Epilogue
Spike
The red carpet of the NHL Awards in Las Vegas was a sensory nightmare.
It was a gauntlet of flashing strobe lights, screaming fans hanging over velvet ropes, and reporters shoving microphones into my face, asking the same three questions they had been asking for the last four years.
“Spike, how does it feel to be the first Unbound captain to hoist the Cup twice?”
“Spike, are the rumors true about the trade to New York?” (They weren’t).
“Spike, who are you wearing?”
I hated it. Every Wolf instinct I had was screaming at me to bare my teeth, grab my mate, and run for the nearest exit. The noise was too loud. The smells were too chemical—hairspray, cheap cologne, desperate ambition.
But then I felt a small, warm hand slip into mine.
I looked down.
Riley was standing next to me. She was wearing a dress that looked like it had been spun from emerald liquid.
It clung to her curves, spilled down to the floor, and left her shoulders bare.
It reminded me of the green dress she had worn to Grizzly’s back in college, the night I almost broke a donor’s wrist for calling her a pet.
She looked up at me, adjusting her glasses. Yes, she still wore the glasses, even though she could afford Lasik ten times over. She knew I had a thing for them.
“Breathe, Butcher,” she whispered, using the old nickname. “You look like you’re plotting a murder.”
“I am,” I grumbled, squeezing her hand. “I’m plotting the murder of the guy with the camera who keeps zooming in on your cleavage.”
Riley laughed. It was a bright, bell-like sound that cut through the cacophony of the carpet. It was the only sound that mattered.
“He’s just admiring the merchandise,” she teased. “But the merchandise is spoken for.”
“Damn right.”
I pulled her closer, wrapping my arm around her waist, putting my body between her and the cameras. The gesture was possessive, instinctual. I saw a few reporters smirk, scribbling in their notepads. The Protective Alpha. Let them write it. It was true.
We moved down the line. I answered the questions with the polished, media-trained answers Riley had drilled into me.
“The team is a family.”
“We’re taking it one game at a time.”
“I’m just happy to be here.”
That last part wasn't a lie. I was happy to be here. Not because of the trophy I was nominated for—the Norris, again—but because of where "here" actually was.
Five years ago, I was sitting in a motel room in a snowstorm, convinced I was genetically destined to destroy everyone I loved. I was broke. I was terrified. I was the son of a monster.
Now, I was the Captain of the Seattle Krakens. I was a husband. I was a father.
And the monster was dead.
We finally reached the end of the carpet and slipped into the sanctuary of the theater. The air conditioning was blasting. The noise dropped to a dull roar.
“You okay?” Riley asked, smoothing the lapel of my tuxedo. “You went a little gold-eyed back there.”
“Just the flashes,” I lied. It wasn't the flashes. It was the overwhelming gratitude that hit me sometimes, knocking the wind out of me. “You look beautiful, Riley. It’s unfair to the other wives.”
“I try.” She tiptoed up and kissed my jaw. “Come on. Let’s go get your trophy so we can go home.”
We found our seats at the round table near the front. Jax was there, looking uncomfortable in a bow tie, next to his new girlfriend, a fiery human lawyer who terrified him in the best way.
“About time,” Jax grunted. “I was about to eat your bread roll.”
“Touch my bread, lose a finger,” I warned, sitting down.
The ceremony began. It was long. It was boring. But I spent the entire time with my hand on Riley’s thigh under the table, my thumb tracing the fabric of her dress. It was our secret language. I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re mine.
When they announced my name for the Norris Trophy, the room exploded.
I stood up. I buttoned my jacket. I kissed Riley—a real kiss, not a polite peck for the cameras—and walked to the stage.
I took the heavy bronze trophy from the presenter. I looked out at the sea of faces. The best players in the world. The billionaires. The legends.
I leaned into the microphone.
“I’d like to thank the organization,” I said, my voice echoing. “My teammates. Jax, for staying out of the box.”
Laughter.
“But mostly,” I said, my eyes finding the girl in the green dress at table four. “I want to thank my wife, Dr. Riley Thorne.”
The camera panned to her. She smiled, blushing.
“A long time ago,” I continued, going off-script, “she told me that I wasn’t a time bomb. She told me I was just a man carrying a heavy load. She helped me set it down. Everything I am, everything I have... it’s because she was brave enough to love a monster until he learned how to be a man.”
