Epilogue
GABLE
“Gibson!” I roar, dropping the shopping bags on the floor.
I half tear my way through the house and find Ella sitting at her desk, smiling innocently in a Santa hat.
Her hair is down, her laptop is open, and her headphones aren’t on, so she knew I was coming home and knew I’d likely lose my shit at her when I did.
This fucking woman. I point toward the living room. “What the fuck is in my house?”
“Our house,” she corrects, holding up her finger. “And it’s not Gibson, it’s Gideon.”
“You’ll always be Gibson to me, you little shit.
” I stalk toward the desk, and Motor grumbles at me.
“Enough out of you, too, mutt.” He huffs and lowers his head back onto his bed.
I return my attention to Ella. “I told you to leave the Christmas tree to me! You cannot be standing on step ladders!” I take my jacket off so aggressively I’m surprised I don’t dislocate my shoulder.
Tossing it onto the old sofa, I approach the desk again. “Bed. Rest.”
She folds her arms. “I am pregnant, not sick!”
“You are due in three weeks!”
“Which means I should be exercising!” she screeches.
“Walks! Not tree climbing!”
Motor grumbles again, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. He’s so protective of her now she’s pregnant I can hardly go near her without him wedging his way between us.
“What if you fell?” I ask. “What would you do?”
“Don’t yell at me in front of our children,” she hisses. “They can hear you.”
They. Twins. She didn’t even know they ran in her family, but after a year of living in our new identities, we got pregnant, and we danced around the house holding pee on a stick.
Yeah, even me.
“How did shopping go?” she asks, closing her laptop.
“It’s Christmas Eve; how do you think it went? I punched two people and almost tackled a grandma.”
She arches a brow. “Almost?”
“Yes, almost. I have some restraint,” I say, sitting on the couch. “Now, come here so I can say hello.”
Ella grins and pushes herself out of her chair.
She’s in her robe, and as she pulls at the tie, she reveals her pregnant belly.
I’ll never get tired of seeing her this way, of knowing she’s carrying our children.
I know she’s officially sick of being pregnant, but I can’t wait to do this all over again.
She stands in front of me, and I kiss her stomach.
“Any twinges?”
“Nothing,” she sighs, pressing her hand against them. “They’re too damn comfy.”
“Keep talking; they’ll want out soon enough.”
She tuts and flicks my head, then sits on my lap. “Did you get my chocolate?”
“And then some.”
“Thank you.” She cuddles into me. “I got you something, too. Go into the living room.”
I raise my brows at her suspiciously, and when she gets up, I do as she asks.
We live on a quiet street, mainly families, and the house is too big for the two of us but perfect for when the twins arrive. We didn’t want something massive, anyway, and we couldn’t live in Hunter’s old house.
I used the money Hunter left me and turned his home into a foster home. Z checks on it for me, and I do everything I can from a distance to ensure that every kid is looked after and has everything they need. I didn’t want the money for myself, so it seemed like the next best thing.
As I wait on the couch, I open mail, not that we get much. One is a Christmas card from Guy, which is pointless given that since Ella got pregnant, she FaceTimes him every day. Another is from Silence, and X, Y and Z.
The last one is simply marked “M.”
Bambi and Flynn,
I hope the little Bambis are well.
I don’t miss either of you.
Monty survived the attack, and soon after, she disappeared. She keeps in touch like this, so we know she’s alive, but the agency—which Z and his brothers took over—haven’t heard from her since last year. She doesn’t take on any jobs, but that doesn’t exactly mean she isn’t killing anyone.
“Shit!” Ella yelps from the kitchen.
I stand up. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing! Don’t come in!” Ella yells back.
Sighing, I return to my seat and hope she doesn’t burn our house down on Christmas Eve.
When Ella appears in the doorway carrying two plates, I grin.
“You made me s’mores.”
She wiggles, clearly pleased with herself, and climbs onto the sofa before handing me my plate.
“Gibson … there’s no marshmallows.”
She pouts. “I ate them all today.”
“Wow.”
“I’m pregnant; I’m allowed.”
We eat, we watch a movie, and as we get into bed, I start reading. Ella shifts around, trying to get comfortable.
She grunts, then glares at me like it’s my fault she can’t sleep. “What are you reading?”
“It’s a book about being a dad when you’ve had a less than perfect upbringing,” I mumble, trying to concentrate. “Just making sure I don’t mess up our kids.”
It’s my biggest fear. I know no one knows how to be a parent first time around, but I should have some confidence, right? At the moment, I have zero.
“Gable,” she says, rubbing her belly. “You’re going to be a great dad.”
“Yes, I will, because I’m reading this.”
She laughs and then grunts, kicking the covers off. “I give up sleeping. It’s for the weak.” Groaning, she gets out of bed. “I’m going to pee.”
“That’s seven times tonight.”
“One more and I win the sweepstakes!” She cheers and I laugh as she waddles out of the room.
Life is really fucking strange now.
Wonderful strange, but still strange.
My days used to be spent plotting hits, practicing with weapons, burying bodies—now I read parenting books and count down the days until I’m a dad. I work on the house, too, and just spending time with Ella keeps me occupied, but I never thought that this life would be mine.
God, I fucking love it, though.
As Ella appears in the doorway, I show her the book. “Do you think I could do something like this?”
She tilts her head. “Write a book?”
“No, counsel kids. Y’know, kids like me.”
It’s something I’ve thought about before. I don’t know that counselling would have helped me back then, but I know talking did.
Ella smiles. “I think you’d be great at it. And—” Something splashes, and she looks down.
I sit up on the bed. “Did you just pee? Is that number eight?”
“I think … I think my water just broke.”
We stare at each other in total silence. “What do we do?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers, glancing down. “Do we go, like, now? Or is it—” She clutches her stomach, her eyes wide. “Oh, yes, we go now. We go right fucking now!”
I dart out of bed, and minutes later, we’re in the car. Ella is breathing deeply next to me, her hand tight on mine.
“Oh, I feel like I need to poop. Should I poop?”
“That’s the babies, not poop.”
“It feels like poop!”
We argue about poop a little longer, which isn’t the strangest thing we’ve argued over since getting married.
We’re at the hospital and in our room, and the midwife confirms Ella and the babies are ready. Ella sobs and says she isn’t ready at all.
Seven minutes later, our daughter is born.
Seven minutes.
Ella sobs as she’s handed the smallest human I’ve ever seen. Pink and furious looking, her fists tiny, her wails loud.
“Asha,” Ella whispers, kissing our daughter’s tiny fingers. A name we picked the day we saw those blue lines.
“Ready for baby number two?” the midwife asks, smiling warmly at us.
Ella whimpers. “I hope he’s as eager as his sister.”
He isn’t. He’s far more complicated, and Ella cries into my shirt, curses my name, bans me from touching her, and then our son is born.
Gray.
“Asha and Gray,” the midwife says. “Great names.”
They’re cleaned up and bundled up, and in a noisy hospital, the four of us squeeze into one bed. Ella rests her head on my shoulder, and we stare at our kids.
Our kids.
“What do we do now?” I whisper.
“You’ve been reading all the books; you tell me,” she says, and grins up at me. She’s pink, and sweaty, and exhausted, and so fucking beautiful. I kiss her softly, and in my mind, I create a snapshot of this moment. Our first night as a family.
“Are you happy, Ella Flynn?” I ask quietly.
She smiles, resting her forehead against mine. “It’s better than my imagination.”