Epilogue David
I came to Hammonton searching for something.
I didn’t know what it was at the time.
Peace, maybe.
Silence.
An escape from the noise.
Instead, I found my reason—I found her.
And now, as I dance beneath the full July moon with my wife of exactly one hour, I understand something I never did before—I wasn’t looking for quiet.
I was looking for home.
This place. This town. Her.
Right now, the backyard is glowing.
Our backyard.
The one we tore apart and rebuilt together over the last few months. The one she insisted needed more romance and fewer sharp edges.
Red and pink roses climb trellises along the fence line.
Fairy lights crisscross overhead like fallen stars.
The old brick patio is polished smooth, the grass trimmed perfect, lanterns flickering softly around the perimeter.
There are dozens of our friends scattered across the lawn.
Nathan laughing near the bar.
Adrianna is radiant and rests comfortably with their newborn in a cushioned chair like the queen she is.
Bella holding court near the dessert table, retelling the story of recording in NYC for the hundredth time.
Waitstaff glide through the crowd with trays of champagne and late-night sliders.
The speakers hum with music that isn’t mine for once—because tonight isn’t about DJ Mars.
Tonight is about David and Hilary. My wife.
She sways in my arms like she was built for this moment.
Butter yellow lace. Layers of sheer fabric that catch the moonlight and glow. Not traditional. Not white. Not anything out of a bridal magazine.
It’s so her.
Soft and sunny and quietly bold.
She looks like something out of a fairy tale.
Like a spell made visible.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs, smiling up at me.
“I’m married,” I reply. “I’m allowed.”
She laughs.
God, that sound.
“I love you,” I tell her for the thousandth time today.
It still feels new every time.
“I love you too, Husband.”
Husband.
Fuck. I like the way that sounds.
I pull her closer, hands firm at her waist. She fits against me like she always belonged there.
The moon hangs huge and white above us.
Full.
Bright.
Blessing this whole damn thing.
She thinks this is magic.
That the storm, the crash, the hospital, the ring—somehow it was all part of some cosmic spell.
But I know better.
This isn’t magic—not the fairytale kind.
This is the kind of magic only true lovers can make.
It’s choice. It’s compromise. It’s dedication, devotion, and promise.
It’s showing up.
It’s getting on a plane and deciding to build a life somewhere quieter because the woman you love deserves roots, not chaos.
I dip my head and capture her lips because the truth is I just can’t stop kissing her.
She sighs, leans into me, and I swear my heart expands, encompassing us both.
My body reacts—cock hard for her like it knows she’s mine now and it can’t wait to claim her.
Oh yeah.
Try For Me is a hit.
The rugby championship single blew up exactly like everyone predicted. The Carolina Rovers took the Cup, and yeah, I took her to the final.
She screamed herself hoarse in the stands.
Met half the team after.
I won’t lie—I wasn’t thrilled about that part. Watching professional athletes hug my now wife tested my patience in ways I’m not proud of.
But she was happy.
And one thing I know for sure?
I’ll do anything she wants just to see her smile like that.
Because her happiness isn’t separate from mine anymore.
It is mine.
We end the kiss slowly and she rests her head against my chest, right over my heart.
“Everything feels different,” she says softly.
“It is,” I answer.
“How?”
I think about that for a second.
The crash.
The darkness.
The moment I thought I might not make it back to her.
“It’s permanent,” I say finally. “That’s what’s different.”
She tilts her head back to look at me.
“You weren’t going anywhere before.”
I smile slowly.
“Now neither are you.”
She narrows her eyes playfully. “Are you threatening me on our wedding night?”
“Absolutely.”
She laughs again and presses a kiss to my chest.
The music shifts to something slower.
The crowd cheers somewhere behind us.
Bella whistles obnoxiously.
I ignore them all.
Because this—right here—is the only stage I care about anymore.
Hilary is my heart now.
She’s the rhythm beneath every beat.
The melody I didn’t know I was writing.
And the thing about rhythm?
It doesn’t disappear when the song ends.
It keeps going.
Steady.
Sure.
Ours.
I press my forehead to hers.
“I love you,” I murmur again.
“I know,” she whispers back, smiling.
And for the first time in my life—there’s no vampire out to get me on the horizon. No storms or noise.
There’s just moonlight. Music with a wicked beat I’m addicted to. And the woman I came to Hammonton for even before I knew I was looking.
The end.
Thank you for reading Wicked Beats!