Epilogue
Rory
The noise was different now.
Five years ago, the roar of a crowd had sounded like a threat. It had sounded like a demand for violence, a cacophony that woke the beast in my blood and made my vision bleed gold. It was a noise I had to survive.
Tonight, at Little Caesars Arena in Detroit, the noise sounded like worship.
“THORNE! THORNE! THORNE!”
Twenty thousand people were chanting my name.
I skated a slow lap around the ice, the steel blades carving into the chopped-up surface.
My legs burned with the familiar, delicious ache of sixty minutes of playoff hockey.
My jersey—the red and white of Detroit, with the 'C' for Captain stitched onto the chest—was heavy with sweat and melted ice shavings.
But the heaviest thing was the silver chalice I was holding above my head.
The Stanley Cup.
Thirty-five pounds of polished nickel and silver alloy. The hardest trophy in sports to win.
I lifted it higher, my triceps screaming, and let out a roar that was picked up by the cameras and broadcast to millions. It wasn't a feral roar. It was a human one. A sound of pure, unadulterated triumph.
We had done it. Game Seven. Overtime. And I had the assist on the winning goal. A perfect, biomechanically sound saucer pass that defied physics—thank you, Zoe—and landed right on Jax’s tape.
Yes, Jax was here too. My goalie. My brother. We had come up together, just like we promised.
I lowered the Cup, planting a kiss on the cool metal, and scanned the glass.
I wasn't looking for the cameras. I wasn't looking for the scouts. I wasn't looking for the ghosts of my past.
I was looking for the blue dress.
There.
Right against the glass, just like in Northridge. Section 101, Row A, Seat 1.
Zoe.
She wasn't wearing my jersey tonight. She was wearing a midnight blue dress that hugged every curve, looking like Hollywood royalty amidst the chaos of the rink. She was clapping, tears streaming down her face, her violet eyes locked on mine.
Next to her stood Dean Carmichael—no, Grandpa Carmichael, as he kept threatening to be called, though no grandkids existed yet. He was wearing a Detroit jersey over his suit. He was smiling. Actually smiling.
I skated over.
I didn't care about the protocol. I didn't care about the interview waiting with the network broadcast team.
I stopped at the glass.
Zoe slammed her hand against the Plexiglass.
I pulled off my glove. I pressed my palm against hers.
Her lips moved. “You flew.”
I shook my head, smiling. “We flew.”
The gate opened. Family was allowed on the ice.
Zoe stepped out onto the surface. She wasn't wearing skates, just heels, but she moved with the grace of a woman who had spent her entire life balancing on a knife's edge.
She didn't care about the cameras. She ran to me.
I dropped my stick. I dropped my gloves.
I caught her.
She jumped into my arms, wrapping her legs around my waist—a move we had perfected in dorm rooms, truck beds, and luxury condos over the last five years.
I buried my face in her neck.
She smelled of expensive perfume, champagne, and home. That vanilla scent that had stopped me dead in my tracks five years ago was still the only thing that could instantly calm my heart rate.
"You did it," she sobbed into my sweaty neck. "Captain. Champion. Legend."
"I’m just a guy with a good tutor," I murmured, holding her tighter. "God, Zoe. We did it."
"Are you happy?" she pulled back, framing my bearded, bruised face with her hands. She ran her thumb over the scar on my jaw—a fresh one from the second round.
"Look at me," I said.
I let the gold bleed into my eyes. I didn't hide it. I let the Wolf surface, just for a second, to look at her.
The gold wasn't manic. It was warm. It was liquid honey.
"I’ve never been happier in my life," I rasped.
Flashbulbs popped around us. I knew this photo would be on the cover of Sports Illustrated tomorrow. The Beast and the Beauty. The Wolf of Detroit.
I didn't care.
I kissed her.
It was a kiss that tasted of victory. Deep, possessive, and unapologetic. I claimed her in front of twenty thousand fans and millions of viewers.
Mine. Always mine.
"Okay, okay, break it up, lovebirds," Jax yelled, skating over with the Cup. "My turn with the wife!"
I growled at him—a playful, low rumble. "Touch her and I bench you."
