Epilogue
Arabella
The roar of Climate Pledge Arena was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It wasn't just noise; it was a physical force, a tidal wave of sound that crashed against the glass, vibrated through the concrete floor, and settled deep in the marrow of my bones.
Eighteen thousand people were screaming the same name.
“MO-RET-TI! MO-RET-TI!”
I stood in the tunnel, just off the ice, clutching the VIP pass hanging around my neck. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, echoing the chaos of the stadium.
Four years.
It had been four years since I sat in the freezing cold archives of Blackwood Mountain, hiding from a monster I didn't understand. Four years since I wore an oversized college jersey and prayed he wouldn't get hurt.
Tonight, the jersey I wore was different.
It was official NHL merchandise. Teal and deep navy blue. The Seattle Kraken logo—the tentacled ‘S’ with the red eye—was emblazoned on the front. On the back, the number 19. And on the front, stitched in proud, defiant white thread, was the letter C.
Captain.
My husband was the Captain of the Seattle Kraken. And tonight, he wasn't just a player. He was a champion.
On the ice, the celebration was pure, unadulterated chaos. Gloves, sticks, and helmets littered the surface like debris from a beautiful shipwreck. The team was a tangled pile of bodies near the blue line.
And then, the pile parted.
Dante emerged.
He looked like a god of war. His playoff beard was thick and dark, hiding the sharp line of his jaw.
His face was streaked with sweat and a smear of blood near his eyebrow.
His eyes—those terrifying, mesmerizing eyes—were glowing a vibrant, undeniable amber, visible even under the harsh arena lights.
He wasn't looking at the cameras. He wasn't looking at the Commissioner, who was standing at center ice with the silver chalice that every hockey player dreams of.
He was skating in circles, scanning the glass, searching.
He found me.
Our eyes locked. The chaos of the arena faded into a dull hum. For a second, we were back in the snow on the logging road. Just the Wolf and his mate.
He smiled. It was the "boyish" smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look ten years younger.
He turned back to center ice. He accepted the Stanley Cup. He lifted the thirty-five-pound trophy over his head as if it weighed nothing, letting out a roar that I could hear even through the glass.
The crowd went berserk.
He took his lap. He kissed the silver cup. And then, he skated straight for the gate.
The security guards moved instantly, opening the latch.
Dante didn't step off the ice. He reached out and grabbed me.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice hoarse from shouting.
He pulled me onto the ice.
I was wearing boots, thank god, but I still slipped on the slick, chewed-up surface. Dante caught me. His arm wrapped around my waist, an iron band of support, holding me steady against his side.
"We did it," he rasped, pressing his sweaty forehead against mine. "We actually did it."
"You did it," I corrected, reaching up to wipe the blood from his brow. "I just watched and tried not to have a heart attack."
"You're the anchor," he said fiercely. "I don't lift this cup without you. You know that."
He handed me the Stanley Cup.
"Hold it," he ordered.
"Dante, it's heavy!"
"I've got you."
I took the trophy. It was cold and massive. I held it up, and flashbulbs popped like lightning all around us.
"Smile, Mrs. Moretti," he whispered in my ear, his breath hot. "You're trending."
I laughed, looking up at him. "I'm always trending when I'm with you. usually as 'The Liaison's Daughter'."
"Not anymore," he said, kissing my temple. "Now you're the Author. The best-selling genius who explained us to the world."
It was true. My book, The Myths of the Modern Alpha, had been published last year.
It was a comprehensive study of shifter psychology, arguing for integration and understanding rather than fear.
It had caused a stir in the academic world and a revolution in the Pack Council.
Even my father, grudgingly, had admitted it was "well-researched. "
"I love you," I shouted over the crowd.
"I love you," he shouted back. "Now let's go home. I want to celebrate in private."
He winked, and the amber in his eyes darkened to a lustful gold.
I shivered, despite the heat of his body. The game was over. But the night was just beginning.
Dante
The house was quiet.
It was exactly what I had promised her four years ago. A sprawling, modern craftsman tucked away in the deep woods of the Snoqualmie Valley, forty minutes east of Seattle. It was built of stone and heavy timber.
It had thick walls.
It had a massive kitchen with a double oven where Arabella spent her Sunday mornings baking cinnamon rolls that made the whole house smell like heaven.
