Epilogue
Inside Maren’s bakery, thick steam from the cocoa machine rolls against the front glass, blurring the Lakeview street outside into a smudge of falling snow.
The Closed sign is already flipped to the street, but Maren insisted we join her after hours to celebrate “the day the orchard finally secures its two-million-dollar contract”.
Maren, who pulled a massive wooden table into the center of the shop just for the occasion, slides a white ceramic plate onto the wood. It holds four cardamom knots, the sugar crust still glistening and warm from the oven.
“You’ve been staring at the window for ten minutes, Luna,” she says, dusting flour off her apron. She has dark circles under her eyes, but her grin is wide. “Should I assume the alphas are boring?”
“They’re worse than boring,” I say, smiling and reaching for a knot. “They’re domestic. Reed spent twenty minutes in the hardware aisle arguing about brass screws earlier.”
“They were zinc,” Reed grunts, his fingers already hooking the largest pastry.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his forearms carrying the faint white dust of dry plaster from the unit next to mine.
They bought the space last month, and he’s spent the last three days knocking down the dividing wall to expand our apartment.
“Zinc doesn’t strip in seventy-year-old oak.
Ash wanted brass because he likes shiny things. ”
“Brass looks better on the brackets,” Ash says. He’s leaning back, his legs tangled with mine under the table, his thumb tracing a slow circle over my knee. “Aesthetics matter, Reed. Even in a hallway cupboard.”
Maren chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron as she backs toward the prep kitchen. “Keep going exactly like you are, I’ll be right back. Forgot the cocoa.”
Beside me, Bram leans his shoulder against mine, staring out the window and watching the streetlights catch the falling snow.
His phone vibrates on the wood. He catches it before the first ring ends, giving Ash and Reed a warning look. “No eavesdropping,” he tells them, his thumb hovering over the screen. “I want to tell you myself.” He slides to answer. “Yeah?”
Ash stops mid-sentence, his coffee cup suspended an inch above the saucer. Across the table, Reed’s fingers freeze on the edge of the plate.
Bram stares at the glass sugar shaker in the middle of the table, listening, his boots scraping once against the floorboards.
Whatever he’s feeling, he’s holding it behind a wall.
Through the bond, I only get the hard, static hum of Ash and Reed’s anticipation, vibrating against my ribs.
“Thanks, Warren,” he says, and his voice is low, almost flat.
He pulls the phone away, the screen going dark in his hand.
“Bram,” Reed says, the cardamom knot still caught in his fingers. “Well?”
Bram looks up. His eyes are bright, the rims slightly flushed. He takes a slow, heavy breath, his chest expanding under his green flannel, and lets it out in a long, ragged whistle.
“It cleared,” he says.
Ash blinks. “The whole thing?”
“Every cent. Warren’s bank released the wire. Two million.”
Ash lets out a long, shuddering breath, his forehead dropping straight onto his folded arms. Reed lets out a laugh.
He hits the table with his fist, rattling the spoons, then grabs the back of Ash’s neck to shake him before reaching across the booth to slam a heavy hand against Bram’s shoulder.
Then he leans over and presses his mouth to mine, tasting of cardamom sugar.
Bram just sits there, the stiffness in his collarbone dissolving as he leans back against his chair.
Maren comes back, holding a copper pot of hot cocoa. She looks at Bram, then at Reed, who’s gone from kissing me to trying to wrestle Ash into a headlock.
“I’m guessing the wire cleared,“ Maren smiles, filling the first mug as the dark, rich steam curls up between us.
“Yep, we’re officially official,” I say, beaming.
Reed releases Ash, grabs his cup, and lifts it. “That we are. To the orchard!”
“To the orchard,” they echo.
I lift my mug. “To our pack, to us.”
Bram looks at me, his slow, rare grin breaking across his face. Under the table, his hand finds my wrist, his thumb pressing warm against my pulse.
“To us,” he murmurs. “And to our new life.”
Four months later
It is seven in the morning on a Sunday, and my kitchen is currently three sizes too small. Reed is flat on his back on the linoleum, his boots sticking out past the refrigerator, his shoulder wedged against the radiator valve, tapping the pipe with a wrench.
“Nothing like a little mechanical noise to start the morning,” I say, leaning against the counter with my tea.
Reed grunts from the floor. He hits the pipe again, another sharp clank that vibrates through my floorboards. “You had air pockets in the return line. Another month and you’d have had a steam leak behind your drywall. You’re welcome.”
“Don’t discourage his only talent, Luna,” Ash says. He’s sitting on the stool by the counter, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants. He reaches out, his fingers hooking the front belt loop of my jeans, and pulls me a half-step closer.
“I have other talents,” Reed says, standing up and pouting.
