Epilogue - Chloe
Two Years Later
The house is chaos when I pull into the driveway.
I can hear it before I even open the car door.
Archie yowling from somewhere inside, probably upset that dinner is five minutes late, and the sound of Cole's deep voice saying something I can't quite make out through the walls.
There's a crash, followed by delighted squealing, and I grab the grocery bags from the backseat and hurry toward the front door.
Home.
Two years ago, I never could have imagined this would be my life. That I'd be coming home to a sprawling three-bedroom house on the outskirts of Blackwater Falls with enough land that Archie can actually go outside without me worrying he'll disappear into town.
That I'd be carrying groceries into a kitchen that's three times the size of my old apartment. That I'd hear my daughter's laughter and my husband's voice and feel this overwhelming sense of rightness about everything.
I push open the door.
"I'm home!" I call out.
"Mama!"
Olivia comes barreling around the corner at full speed—as full speed as an eighteen-month-old can manage anyway.
Her dark hair is sticking up in about fifteen different directions, her face is sticky with something I can't identify, and she's wearing one sock.
Just one. The other is presumably lost somewhere in the house along with the dozens of other single socks that have vanished over the past year.
I set the groceries down just in time to scoop her up.
"Hi, baby girl," I say, kissing her cheek and immediately regretting it when I taste what I'm pretty sure is mashed banana. "Where's Daddy?"
"Kitchen!" she announces proudly, pointing in the direction she just came from.
"Is he making dinner?"
"Mess!"
That's not encouraging.
I carry Olivia toward the kitchen, and sure enough, Cole is standing at the stove with flour somehow dusted across his black t-shirt and what looks like pancake batter splattered on the counter, the floor, and possibly the ceiling.
He looks up when we enter, and the smile that crosses his face makes my heart do the thing it's been doing for two years now—that squeeze, that overwhelming rush of love and want and home.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey yourself. What happened in here?"
"Olivia wanted to help make dinner."
"Olivia is eighteen months old."
"She's very enthusiastic."
I look at my daughter, who is indeed looking extremely proud of herself. "Did you help Daddy make a mess?"
"Mess!" she agrees cheerfully.
Cole crosses the kitchen and kisses me, one hand coming up to cup the back of my neck the way he always does, like he needs to hold me there to make sure this is real.
"How was work?" he asks when he pulls back.
"Long. We're doing year-end reconciliation and everything is terrible."
"That bad?"
"Mrs. Henderson's bookkeeping makes me want to scream. But I survived. How was your day?"
"Good. Taught three classes. Olivia destroyed the living room. Archie knocked over a plant. Normal Tuesday."
I laugh despite myself. "Where is Archie?"
"Basement. He's mad at me because I wouldn't let him eat Olivia's lunch."
"He has his own food."
"I explained that. He disagreed."
I shift Olivia to my other hip and survey the kitchen disaster. "Should I even ask what you're making?"
"Pancakes."
"For dinner?"
"Olivia requested them specifically."
"Olivia's vocabulary consists of maybe twenty words, and pancake isn't one of them."
"She pointed at the box very insistently."
I love this man so much it's ridiculous.
"Go sit down," I say. "I'll finish this. You've got a fight tonight, right?"
"Yeah. Eleven o'clock."
"Who's the opponent?"
"Someone from Ohio. Drove in specifically to challenge me. Supposed to be good."
There's something in his voice that makes me look at him more carefully. "You're worried."
"Not worried. Just... aware. The competition's gotten tougher."
He's not wrong. Over the past two years, the Pit has grown from a local underground fight ring to something that draws fighters from three states away.
Word spread about the undefeated champion, about Rampage who hasn't lost a single fight in two years, and now men come from everywhere wanting to be the one to take him down.
So far, none of them have succeeded.
But it gets harder every time.
"You'll win," I say with certainty I genuinely feel. "You always do."
"Because you're always watching."
It's true. I haven't missed a fight in two years.
After Olivia was born, I thought maybe I'd have to stop going, but Sarah volunteered to babysit on fight nights, and Cole insists that having me there makes the difference.
That knowing exactly where I am, seeing me in that back corner where he made sure I'd be safe, keeps him focused in a way nothing else does.
"Always," I confirm. "Now go shower. You have flour in your hair."
He grins and kisses me again before heading toward the stairs.
I watch him go, still can't quite believe this is my life sometimes, and then turn my attention to salvaging dinner.
By nine o'clock, Olivia is asleep in her crib upstairs, Archie has forgiven us enough to demand attention, and I'm getting ready to head to the gym.
I find Cole in our bedroom, wrapping his hands like he always does before a fight.
He's shirtless, wearing just his fight shorts, and even after two years of seeing him like this, the sight still makes my mouth go dry.
He's added more tattoos. One that covers his left shoulder now—Olivia's name and birthdate in simple black script.
He got it the day after she was born, disappeared for three hours while I was still in the hospital, and came back with it bandaged and a look on his face like he'd just done the most important thing in his life.
"Ready?" I ask.
He looks up. "Yeah. Sarah's here?"
"Downstairs with a book and strict instructions to text me if Olivia wakes up."
"She won't wake up. She never does."
"I know. But I tell Sarah anyway."
He stands and crosses to me, and even now, even after being married for a year and a half, after having his child, after building this entire life together, when he gets close like this, my heart rate still picks up.