And, of course, it had the library. A two-story wing of the house dedicated entirely to her books, with a rolling ladder, a fireplace, and a window seat big enough for two.
I pulled the SUV into the garage and killed the engine. The silence of the woods rushed in to fill the void left by the screaming fans.
"Finally," I groaned, leaning my head back against the headrest. My body was starting to scream. The adrenaline was fading, and the bruises from the seven-game series were making themselves known. My knee—the bionic knee, as Jax called it—ached a dull, familiar throb.
"You need ice," Arabella said softly, reaching over to rub my shoulder.
"I need you," I corrected. "And maybe some bourbon."
We got out of the car. I opened the door to the mudroom.
We were immediately assaulted by a blur of golden fur.
"Barnaby!" Arabella laughed as eighty pounds of Golden Retriever slammed into her legs, tail wagging so hard his entire back half was vibrating.
I knelt down, letting the dog lick my face. Barnaby was the exact opposite of a wolf. He was soft, dumb, and unconditionally loving. He was the perfect balance to the predator that lived inside me.
"Hey, buddy," I murmured, ruffling his ears. "Did you see? Dad brought home some hardware."
I gestured to the replica trophy the team had given me, sitting on the bench. Barnaby sniffed it, unimpressed, and went back to licking Arabella’s hand.
"He doesn't care about hockey," Arabella smiled. "He just wants to know if you brought snacks."
"Priorities," I grunted, standing up.
I looked at my wife.
She was still wearing my jersey. It was oversized, hanging to her mid-thigh, covering the elegant black dress she wore underneath. Her hair was a mess of blonde waves from the humidity of the rink. Her makeup was smudged.
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
And she smelled... different.
I frowned slightly, inhaling deeply.
Usually, Arabella smelled of vanilla, old paper, and lavender. Tonight, those scents were there, but there was something else underneath. Something rich. Sweet. Milky.
It triggered a primal instinct in the back of my brain. The wolf woke up from his post-game nap, lifting his head, sniffing the air with sudden, intense interest.
Protect. Nest. Provide.
"What?" Arabella asked, catching my look. "Do I smell like champagne? Jax sprayed half a bottle on me."
"No," I murmured, stepping closer. "You smell... new."
I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against me. I buried my face in the crook of her neck, right over the mating mark that had faded to a silvery scar over the years.
I inhaled.
There it was again. That sweet, heavy scent. It made my mouth water. It made my heart race.
"Dante?" she whispered, her hands coming up to grip my biceps. "You're doing the 'sniffing thing'."
"I like your scent," I rasped, trailing my lips up to her ear. "I want it all over me."
"You need a shower," she pointed out. "You smell like a locker room."
"Shower with me," I commanded. It wasn't a question.
She shivered. "Okay."
The master bathroom was a sanctuary of slate and steam. The shower was massive, built for a man of my size, with dual rainfall heads.
I turned the water on hot. Steam filled the room instantly, softening the harsh edges of the world.
I stripped off my suit, my shirt, the compression gear. I stood there, naked, letting the water run over my battered body. Scars crisscrossed my torso—some from hockey, some from the wolf, one from my father.
Arabella stepped in. She had shed the jersey and the dress.
She stood before me, nude, pale, and perfect.
I looked at her. I cataloged every inch. The softness of her stomach. The curve of her hips. The way her nipples hardened under my gaze.
"Come here," I said.
She stepped under the spray. I pulled her against me. The water sluiced over us, washing away the sweat and the champagne, leaving only skin.
I washed her. I took the sponge and lathered it with her vanilla body wash. I was gentle. I cleaned her shoulders, her back, her legs. I treated her like she was made of precious porcelain—not because she was fragile, but because she was valuable.
"My turn," she whispered.
She took the sponge. She washed my chest, her fingers tracing the old scars. She washed my arms, her small hands looking tiny against my biceps.
Then she dropped the sponge.
She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled my mouth down to hers.
The kiss was slow. Deep. It tasted of water and love.
"Make love to me, Dante," she breathed against my lips. "Here. Now."
I didn't need to be told twice.
I lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around my waist effortlessly—a move we had perfected over the last four years. I pressed her back against the warm slate wall.
