Epilogue
Violet
Ican hear Beau hammering before I smell the sawdust.
Hard, rhythmic whacks, each one followed by a muttered curse or an enthusiastic “Nailed it!” even when, based on the clattering aftermath, he very much did not nail it.
He’s humming enthusiastically, some chaotic mash of a pop song and what might be a wolf war-chant. The sound vibrates through the boards of the gazebo and into my fingertips.
His girlfriend—yes, that girlfriend; Fiona, all wolf-princess confidence and effortless grace—hands him tools he definitely didn’t ask for. Or need.
Every time she brushes against him, Beau emits a delighted little whuff, a soft huff of air that sounds like a tiny puppy sneeze wrapped in raw adoration.
Like he still can’t believe she exists. Like she might vanish if he doesn’t keep checking that she’s real.
“Sweetheart, that’s a wrench,” Beau says gently, trying to be patient.
“Yes,” she replies serenely, as if this is helpful.
“I asked for a screwdriver.”
“I am preventing you from screwing anything,” she says matter-of-factly. “This is protective behavior.”
He makes a wounded noise. “I am responsible.”
I snort. “You literally fell off a ladder yesterday.”
“That ladder was weak. I am very responsible.”
I laugh so hard I have to hold the railing. The smell of sawdust thickens, warm and woody, drifting over me with the breeze. Someone spins, the air shifts, and Fiona’s voice carries again. “Violet, he is building your planter wrong.”
“I am building it with soul,” Beau calls back.
“There are no straight lines,” she mutters.
“Straight lines are a tool of the oppressor.”
Grinning, I wipe a tear from my cheek. “This is my romantic subplot.”
Beau gasps dramatically. “You have a romantic subplot?”
Before I can respond, another voice drifts from somewhere behind me, low, fond, unmistakably Jason.
“She has a main plot, Beau.”
Warmth crawls up my neck.
Beau makes a strangled little grunt. “Are you back? You’re back? You’re—”
A tool clatters. A board crashes. Beau yelps. “I’m okay!”
Jason’s footsteps approach steady, familiar, grounding.
And when his hand brushes mine, everything in me unwinds.
He’s been working with the Eustace alphas.
They’re helping him be a better alpha, and he’s bringing a softer side out in them.
They’re still into some criminal stuff but have gotten out of gambling.
They’re even sending kids who are in a similar situation to what Jason was in our way when they come across them.
I’ve finally discovered something worthwhile to do with the money from the settlement.
There’s nothing better than funding a program for lost and orphaned boys with the money from tragedy.
Jason climbs the steps and kisses me.
Beau sniffs loudly. “Don’t be gross around my construction project.”
“You dropped a hammer on your own foot,” Jason says dryly.
“I was distracted by love,” Beau argues.
Fiona sighs. “My idiot.”
“My princess,” Beau breathes.
Jason’s hand tightens around mine.
“Welcome home,” I murmur. For the first time since he left, my heart finally settles.
The air is thick with rosemary, grilled vegetables, and the buttery warmth of fresh bread cooling on a tray.
My garden smells like summer and earth and the sweet green scent of life: herbs crushed under Beau’s clumsy boots, tomatoes warming in the sun, petals brushing against each other in a lazy breeze.
The gazebo smells like cedar and sun-warmed wood, like a place built by steady hands and stubborn hope. I trace the Braille markers under my fingertips, each one a small, carved truth waiting for me to find it.
I trace the one on the right. It’s new.
Pack’s Heart.
My breath catches.
The dots are smooth, rounded, pressed lovingly into the grain, not rushed, not sloppy, but patient. Intentional. The kind of work someone does when they want every touch to matter.
“Pack’s… Heart,” I whisper.
The words wrap around my ribs, warm and heavy.
Jason goes still beside me. Not frozen. Not alarmed. Just… present.
“What does it mean?” I ask softly, brushing the Braille again. “Is it a direction?”
Silence.
Then his fingers slide over mine, warm, shaking a little, guiding my hand across the markings as if he’s teaching me how to read the meaning beneath the dots.
“It’s a title,” he says quietly.
A tremor runs through me. “For who?”
He leans closer, voice low and hushed. “For you.”
My throat tightens. “Jason…”
“You built this garden,” he murmurs, voice rough with feeling he can’t hide. “You brought life into a place that barely had any. You brought Beau home without even trying. You stood in front of the alphas and you… didn’t break.”
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, a slow, protective sweep.
“You’re the heart of this place,” he says. “Of us. Even if you don’t want a pack.”
A breath.
“I think you already are one.”
The word heart thrums under my skin, the way it does when he says my name in the dark.
