Epilogue Colt
Colt
One Year Later...
Our cabin looks like Christmas exploded in the best possible way.
Ivy has draped garlands over every surface, strung twinkling lights around the windows, and somehow convinced me to let her put up a tree that takes up half the living room.
It's decorated with a mix of store-bought ornaments and the soapstone ones I've been carving all year—snowflakes and stars and little reindeer that make her smile every time she looks at them.
A year ago, this place was a monument to my isolation. Now it's a home.
I'm coming in from chopping wood for the fireplace when I find Ivy in the kitchen, putting finishing touches on a batch of Christmas cookies.
Snowflakes, just like the ones that brought us together.
She's humming Christmas carols under her breath, her dark hair catching the afternoon light, and my chest tightens with the familiar rush of gratitude that hits me at least a dozen times a day.
This beautiful, stubborn woman saved my life. And somehow convinced me I was worth saving.
"Smells good," I murmur, wrapping my arms around her from behind, pulling her flush against me so she can feel exactly what the sight of her does to me.
"The cookies or me?" she asks, leaning back against my chest, her ass pressing against my growing hardness.
"Both." My hands spread across her stomach, and she goes very still in my arms. I nuzzle her neck, breathing in her vanilla scent. "You okay, sweetheart?"
She turns in my arms, and there's something different in her expression. Nervous excitement, maybe. Like she's holding onto a secret that's about to burst out of her.
"Colt, I have something for you."
"It's not Christmas yet," I protest, though I'm already curious. My hands rest on her hips, thumbs stroking over the soft cotton of her dress. Ivy's gifts are always thoughtful, always perfect.
"This can't wait." She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a small wrapped box. "Open it."
I take it, studying her face as I carefully unwrap the paper. She's practically vibrating with anticipation, biting her lower lip the way she does when she's nervous. It’s the same way she looks when she's beneath me, desperate and wanting.
Inside the box are tiny knitted booties. They’re soft yellow wool with little white snowflakes embroidered on them.
For a moment, my brain can't process what I'm seeing. Then it hits me like an avalanche.
"Ivy," I say, my voice coming out hoarse. "Are these?"
"We're having a baby," she whispers, tears gathering in her beautiful brown eyes. "I'm eight weeks along. The doctor confirmed it yesterday."
The booties blur as my own eyes fill. A baby. Our baby.
I set them carefully on the counter with shaking hands, then frame her face, studying every beloved feature. My wife. The mother of my child. The woman who dragged me back from the edge of despair and showed me what it means to truly live.
"How do you feel about becoming a daddy?" she asks softly.
"Terrified," I admit, because I've never lied to her. "And so fucking hard I can barely think straight. You're carrying my baby, Ivy. My seed took root inside you."
Her breath catches, pupils dilating. "Colt..."
"You're going to be so beautiful pregnant," I growl, backing her against the kitchen counter. "Round and swollen with my child. Everyone will see what I've done to you. How I've claimed you."
"I want that," she breathes, her hands fisting in my shirt. "I want everyone to know I belong to you."
"Do you?" I lift her onto the counter, stepping between her thighs, pressing my hardness against her core. "Then show me how much you want to carry my babies."
Her dress is already hiked up around her waist, and I can feel the heat of her through her panties. "Touch me," she pleads. "I need you to touch me."
"My pregnant wife wants to be touched?" I ask roughly, my hand sliding between her legs. She's already soaked through the lace. "Christ, you're dripping for me."
"Always," she gasps as I push her panties aside and slide two fingers inside her. "Always wet for you."
I work her with my fingers while my thumb circles her clit, watching her fall apart on my kitchen counter. "That's it. Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how much you love carrying my baby."
She shatters with a cry, her body clenching around my fingers. Before she can recover, I'm lifting her, carrying her to our bedroom with desperate need.
"I need to be inside you," I growl, laying her on the bed.
I strip us both with shaking hands, then settle between her thighs. When I push inside her, she's tight and wet and perfect.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," I groan, starting to move. "So tight around my cock. Can't wait to watch you get bigger, knowing I did this to you."
"Harder," she pants, nails raking down my back. "I need you deeper."
I give her what she's begging for, pounding into her with primal need. "Going to take such good care of my pregnant wife. Going to fuck you every day, make sure you never forget you're mine."
"Yes," she sobs, her body starting to shake. "I'm yours. Always yours."
"Come for me," I command. "Come on my cock while you're pregnant with my baby."
She screams my name as she comes, her body gripping me like a vice. The sensation pushes me over the edge, and I empty myself inside her with a roar that echoes off the walls.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my hand resting protectively over her stomach.
"A Christmas baby," I murmur.
"Well, summer, actually. But conceived around Christmas, so close enough." Her cheeks turn pink in that way that still makes my heart skip. "Guess we know what happened when we had to stay warm during that freak October blizzard."
"Best Christmas present ever."
Later that evening, we're curled up by the fireplace, both of us naked beneath a soft throw blanket.
Ivy's head is on my shoulder as I play soft melodies, experimenting with a gentle tune that might work as a lullaby.
Snow falls steadily outside our windows, and the Christmas tree lights cast everything in a warm, golden light.
It's exactly like that first night, but completely different. There was no Christmas tree then. No joy. Only sadness. Then we were strangers seeking shelter from the storm. Now we're home, building a family, surrounded by twinkling lights and more garland than Santa’s workshop.
"Colt?" Ivy's voice is drowsy, satisfied.
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Thank you for choosing me. For choosing us."
I tighten my arms around her, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Thank you for not giving me a choice. For being too stubborn to let me push you away."
"I love you," she murmurs against my chest.
"I love you too. Both of you."
My hand finds her stomach again, resting over our growing child. A year ago, I was convinced I didn't deserve happiness. That men like me—men who'd failed when it mattered most—were meant to live with their guilt and isolation.
But Ivy saw something different. She saw a man worth saving, worth loving, worth building a future with.
Outside, the snow continues to fall, just like it did that magical Christmas Eve when everything changed. When a sweet bakery girl crashed her van and stumbled into my life with cookies from my mother and a heart big enough to heal all my broken places.
I adjust my grip on the guitar and begin to play the lullaby again, humming along as I work out the melody. Our baby might not arrive until summer, but I want to be ready.
I want to be the father this child deserves. The husband Ivy deserves. The man I never thought I could be again.
And for the first time in years, I believe I can be.