Epilogue
Jess - One week later
The toilet bowl and I have developed a morning routine.
Six a.m., on the dot, my stomach revolts against the concept of consciousness. I make it from the bed to the bathroom in four seconds flat—a personal record—and Finn's footsteps hit the hallway two seconds behind me, because the bond jolts him awake the instant nausea rolls through.
His palm gathers my hair. Holds it back while I empty everything I ate for dinner. His other hand rests warm between my shoulder blades, steady, and I can feel his concern pulsing against my ribs despite the grin I know he's wearing.
"Our kid's already got your personality." He tucks a loose strand behind my ear. "Stubborn."
"Well, if this baby had your personality, I'd still be asleep." I spit, flush, and press my forehead to my forearm. The tile is cold under my knees. "Your child is staging a revolt against food."
He disappears. Comes back with a glass of ginger tea and two slices of dry toast on a plate, then lowers himself to the bathroom floor beside me.
His frame takes up most of the space between the tub and the vanity.
One knee drawn up, his shoulder braced against the wall, the plate balanced on his thigh.
I take the tea. Sip. Through the bond, worry threads beneath his humor, knotted tight. He buries it under jokes and grins because Finn Stone would rather bleed than admit he's scared.
I elbow him in the ribs. "I can feel you panicking."
"I'm not panicking. I'm concerned. There's a difference."
"No, there isn't."
His mouth twitches. He steals the toast and tears off a corner, holds it in front of my lips. "Eat."
"I'll throw up again."
"Then I'll hold your hair." He presses the toast to my lower lip. "Eat, Kitten."
I take the bite. My stomach clenches, considers rebellion, and settles. Finn watches my face, reading me the way he reads everything—through the bond, through scent, through the shift in my breathing he tracks without thinking. His hand finds my knee and squeezes.
The front door rattles.
Knox's voice carries across the apartment. "Finn. Clubhouse. Now."
Finn's brow creases. He glances at me, then pushes off the floor and crosses to the front door.
I hear the low exchange, Knox's tone clipped, Finn's response a murmur I can't make out.
Through the gap in the doorway I catch a glimpse of the courtyard below—Garrett crossing the lot toward the tree line, alone, shoulders hunched against the morning cold.
Heading back to his cabin the way he does every morning, before anyone's awake enough to talk to him.
The bond spikes. Focus narrowing the way it does when Finn shifts from husband to VP.
He comes back holding an envelope.
Heavy parchment with a dark wax seal pressed into the flap. Not the Bloodstone crest I've seen on Knox's letters—a different sigil, angular, unfamiliar. And the name on the front, written in thick ink, isn't Knox's.
Finn Stone.
He stares at it. Turns it in his hands. His thumb traces the seal without breaking it, and through the bond I feel old grief shift.
I stand. Move behind him and read over his shoulder as he cracks the wax.
The handwriting is cramped, deliberate. Small strokes made by someone who chose every word before the ink touched parchment.
Your mother's spirit honors your claiming. May your mate and offspring be blessed by the ancestors. The Stone bloodline endures.
A second line sits beneath the blessing, the ink darker, pressed harder into the parchment.
The council has noted your silence. Another representative will be sent to discuss the matter of succession. This courtesy will not be extended again.
Finn's throat works. He reads it again, then a third time.
"Someone in the clan reached out to you." I rest my chin on his shoulder, my arms sliding around his waist from behind. "Not Knox. You."
"Yeah." His jaw sets. "And they're not just saying hello."
His hand covers mine against his stomach and presses my palm flat. Beneath the muscle and skin, beneath everything, the bond hums between us—and woven through it now, faint and new, a flutter I've started to feel in the quiet moments.
"Not second anymore," I say.
He turns his head and presses his lips to my temple. His voice comes out rough and low, cracked at the edges, held together by the same stubbornness our kid is already inheriting.
"Never again."
Before You Go...
Thank you for reading. Every time someone picks up one of these books, a fictional orc gets his happily ever after, and I think that's beautiful.
Finn was harder to write than Knox—the funny ones always are, because the jokes are load-bearing walls and the real stuff hides underneath.
I hope you felt what he was carrying.