Epilogue
IRIS
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
Oh my God. I’m–
Sitting on the edge of the bathtub in our cabin, I stare at the lines.
Our cabin. That's what it is now. Jax added a second room in October, framed it himself with lumber from Ev Cole's operation.
Cade helped with the drywall. Hayes showed up uninvited to "supervise," which meant he sat on an overturned bucket telling jokes while everyone else worked.
The couch arrived in July. Oversized, dark leather, deep enough for a man who's six foot five to stretch out with a woman tucked against his side while she reads intelligence briefs on her laptop.
Two pink lines.
My hand isn't shaking. My breathing is steady.
The analyst brain is already running projections.
Due date. Prenatal care. Whether Doc Morrison handles obstetrics or if we'd need to drive to Reno.
How to tell a man who built his entire adult life around the premise that he didn't deserve good things that the best thing imaginable just happened.
The bathroom door is closed. Through it, I hear Jax in the kitchen. Coffee press. Four minutes. The clink of a mug on the counter. Morning routine. Our routine.
Eight months since he drove back from Carson City and walked through the cabin door. Eight months of sharing a bed, a kitchen, a life. Eight months of watching the most dangerous man I've ever known gentle himself into something I don't think he expected to become. Happy.
He goes to Sunday dinner now without being told.
Holds Elena on his lap while she babbles about her stuffed animals.
Lets Sadie photograph him for her social media, though his expression in every picture is the flat operational stare of a man being held at gunpoint.
Sadie posts them anyway with captions like "when your favorite uncle is allergic to smiling. "
He prays again. Not the desperate, bargaining prayers of a man who thinks God stopped listening.
Real prayer. Quiet mornings on the porch with his Bible and his coffee, the rosary tattoo visible on his wrist when he turns the pages.
He told me last month that he'd been asking for forgiveness for years.
Now he asks for gratitude. For the ability to deserve what he's been given.
Two pink lines. He's about to be given something else.
Opening the bathroom door, I find him at the table.
Coffee mug in one hand. My laptop open in front of him because he's been reviewing my latest consulting report for a client in London.
He does that now. Reads my work. Asks questions.
Treats my career with the same tactical respect he gives a mission briefing.
"Morning." He looks up. Studies my face. Those pale blue eyes miss nothing.
"Morning."
I sit down across from him. Set the test on the table between the coffee mugs.
He looks at it. Looks at me. Back at the test.
The silence lasts four seconds. In those four seconds, I watch Jaxon "Priest" Stone, former CIA Special Activities Division operative, the man they called Priest because he sent people to judgment, process the two pink lines on a plastic stick.
His eyes go bright. Wet. The coffee mug lowers to the table with exaggerated care, like his hands have forgotten how to do simple things.
"Iris."
"About six weeks, I think. I'll need to confirm with a doctor."
He stands. The chair scrapes back. Two strides around the table. His hands find my face, thumbs against my cheekbones, tilting my head up. The kiss he presses to my forehead is so tender it cracks something open in my chest.
"Say something," I whisper.
"I'm going to be a father."
"Yes."
"We're going to be parents."
"That is generally how this works."
The laugh that rumbles through his chest vibrates against my forehead. He drops to his knees in front of my chair. Both hands spread across my stomach. Flat. Warm. Reverent.
"I don't deserve this."
"Stop."
"I don't. But I'm keeping it anyway." His forehead presses against my belly. "I'm keeping you. Both of you. Everything."
My fingers slide through his hair. Silver at the temples. Dark everywhere else. The head of a man who's kneeling on a cabin floor in the Nevada mountains, hands on the woman he almost lost, praying over a life that hasn't started yet.
"We need to tell the team," I say.
"Sadie's gonna lose her mind."
"Vivian will start a legal file. She'll have a college fund structured before the first trimester is over."
"Cade will offer to deliver the baby in the lodge."
"Absolutely not."
He looks up. Grinning. An actual, full, unreserved grin on the face of a man I once watched sit motionless for eleven hours in a surveillance blind. My heart does something complicated.
"Marry me," he says.
"You're on your knees already. Efficient."
"Iris."
"Yes." No hesitation. No analysis. No risk assessment. Just yes. "But I want a ring. And a real proposal. And Vivian is planning the wedding because that woman has opinions."
"Done." He stands, pulls me up with him, wraps both arms around me. My face presses against his chest. Heartbeat strong under my ear. "I'll get you a ring today."
"The jewelry store in town closes at five."
"Then I'm leaving now."
"You haven't finished your coffee."
"The coffee can wait." He pulls back. Holds my face. Those eyes, pale blue, clear, full of something I spent fifteen years waiting to see without obstruction. "You can't."
He kisses me. Deep. Slow. A promise with teeth.
Then he grabs his jacket, his keys, walks out the cabin door. Through the window, I watch him take the trail down toward the compound at a pace that's almost a jog. Jaxon Stone doesn't jog. Jaxon Stone maintains tactical awareness at all times and moves with deliberate economy.
Jaxon Stone is sprinting down a mountain to buy an engagement ring at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning.
My phone buzzes. Already.
Jax:
I love you.
Me:
I know. Drive safe.
Jax:
I'm walking.
Me:
Walk safe then.
Jax:
I survived twenty years of black ops. I can handle a trail.
Me:
You also tripped over the rug last Thursday.
Jax:
That rug is a tactical hazard. I've told Cade.
Laughing, I set the phone on the table. Pick up my coffee. Drink it standing at the window, watching the tree line where he disappeared, one hand resting on my stomach.
This is what true happiness feels like.