I lifted the trophy.
“This is for you, Mouse.”
The applause was deafening. But as I walked off stage, all I could think about was getting her out of that dress and onto the private jet home.
Riley
The flight back to Seattle was quiet. Spike had tossed his tuxedo jacket on the seat and loosened his tie. He was asleep, his head resting against the window, the trophy buckled into the seat across from him like a passenger.
I sipped my sparkling water, watching him.
Even after five years, he still took my breath away. He was bigger now, broader. The lines around his eyes were etched a little deeper from smiling. The scar on his jaw—the one he used to hide—was just a part of him now.
He twitched in his sleep. His hand flexed.
I reached out and covered his hand with mine. He settled instantly. Even in his dreams, he knew I was there.
I looked down at the tablet in my lap. I was reviewing the final proofs for the expansion of the Thorne Foundation. We were opening three new centers next year—safe havens for Latent students and young Shifters struggling with integration.
It was my life’s work. And Spike funded every penny of it.
“Transaction,” he liked to joke. “You fix the world, I pay the bills.”
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Mrs. Thorne, we’re beginning our descent into Seattle. Weather is clear. 65 degrees.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
I shook Spike gently. “Hey. Champion. Wake up.”
He groaned, opening one eye. It was pure, melted gold. “Are we there?”
“Almost. You were snoring.”
“Liar. Alphas don’t snore. We rumble.”
“Call it what you want, you were vibrating the fuselage.”
He smiled, a sleepy, sexy grin that made my toes curl. He reached out and snagged my wrist, pulling me out of my seat and into his lap.
“Spike! The seatbelt sign!”
“Dave can handle it,” he murmured, burying his face in my neck. He inhaled deeply. “God, I hate that perfume.”
“It’s Chanel.”
“It covers up the vanilla. I want the vanilla.”
He nipped at the sensitive spot under my ear.
“We’re landing in ten minutes,” I warned, though I melted against him. “Behave.”
“I’m never behaving again. I wore a tux for four hours. I shook hands with Bettman. I earned this.”
He kissed me, slow and deep, tasting of champagne and sleep. His hand slid up my thigh, finding the slit in the green dress.
“Home,” he whispered against my lips. “I need you at home.”
Our home was a sprawling A-frame on the edge of Lake Washington. It was secluded, surrounded by pines that reminded us of the cabin where it all started, but with modern amenities like heated floors and a security system that could rival the Pentagon.
It was 2:00 AM when we walked through the front door.
We were greeted by a low woof.
Puck, our massive English Mastiff, lumbered down the hallway. He was the size of a small pony, with sad eyes and a drool problem.
“Hey, buddy,” Spike whispered, dropping to one knee to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Did you guard the castle?”
Puck licked Spike’s face, effectively removing his red carpet makeup.
“Is Leo asleep?” I asked the nanny, Mrs. Gable, who appeared in her bathrobe at the top of the stairs.
“Out like a light,” she smiled. “He waited up until ten to see Daddy on TV, but he crashed. He says congratulations, by the way. He wants to put the trophy in his room.”
“Not a chance,” Spike laughed, standing up. “Thanks, Mrs. Gable. Go back to bed.”
She disappeared. The house was quiet.
I kicked off my heels, groaning as my feet hit the cool hardwood. “Remind me never to wear four-inch heels again.”
“I like the heels,” Spike said, locking the front door. “They make your legs look...”
He turned to look at me. His eyes darkened. The playful, tired vibe from the plane evaporated, replaced by a focused, predatory intensity.
“Come here,” he commanded softly.
I walked to him. I didn't hesitate.
He picked me up. Just lifted me off the floor as if I weighed nothing. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my dress bunching up.
He carried me through the living room, past the wall of windows overlooking the moonlit lake, past the kitchen where we made pancakes on Sundays, and into our bedroom.
He didn't turn on the lights. The moonlight was enough.
He set me down on the edge of the massive California King bed.
“Stand up,” he said.
I stood.
He turned me around so I was facing the mirror on the wardrobe door. He stood behind me.
In the reflection, we were a study in contrasts. Me in the shimmering green gown, him in the disheveled tuxedo. The Beauty and the Beast. The Scholar and the Savage.