"You don't have to come tonight," he says softly. "If you're tired from work, if you want to stay home with Olivia—"
"I want to be there," I interrupt. "Always. You know that."
"I know. But I also know you worked a long day and—"
I put my finger against his lips. "Cole. I want to be there. I'll always want to be there."
He catches my hand and kisses my palm. "Okay."
"Besides," I add with a smile, "someone has to make sure you don't get distracted and let some guy from Ohio actually hit you."
"That happened one time."
"Two years ago, when I first showed up."
"And I learned my lesson."
We drive to the gym separately. He needs to focus: him in his truck, me in my sedan.
The same sedan he found that tracker on two years ago.
Daniel never came back after that night.
I don't know if it was Cole's threats or if he finally got the message, but he disappeared from my life completely.
Last I heard, he moved to another state.
Good riddance.
The Pit has changed over the past two years.
It's more organized now, more structured.
There's an actual schedule of fights, actual rules about who can compete and when.
The Savage Riders still provide security and take their cut, but now there's a waiting list of fighters wanting to compete, wanting their shot at the undefeated champion.
I park and head to the back entrance. Tank is there waiting, like he always is.
"Mrs. Steele," he says with a nod.
I still get a thrill hearing that name. Mrs. Steele. Chloe Steele.
"Hi, Tank. How's the crowd tonight?"
"Packed. Guy from fucking nowhere brought friends. Lots of money changing hands."
"They're betting against Cole?"
"Some of them." He grins. "Idiots."
I follow him down the stairs into the basement that's become so familiar over the past two years. The crowd is enormous tonight. Easily twice the usual size, and the energy is different. Higher. More electric.
Tank leads me to my usual spot in the back corner, the space Cole claimed for me that first night and has kept protected ever since.
There's actually a chair here now, a comfortable one that Cole bought specifically for me after I complained once that standing for the entire fight made my feet hurt.
I sit down and scan the crowd until I find him.
He's near the ring, talking to Bruiser and Reckless, the three of them have become something like friends over the past two years, bonding over their shared love of violence.
They're the only fighters besides Cole who've managed to stay consistently undefeated, though both of them have losses on their records from fighting him.
As if sensing my attention, Cole looks up.
Our eyes meet across the basement.
He nods once. I smile and nod back.
The opponent is already in the ring when Cole approaches. He's big, maybe Cole's height but built differently, more lean muscle than raw power. He's got the look of someone who's trained seriously, someone who thinks he's got a real shot.
He doesn't.
I've watched Cole fight dozens and dozens of times now. I know how he moves, how he thinks, how he reads an opponent. I've seen him take down fighters who were faster, stronger, more technically skilled. He wins because losing isn't an option for him. Because he fights like his life depends on it.
Because he promised me that he'd never lose while I was watching.
The bell rings.
The fight begins.
It's brutal from the start. The Ohio fighter comes out aggressive, throwing combinations that would put down most opponents. But Cole isn't most opponents. He blocks, slips, counters with devastating precision. Three minutes in, he lands a body shot that makes the other guy gasp for air.
Five minutes in, he opens a cut above the guy's eye.
Seven minutes in, it's over. Cole's right hook connects with the guy's jaw and he goes down hard.
Doesn't get back up. The crowd erupts. Half of them cheering, half of them groaning as they realize they just lost their money betting against Rampage.
Cole steps back, breathing hard, blood on his knuckles. And he looks at me. Always looks at me right after a fight ends. Like he needs to confirm I'm still there, still safe, still his. I smile at him. He doesn't smile back. He never does, not in the ring.
Twenty minutes later, after the crowd has started to disperse and the cleanup has begun, he finds me in the back corner.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey yourself, champion."
He pulls me up from the chair and into his arms. He's still sweaty, still running hot from the fight, and I don't care at all.
"Good fight," I say against his chest.
"Always is when you're here."
"Think that guy learned his lesson about challenging you?"
"Probably not. They never do."
I pull back to look up at him. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Always okay when I have you to come home to."
"Speaking of home… Olivia's probably going to wake up demanding pancakes for breakfast."
"Then we better get back."
We say goodnight to Tank, to Bruiser and Reckless who are already planning the next fights. We walk out to the parking lot together, and Cole pulls me against him one more time before we get in separate cars.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too."
"Thank you for always being here. For always watching."
"Where else would I be?"
He kisses me then, deep and thorough and full of promise for what's waiting when we get home and Olivia's asleep and we have the house to ourselves.
We drive home separately, but we arrive at the same time. Sarah leaves with a wave and a reminder to text her next week about babysitting. Cole pays her triple what she asks for because he insists that anyone watching our daughter deserves to be compensated properly.
We check on Olivia together. She's fast asleep, one sock still somehow missing, her dark hair spread across her pillow.
Cole reaches down and brushes a strand away from her face with a gentleness that still surprises me sometimes.
This man, who can beat someone unconscious with his bare hands, is the softest, most kind father I've ever seen.
We go to our bedroom.
The one in the house we bought together, the house that's big enough for all of us and whatever future we're building.
The house that has a yard where Archie can hunt and Olivia can play and we can just exist together.
Cole pulls me against him, his hands settling on my hips the way they always do, and I'm still amazed that this is my life. That I get to have this. Him. Us.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"You happy?"
It's the same question he asked me two years ago on his couch after we first made love. And the answer is still the same.
"I've never been this happy," I tell him.
And I mean it.
Thank you for reading it!