And anyone who tries to take this from me will learn exactly what kind of monster they made.
I close my eyes, holding my little princess, and listen to the wild outside. The future is coming, with claws and teeth.
I bare my own.
Let it come.
Epilogue: Dahlia
Theporchcreaksundermy bare feet as I lean into the wood rail, letting the last gold of sunset slide over my skin. The shirt is Bam’s—a black cotton dress for me, a tattered relic for him, so wide it skims my body like a shadow. The cuffs cover my wrists, but when I breathe in, it feels like home.
Two months.
Two whole months since the shit show went down.
One month since I heard from my father, who begrudgingly agreed not to kill Bam and to take his war-mongering to the Castillo’s instead.
I miss him, but not enough to go visit him yet. I know he will want to meet Bam, really meet him, and I don’t think either of us are ready for the type of ‘fatherly discussion’ that comes from a Bonaccorso.
Ever since the night of the Hunt, ever since we escaped to the cabin, we’ve called it our home.
The world is quiet here, the kind of silence that makes your heart settle and peace feel within reach. I watch the woods, waiting for movement, daring the ghosts of the old life to step out of the brush. They don’t. They never do. There’s nothing left to haunt me except the person I used to be.
Inside, the little kitchen is chaos. Water boils over the rim of the battered pot. Red sauce sputters, staining the cheap stove with angry hisses. I let it burn a little, knowing it’ll be a bitch to clean later.
When the timer buzzes, I kill the heat with my elbow. The pasta is perfect—al dente, bite to it, just the way Nonna taught me when I was seven and Nonno was in one of his better moods. I dump the noodles into the colander and watch the steam curl, toss them back in the pot and then drown them in sauce and throw in enough parmesan to smother a city block.
There’s no tablecloth. No silver. Just two forks, two chipped plates, and the knowledge that I could have made burnt toast and butter and Bam would still act like it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten.
That man...
I set the food on the little wooden table. The old lacquer has peeled away, leaving scars and burns like a battlefield. I like it better that way. There’s honesty in destruction. I wonder if Bam even notices the imperfections anymore.
He comes home in footsteps that shake the whole cabin. Not running, never rushing, but moving with the kind of purpose that makes people get out of the way. His boots hit the steps, then the porch, then the threshold, and I feel the vibration before I see the door swing open.
He fills the doorway. Not just by size, but by something heavier, like gravity made flesh. The air goes thick, and I can’t help but stand up straighter, chin high, like I’m bracing for a whirlwind of love wrapped in mutual destruction.
His eyes land on me. They go dark, pupils wide, the kind of hunger that has nothing to do with food. He doesn’t say a word, just closes the door behind him and stands there, watching.
The silence stretches until it cuts.
“I made dinner,” I say, because someone has to break first.
He moves. Not fast, but with absolute intent, and I see his hands flex at his sides before he crosses the room. He stops just inside my reach, close enough for the heat to roll off him.
“Nice shirt,” he rumbles, voice thick from outside.
I shrug, pretending I don’t notice the way the hem barely covers me, that I don’t see his hungry gaze soak in the shape of my legs. “Laundry day.”
He reaches for my waist. The touch is careful, but the strength is there—fingers spanning the whole width of me, pressing just hard enough to make me feel how easily he could snap me in half. He pulls me in, slow, until my chest bumps his.
His mouth is a line against my hairline, breath hot on my scalp. “Smells good,” he says, but I know he’s not talking about the food.
I tilt my head back, daring him to close the distance. “You hungry?”
His gaze drops to my lips, then lower. “Starving.”
I want to laugh. I want to bite him. Instead, I let myself lean in, hands clutching at the cotton over his ribs, and breathe him in. Sweat, cold air, the faint scent of cigarette smoke.