Jax laughed, hugging Zoe from the side. "Congrats, Z. Your biomechanics lessons paid off. He actually used his brain on that pass."
"I taught him torque," Zoe beamed, wiping her eyes. "He supplied the force."
We stood there on the ice, the three of us, surrounded by the confetti raining down like snow.
I looked up at the rafters.
I thought about the ten-year-old boy trapped under a corpse in a freezing cabin, promising himself he would never be happy. Promising he would never let anyone in.
I wished I could go back and tell him.
You're going to break the promise, kid. And it’s going to be the best thing you ever do.
Zoe
The after-party was a blur of champagne, loud music, and heavy hors d'oeuvres, but honestly, I just wanted to go home.
Rory was holding court in the VIP room, still wearing his suit pants and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the top to reveal the thick column of his throat and the edge of his tattoos. He looked devastating.
He was talking to the team owner, holding a glass of water (he rarely drank during the season), but his eyes kept flicking to me every ten seconds.
The Tether.
It never went away. Across a crowded room, across a rink, across a city—we were always connected.
I was sitting with the other wives and girlfriends, but my mind was elsewhere.
I was thinking about the appointment I had yesterday. The doctor’s office. The little white stick.
I hadn't told him yet. I didn't want to distract him before Game Seven.
But now? Now the Cup was won. The season was over.
I caught his eye. I tapped my wrist. Time to go.
Rory didn't hesitate. He excused himself mid-sentence from a billionaire. He walked over to me, parting the crowd like the Red Sea.
"Ready?" he asked, offering me his hand. His knuckles were swollen, his fingers taped.
"Take me home, Captain," I whispered.
We slipped out the back exit, avoiding the paparazzi. His truck—a newer, bigger, more expensive version of the black beast from college—was waiting.
The drive to our house in Birmingham—the quiet, leafy suburb outside Detroit—was peaceful.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping my thigh, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the silk of my dress.
"You okay?" he asked, glancing at me. "You're quiet."
"Just thinking," I smiled. "About physics."
"Oh god. Not tonight. My brain is fried."
"Simple physics," I assured him. "Action and reaction. Cause and effect."
He raised an eyebrow but didn't press.
We pulled into the driveway.
Our house wasn't a mansion. It was a sprawling, modern farmhouse made of timber and stone, hidden behind a high privacy fence and a thick line of trees. It was our sanctuary.
But the best part was the backyard.
As we got out of the truck, I walked around to the back.
Rory followed me.
The backyard lights were on, illuminating the masterpiece he had built with his own hands.
A rink.
It was professional grade. perfectly leveled ice, boards, glass. He spent hours out here in the winter, just skating. Just being.
"Why are we out here?" Rory asked, wrapping his tuxedo jacket around my shoulders. "It’s freezing, Zoe."
"I like the cold," I reminded him. "I’m an Ice Princess, remember?"
"Queen," he corrected automatically. "You retired the Princess title when you told your dad to shove it."
I laughed, leaning into him.
"Rory, do you remember the cabin? The second one? The nice one?"
"Vividly. I remember the rug burn."
"You said you wanted a future. A cabin. A rink. And..."
I trailed off.
Rory went still behind me. His arms tightened around my waist.
"And kids," he finished, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Little wolves on skates."
I turned in his arms.
I reached into my clutch. I pulled out the small, velvet box I had been carrying all night. Not a ring box. A pacifier box.
I opened it.
Inside was a tiny, custom-made pacifier. It was midnight blue. And on the front, in small white letters, it said: DRAFT PICK 2029.
Rory stared at it.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
His face went completely pale. Then red. Then pale again.
He looked at me, his eyes wide, terrified, and hopeful all at once.
"Zoe?" he choked out. "Is this... are we..."
"We're expanding the pack," I whispered. "I’m pregnant, Rory."
The silence in the backyard was heavy.
I watched him. I saw the fear flash in his eyes—the old fear. The bloodline. The Curse.
"Rory?" I said firmly, placing my hands on his chest. "Look at me."
He looked. The gold was swirling, agitated.