“None of which belongs in a kitchen,” Ash murmurs. He leans down, pressing his nose against the warm skin of my neck, inhaling slow. A shiver ripples down my arms.
Through the bond, I send a dry, teasing image of me bent over the very counter we’re leaning on. A prompt, dirty promise.
Ash’s fingers tighten on my belt loop. Reed’s eyes flash, and his scent spikes, sending a pulse of heat straight to my belly.
But on second thought, my thighs are still heavy from last night, an ache behind my hips making me wish for the endless stamina of my last heat. Later, actually, I send back through the bond, a brief mental nudge of retreat.
Ash huffs against my skin, his teeth scraping my collarbone in a lazy threat. Any time, sweetheart, his voice ripples back. We’ll only be hungrier when you’re ready.
At the stove, Bram is pouring hot water through a copper filter, wearing a clean grey tee that matches Ash’s sweatpants. His movements are slow, and I can feel how peaceful he is.
His phone dings on the counter and he reaches for it. A small, soft huff of breath escapes him and he turns around, holding the screen out.
“Jenna,” he says.
The photo is a close-up, slightly blurry shot of a single white bud, the petals tipped with pink, clinging to a dark, mossy branch. First blossom.
“She says the ground is dry enough for the tractor,” Bram says, setting the phone down. He steps over, sliding his hands around my waist from behind, his chest pressing warm against my back, his chin on my shoulder. “We go Thursday?”
“Go Thursday,” Reed says. “I want to check the gaskets on the new cider press before the spraying starts.”
These days, we’re mostly in Lakeview. The seasonal split is three months old, the two million from the Holt contract sitting in the orchard trust to keep Jenna on a year-round salary as manager.
She runs the day-to-day now, along with the two hands she hired for the spring pruning.
The alphas kept the craft windows—the blossoms, the pressing weeks, the harvest. The work no hired hand can do.
My job at the library is still mine, but it has changed.
The relocation program Bob told me about turned out to be far more flexible than I realized, allowing me to split my time between Lakeview and the orchard.
I can work my usual shifts in Lakeview, then pivot to taking extra unpaid leave as needed.
Since we don’t need my library salary to survive anymore, it’s the perfect setup.
I keep the library because I love it, and the weeks I do spend at the orchard are focused on expanding our cider line.
It’s working, too, Hollow Gold is pulling in enough profit that Bram’s already talking about hiring two more full-time hands to manage the summer weeding.
Speaking of weeding, there are some treats begging me to weed them out.
I pick up the brown paper bag Maren left by the door earlier, now sitting on the counter. It’s grease-stained and smells deliciously of butter. Tucked into the string is a scrap of yellow paper, and I pull it out to read it.
Eat these before Reed does. —M.
Oh, Maren. What did I ever do to deserve a friend like you..?
I let out a soft sigh. Considering she’s been working herself right to the bone these past few weeks, she shouldn’t be using any energy to take care of me.
Harper, Beth, and I have actually tried to stage a tactical intervention three times this month, but she’s managed to dodge all of them.
So far, anyway. We’re going to corner her eventually.
“I’m going by the bakery tonight,” I say, leaning back against Bram. “I think Maren’s drowning.”
“I’ll go,” Reed says, mouth full of pastry. “Her flour mixer was squeaking last week. I’ll bring the grease gun.”
“She doesn’t need a grease gun, Reed,” I say. “She needs to stop working sixteen-hour days.”
I know she’s tough. I know she’ll eventually figure out how to make her bakery work without breaking her back. Or she won’t, and we’ll be there to catch her, regardless. That’s the thing about having friends. You don’t have to carry the ceiling by yourself.
Bram’s arms tighten around me, pulling me back against his chest. A wave of leather and warm coffee rolls off him, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket.
“I’m not even worried about her,” he murmurs, his voice low and vibrating against my back. “Not when she has a friend like you in her corner.”
Ash reaches out, his fingers hooking my belt loop again and pulling me gently toward him. He’s sitting on the counter stool, his dark eyes looking up at me, his voice unusually soft.
“And to think Bram almost traumatized you right out of our lives the first day you met him...”
I cup his face, looking him in the eyes, and wink. “Good thing we do it willingly now.”
Reed shifts, propping himself against the counter. “You know, I was thinking last night about how close we came to losing everything. None of what we have today would be here without you, Luna. We’re a real lucky bunch.”
He pulls me down for a kiss, hot and tasting of woodsmoke. When we part, breathing harder, Ash leans up for his turn, his fingers tangled in my hair. Then Bram, his large hands anchoring my waist.
“I love you,” I tell them.
We love you too, sweetheart. More than anything. The words ripple through the bond, braiding into a single, unbreakable promise.
***
THE END…