My hand trembles over the carving. “Jason,” I whisper again, “I’m not—”
“You are,” he says simply. “You’re the one who keeps us together. You don’t even see it.”
“I’m not a wolf.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re something stronger.”
The breeze shifts. Rosemary brushes my knees. Beau’s laughter drifts from the distance. Jason leans into me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
And the Braille under my fingertips hums with truth.
Pack’s Heart.
Mine.
His.
Ours.
For a moment, the entire world settles around us, soft, sunlit, breathless.
And for the first time I believe him.
My hand drifts over the wood again, slow, steady, each groove familiar, each ridge a reminder of him. Of us. Of the way he builds things with his whole heart even when he swears he doesn’t know how to be gentle.
I press my palm against the rail, grounding myself as the truth swells in my chest.
It’s our anniversary, but we don’t celebrate with fancy clothes and reservations. To us, it’s not a date you circle on a calendar with hearts and reminders.
It’s something quieter.
It’s something deeper.
One year since the day we became a pack, not officially, not magically, but truthfully.
One year since Jason almost died. The memory hits like a storm surge—cold, heavy, unavoidable.
The sound he made when he hit the ground. The bloodlust thick in the air.
The way I barreled into the clearing with no idea what I was going to do but knowing I would do whatever it takes.
My fingers curl against the railing. I can still feel the moment I realized what losing him would do to me.
Jason steps closer, not touching, not crowding, just… there.
He can hear my breathing shift. He can scent the memory on my skin.
He always can.
“Violet,” he murmurs, voice a low, careful rumble.
I swallow hard, my throat aching.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” I whisper. “Not that night.”
His breath catches, a soft, involuntary sound.
He rests his hand over mine on the rail, warm and solid, his thumb brushing once across my knuckles. “I know.”
“And I—” I blow out a breath. “I didn’t realize until then how much of my world you’d taken up. How much of me you held.”
His fingers tighten around mine, fierce, protective, aching.
“I didn’t think I’d make it either,” he says softly. “Not until I heard your voice.”
My heart lurches.
“The moment you came flying in with your megaphone…”
His voice fractures, just slightly.
Warm tears sting behind my eyes, but it’s not grief or pain. It’s something brighter.
A year.
A lifetime.
One breath.
One miracle.
“We survived,” I whisper.
He leans in until his forehead rests against the side of my head, breath warm in my hair.
“No,” he murmurs. “We lived.”
And under my fingers, the Braille marker hums.
Pack’s Heart.
The place everything returns to.
One year since I charged into a wolf execution wearing yesterday’s jeans and emotional delusion.
One year since Beau became the greatest beta in existence.
And one year since Meemaw adopted an entire wolf pack like stray barn kittens.
And tonight, we celebrate.
“Violet!” Beau calls from somewhere near the herb beds. “Everything smells amazing! Also, I put up those lanterns like you asked! And then I added five more because ambiance!”
Fiona laughs, bright and melodic with a hint of mischief. “He means he added too many and tripped over one.”
“Details!” Beau yells back.
I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.
“I better go see what they’re up to.”
I grin. “You two are the best helpers.”
The air shifts behind me, warm, steady, familiar.
And then I feel it, a soft puff of breath against my cheek. A presence like lavender sachets and family. A hand smoothing my hair like I’m five and also somehow the commander of a small army.
Meemaw.
“Child,” she murmurs, voice rich with affection and judgment wrapped in one, “I leave you alone for five minutes and your backyard turns into a bloody fairytale rave.”
I laugh, startled and delighted.
“Hi, Meemaw.”
“Don’t ‘hi’ me.”
Fabric rustles as she adjusts something on my shoulder.
“You’re glowing. You’re radiant. You look like you swallowed two sunbeams and a romance novel.”
“Meemaw—”
“And that boy,” she continues in a whisper just for me, “that wolf-boy of yours is walking around here like he built you the Garden of Eden and is waiting to see if you approve of the apple selection.”
Heat rushes up my neck.
“I… he… Meemaw, don’t—”
“Mm-hmm.” She pats my cheek. “Sweetheart, please. I’ve been alive long enough to recognize a man who is catastrophically in love.”
I sigh happily.
“Oh,” she adds casually, “and Beau nearly killed himself on a lantern, but that’s nothing new.”
Somewhere across the garden, Beau yells, “I can hear you! I already confessed.”
Meemaw ignores him. Her voice softens as she squeezes my arm. “I’m proud of you, Violet.”
My throat tightens.
The cedar beams above us creak gently in the breeze, the scent of rosemary and fresh bread curling around me like warm hands.