"We rewrote the code," I reminded him. "Remember? You aren't him. And this baby... this baby isn't going to be him either. This baby is going to be us. The Storm and the Anchor."
Rory let out a shuddering breath.
He fell to his knees in the snow.
He didn't care about his expensive suit pants. He pressed his face against my stomach, wrapping his massive arms around my hips.
"A pup," he wept. "Oh god, Zoe. A pup."
I ran my fingers through his hair. "Are you happy?"
"I’m terrified," he admitted, his voice muffled by the silk of my dress. "But I’m... I’m so happy I think my heart is going to stop."
He lifted his head. He kissed my stomach. Then he stood up and kissed me.
It was the sweetest kiss of my life. It was a promise. It was a vow.
"Come inside," he said, scooping me up into his arms. "You shouldn't be in the cold. You need to be warm. I need to feed you. Do you want pickles? Ice cream? A steak?"
I laughed, burying my face in his neck. "I just want you."
"You have me," he vowed, carrying me toward the house. "Forever."
Rory
The bedroom was warm, lit only by the fire I had built in the master suite’s hearth.
Zoe was lying in the center of our massive bed, wearing one of my old Northridge t-shirts—the one she had stolen five years ago. It was threadbare now, soft as butter, and it barely covered her thighs.
She looked angelic.
I came out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower, wearing only boxers.
I crawled into bed with her.
She moved instantly, gravitating toward my heat, curling into my side.
"Happy?" she asked sleepily.
"Ecstatic."
I ran my hand over her stomach. It was flat now, but soon... soon it would grow. My child was in there. My blood. Her heart.
"Rory?"
"Yeah?"
"Make love to me."
I hesitated. "Are you sure? The doctor..."
"The doctor said it’s fine. I’m not made of glass, Rory. I’m a wolf’s mate. I’m tough."
She reached down and brushed her hand against me. I was already hard. I was always hard for her.
"Okay," I whispered. "But gentle."
"I don't want gentle," she murmured, climbing on top of me. "I want to celebrate."
She lowered herself onto me.
I groaned, gripping her hips. She felt different tonight. Or maybe I just imagined it. She felt... sacred.
We moved together in the firelight. It wasn't the frantic, desperate sex of our college days. It was the deep, rhythmic, knowing intimacy of a marriage.
I knew every inch of her. I knew the spot on her neck that made her shiver. I knew how to touch her hip to make her arch.
"I love you," she whispered, leaning down to kiss me as she moved.
"I love you," I rasped.
I watched her face as she climbed the peak. Her head thrown back, her neck exposed—my mark still faintly visible there, refreshed just yesterday.
She cried out, tightening around me.
I let go. I followed her over the edge.
And as I did, I let the knot take over.
It wasn't a trap anymore. It wasn't a cage. It was a hug from the inside.
I locked us together.
She collapsed on my chest, panting, her skin slick with sweat.
We lay there, connected, listening to the fire crackle.
I thought about the timeline.
Five years ago, I was expelled. I was driving a truck north, screaming in agony.
Tonight, I was a Stanley Cup Champion. I was a husband. I was a father-to-be.
I looked at the window. Through the glass, I could see the moon. Full and bright.
The Wolf inside me looked at the moon.
He didn't howl. He just closed his eyes and slept.
"Rory?" Zoe murmured against my chest.
"Yeah, baby?"
"If it’s a boy... can we name him Elias?"
I froze.
My father’s name.
"Why?" I whispered.
"Because you took the name back," she said. "You redeemed it. It’s not a monster’s name anymore. It’s a hero’s name."
Tears pricked my eyes.
"Maybe," I choked out. "Maybe."
She fell asleep a few minutes later.
I stayed awake, watching her.
I reached over to the nightstand and turned off the lamp.
But before I did, I glanced at the photo in the frame.
It was the charcoal drawing. The wolf and the skater. Framed in silver.
The Storm and the Anchor.
I pulled the duvet up over my wife and our growing pack.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't dream of ice or blood or darkness.
I dreamed of a little boy on skates, wobbling on the ice in the backyard.
And I dreamed of catching him.