I entered her standing up.
She was wet. Warm. Tight.
A groan tore from my throat, echoing in the tiled space.
"God, Arabella," I growled. "You feel... incredible."
We moved together in the steam. It wasn't frantic. We knew each other’s bodies too well for that. I knew exactly where to touch her. She knew exactly how to angle her hips to drive me insane.
I looked into her eyes. They were violet and hazy with pleasure.
"You're mine," I said, the Alpha command slipping out. "My mate. My wife."
"Yours," she agreed, breathless. "Always yours."
I felt the shift in my own body. The wolf wanted to surface. He wanted to claim her. He wanted to fill her with everything I had.
"I'm close," I warned, my grip on her hips tightening.
"Let go," she whispered. "Give it to me, Dante."
I let go.
I thrust into her deep and hard, burying myself to the hilt. My body shuddered violently as I poured myself into her. For a moment, the world went white.
I held her there against the wall as the aftershocks rolled through us, my forehead resting on her wet shoulder, my heart thundering against her chest.
We stayed like that for a long time, just breathing, the water running over our backs.
Finally, I lowered her legs. She stood on shaky feet.
We dried off in silence, a comfortable, heavy peace settling over us.
I carried her to the bed. We lay down, naked under the high-thread-count sheets, the moonlight filtering in through the window.
She rested her head on my chest, listening to my heartbeat.
I ran my hand down her back, over the curve of her spine, resting my large palm flat against her lower stomach.
That scent. It was stronger now.
I closed my eyes. I focused.
I listened.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
My heart.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Her heart.
And then... a third sound.
Faint. Fluttering. Fast. Like a hummingbird's wings.
Swish-swish-swish.
My eyes snapped open.
I sat up, looking down at her.
"Arabella."
She looked up, sleepy and content. "Hmm?"
"Your scent," I said. "And... the sound."
She blinked. "What sound?"
"Inside you," I whispered. I placed my hand back on her stomach, covering her completely. "There's a second heartbeat."
She went perfectly still.
She stared at my hand. Then she stared at my face. Her eyes filled with sudden tears.
"You can hear it?" she whispered.
My breath caught in my throat. "You knew?"
"I suspected," she admitted. "I was late. And I've been tired. I took a test this morning, before the game."
"And?"
"It was positive," she said. A smile broke across her face, radiant and terrifyingly beautiful. "We're going to have a baby, Dante."
I froze.
The old fear—the one I thought I had buried—flickered in the back of my mind.
The bloodline. The monster. The consumption.
"A baby," I repeated. "A pup."
"Yes," she said. She reached up and touched my cheek. "Are you scared?"
I looked at her. I looked at the woman who had tamed the wolf. I looked at the life we had built. The thick walls. The library. The dog.
I thought about my father. He had loved destructively.
But I wasn't him. I loved protectively.
I placed my hand over hers on her stomach. I felt the warmth. I imagined the tiny life growing there. A mix of her brilliance and my strength.
The wolf inside me didn't howl in rage. He didn't pace.
He curled around the sensation, settling into a protective crouch. Pack. Ours.
"No," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I'm not scared."
I leaned down and kissed her stomach. I rested my cheek against her skin, listening to that tiny, miraculous sound.
"I'm going to teach him to skate," I whispered.
"Or her," Arabella corrected, running her fingers through my hair.
"Or her," I agreed. "She'll be the first female captain in the NHL."
Arabella laughed. "Let's start with walking."
I moved back up to kiss her lips.
"Thank you," I said. "For everything. For the scarf. For the mountain. For this."
"Thank you for coming to get me," she said.
"I'd do it a thousand times," I promised.
I pulled her into my arms, settling us into the pillows. Barnaby, sensing the change in energy, hopped up onto the foot of the bed and curled up, letting out a contented sigh.
I looked around the room. The moonlight. The dog. The wife. The baby.
I thought back to that angry, lonely kid in the locker room, convinced he was destined to be alone.
He was gone.
In his place was a man who had everything.
"Happy?" Arabella asked, drifting off to sleep.
"Yeah," I whispered into the darkness. "Happy."
I closed my eyes, listening to the chorus of heartbeats in the room.
The monster was asleep. The game was won. And the legacy... the legacy was just beginning.