“Look at you,” he whispered, his hands coming up to rest on my waist. “Dr. Thorne. The smartest woman in the room. The bravest woman I know.”
He kissed my shoulder. His hands moved to the zipper of my dress.
Zzzzip.
The sound was loud in the quiet room. The dress pooled at my feet.
I stood there in my lace lingerie.
Spike groaned. He rested his forehead against the back of my neck.
“You kill me, Riley. You know that? Every day.”
He spun me around. He stripped off his jacket, his shirt, his pants with an urgency that bordered on violence. When he was naked, he was magnificent. The tattoos told the story of his life—the tribal marks of his heritage, the new ones representing me and Leo.
He pulled me onto the bed.
This wasn't the frantic, "we might get caught" sex of our college days. This wasn't the tentative, "I'm afraid to break you" sex of the beginning.
This was ownership. This was five years of learning every inch of each other’s bodies.
He moved over me, his weight familiar and grounding. He kissed me, swallowing my sigh.
“Mine,” he growled.
“Yours,” I answered.
He entered me slowly, savoring the friction. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him deeper.
“Spike,” I breathed. “Yes.”
He set a rhythm that was deep and rolling. He watched my face the whole time, his eyes locked on mine.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rough. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” I gasped. “Only you.”
“Tell me who saved me.”
“We saved each other.”
He drove into me, hard, hitting the spot that made my vision blur.
“God, Riley,” he panted. “I love you. I love you more than air.”
We moved together in the moonlight, a dance as old as time. It was sweaty and messy and perfect.
When the end came, it was a crashing wave that left us both clinging to each other, hearts hammering in unison.
Spike
Later—much later—we lay tangled in the sheets. The window was cracked open, letting in the scent of the lake and the pine trees.
Riley was resting her head on my chest, tracing the outline of the wolf tattoo over my heart.
“Spike?”
“Hmm?”
“I have to tell you something.”
My hand stilled on her back. The tone of her voice... it was nervous.
“What is it?” I asked, pulling back to look at her. “Is it the foundation? Did Henderson try something?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
She sat up, pulling the sheet around her. She reached for the nightstand and opened the drawer.
She pulled out a small, white plastic stick.
She handed it to me.
I took it. I squinted in the dim light.
Two pink lines.
My heart stopped. Then it restarted at double speed.
I looked at her. She was biting her lip, waiting.
“Pregnant?” I whispered.
She nodded. “I took the test this morning. Before we left for Vegas. I wanted to wait until we were home to tell you.”
I looked at the stick again. Then at her stomach. It was flat, smooth. But inside...
Another life. Another piece of us.
“A baby,” I said, the wonder filling my voice.
“Leo is going to be a big brother,” she said, smiling. “We’re going to need a bigger car.”
I laughed. I pulled her down to me, kissing her face all over.
“I’ll buy a bus,” I promised. “I’ll buy a train. I don’t care.”
I placed my hand on her stomach. It was warm.
“Are you happy?” she asked.
“Happy doesn't cover it,” I said. “I’m... complete.”
Riley
I watched him. The fierce, terrifying Alpha who terrified the NHL, looking at my stomach with tears in his eyes.
I thought about the girl I used to be—the invisible stats nerd hiding in oversized hoodies, afraid of the world.
And I thought about the boy he used to be—the prisoner of his own blood, waiting to go mad.
We had broken every rule. We had defied every statistic.
I covered his hand with mine.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, looking up at me.
“I’m thinking about the first time we met,” I said. “In the tunnel. You told me I smelled like ruin.”
Spike winced. “I was dramatic. And stupid.”
“No,” I said softly. “You were right.”
I kissed him, slow and sweet.
“We ruined the old world, Spike. We burned it down. And look what we built from the ashes.”
I gestured to the room. To the trophy on the floor. To the photos of Leo on the dresser. To the life growing inside me.
Spike smiled. It was the smile of a man who had everything he ever wanted.
“Yeah,” he whispered, pulling me down into the pillows. “We did good, Mouse.”
He turned off the lamp.
Outside, the lake lapped against the shore. The stars shone down on the house in the woods.
And inside, the Wolf and the Girl slept soundly, wrapped in each other's arms, ready for whatever tomorrow would bring.
Because they knew, with absolute certainty, that as long as they were together, they were unbreakable.