stockings,” he corrects.
I can’t hide the ear-to-ear grin that captures my lips.
“As for Gus, he’s already entitled. So, figured I’d take my chances,” he murmurs, eyes on my lips. “You sleep okay?”
“When you let me sleep.” He smiles, lazy and naughty all at once. “And you?”
“After Wolfe’s text? Yeah.” His hand strokes my waist absent-mindedly. “Task force swept the area at dawn. The rest of the Sol Rojo crew that was sniffing around got picked up on the road. RRC Command’s got them in a box. They’re not going anywhere near you.”
The last bit of tension that’s been living between my shoulder blades finally lets go.
“So it’s really over?” I whisper.
“As over as it gets,” he says. “Wolfe’ll spend a few months tearing out the rest of their roots. You won’t see them. He promised.”
I swallow hard, then lean into him, pressing my forehead to his chest. “Thank you. For all of this.”
His arms come around me, leather and woodsmoke.
“Wasn’t just me, Princess,” he rumbles. “You kept your head. Fought like hell. You’re brave as they come.”
“I was terrified.”
“Being brave when you’re not scared is easy,” he says. “You were brave while terrified. That’s what counts.”
I tip my head back to look up at him. “When did you get so good with words?”
He snorts. “Still not. Just really motivated with you.”
My chest fills so fast it almost hurts.
“Davin?”
“Yeah?”
“I love our stupid tree.”
One corner of his mouth kicks up, slow and full of heat. “I love your stupid sweater that jingles every time I touch you. And thankfully, has been replaced by flannel.”
I smack his chest lightly. “That sweater is iconic.”
“So’s this,” he murmurs, leaning down until his nose touches mine.
His lips brush mine once, twice—no urgency, no fear, just a long, slow, deep kiss that tastes like coffee and cinnamon and the promise of an entire life.
A tiny bell jingles between us.
He pulls back with a groan. “Of all the sweaters Callie could get for Gus, it had to have bells, too. I swear, every time one rings an angel gets its wings, and I lose five brain cells.”
“Worth it,” I whisper, breathless, bending to let Gus back down.
Davin huffs out a laugh, then nods toward the tree. “Come on. Before Mateo shows up and freaks out again.”
I blink. “He’s coming here?”
“Later. He and Callie and half of Rough & Ready are bringing dinner.” He grimaces like this is a personal hardship. “Apparently, we’re hosting.”
My heart does that stupid swoopy thing again. “We’re hosting?”
“Yeah, Princess.” His gaze holds mine. “We.”
I can’t help it. I launch myself into his arms. He catches me with a grunt, hauling me up against him like I weigh nothing.
“You okay?” he asks, laughter in his voice.
“I’m … disgustingly happy,” I admit, throat thick. “Is that allowed in Grinch Cabin?”
He sets me down gently, tipping my chin up. “Correction. Our cabin. And yeah, happiness is allowed. In moderation.”
“In moderation,” I echo, rolling my eyes. “Grumpy man.”
“Sunshine menace,” he counters fondly.
We drift toward the tree, and I finally notice the ornaments with actual thought.
On one side hangs a little wooden snowmobile with First Christmas on the Mountain burned into it in clumsy letters.
On another, a tiny metal Saint Michael medallion.
There’s a glass ornament shaped like a coffee mug, one like a gingerbread house, and one flat metal circle stamped with RRC and a tiny Ranger tab.
But the one that makes my throat close is near the middle.
It’s a photo ornament, rough, like it was thrown together overnight.
Inside is a picture Mateo must’ve sent—me sandwiched between Callie and Mateo on their wedding day, all of us laughing, hair blowing in the wind.
Someone—Davin, probably—has written Family across the bottom in blocky black Sharpie.
My eyes sting. “You did this?”
“Wolfe printed it,” Davin says. “I just stuck it in a frame.”
“Stop downplaying,” I sniffle. “It’s perfect.”
“Good,” he says, quiet, pleased.
Gus toddles to the tree and noses toward his stocking.
Davin groans. “Fine. You can open yours first, gremlin.”
I grin. “You got him a present?”
“Don’t make it weird,” he mutters, reaching up to unhook the tiny stocking. Inside are a rubber squeak toy shaped like a snowman and a tiny bag of fancy dog treats.
Gus goes feral over the squeaker immediately, launching into a vigorous murder-shake that sends it squealing around the room.
Davin watches him, deadpan. “If he squeaks that during dinner, I’m feeding him to Wolfe.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” I say, bumping his hip with mine. “He’s your son now.”
“That’s slander.”
“Legally binding,” I counter. “Sorry, I don’t make the rules. Santa does.”
“Santa can fight me,” he grumbles.
I glance up pointedly.
He frowns. “What?”
“Mistletoe,” I say.
His eyes follow mine to the little green sprig hanging from the ceiling beam directly above us, tied with a red ribbon.
He sighs, defeated. “Callie again.”
“Smart woman,” I say smugly.
“Yeah?” He steps in closer, crowding me back toward the tree until my shoulders brush low branches. “You know what I told her when she suggested it?”
“What?” My voice comes out softer than I intend.
“That it was unnecessary.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I don’t need an excuse to kiss you.”
Heat blooms under my skin.
“Then, you should probably do it,” I whisper, “before Gus squeaks the moment away.”
Right on cue, the snowman toy shrieks from near the couch.
Davin’s mouth curves, wolfish and tender all at once. “Copy that.”
His kiss is deeper this time, his hand cupping the back of my neck, the other splaying warm and solid at my lower back. The world outside—cartels, storms, scars—fades into background noise. There’s only this man, this cabin, this life I never saw coming and never want to lose.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing a little harder, he rests his forehead against mine.
“Got one more thing for you,” he murmurs.
“Davin, you already did all this—”
He shakes his head, reaching into his back pocket. He pulls out a small, flat box, not ring-sized. My heart thuds anyway.
“Relax,” he says dryly. “I know better than to propose before Mateo has a chance to calm down.”
I laugh, shaky. “You say that like it’s just a matter of time.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “It is.”
Heat flares in my chest.
He presses the box into my hands.
Inside is a key on a simple silver chain. The key has a tiny engraved mountain on the handle and a tiny heart etched into the base.
“It’s not much,” he says, almost gruff. “Just … front door key. House key. Key to my heart. Whatever you want it to be. But it’s yours. Same as this place. Same as me.”
For a second, my vision blurs.
“This is…” My voice cracks. “This is everything.”
“Good,” he says. “Because so are you.”
I throw my arms around his neck, the key chain digging into my palm as I hold on for dear life. “Merry Christmas, Caveman.”
His arms cinch around my waist, lifting me off my feet.
“Merry Christmas, Princess,” he rumbles. “Welcome home.”
Gus barks once—sharp, possessive, as if to add And don’t forget me—then flops onto his back under the tree, reindeer sweater riding up and jingling as he wiggles happily.
I laugh through my tears, pressing my face into Davin’s neck.
This man. This mountain. This ridiculous little gremlin in a Christmas sweater.
For the first time in my life, Christmas doesn’t feel like a day on the calendar.
It feels like the first page of forever.
Gus survived snowstorms, cartel thugs … and now he’s supervising the most scandalous Christmas surprise yet.