“You okay?” I ask.
“Perfect.” She grins at me. “That felt amazing.”
I take her hand gently. Examine her knuckles. They’re already starting to redden. “Kitchen. Ice. Now.”
“Yes, chef.” But she’s laughing.
Inside, I wrap her knuckles in a towel filled with ice. Press a kiss to her forehead.
“Thank you,” I tell her quietly.
“For what? Punching an asshole?”
“For standing with me.” I cup her face with my good hand. “For seeing me. All of it. The scars. The damage. The fucked-up way I tried to protect everyone by pushing them away.”
Her eyes go soft. “Marco.”
“I love you,” I tell her. Because I do. Because she deserves to hear it as many times as I can say it. “I love you and Ben more than anything. And I’m done hiding from that.”
She kisses me. Soft and deep and perfect.
When we pull apart, she’s smiling. “Good. Because I love you, too. And we’re not going anywhere.”
Through the kitchen window, I can see Ben playing with one of the staff kids. Building something with blocks. Laughing.
This.
This is what I fought off the bear for.
What I bled for.
What I’ll keep fighting for every single day.
My family. My imperfect, beautiful, hard-won family.
And anyone who tries to fuck with them will learn exactly how protective a scarred chef can be.
Epilogue
Jess
Three months later.
Iwake up to the smell of citrus and cedar and the reality that I’m wearing Marco Fiore’s shirt and a wedding band that still feels slightly unreal on my finger.
Two weeks married.
Still getting used to that.
The morning light filters through the curtains of what is now officiallyourbedroom.
Former nanny wakes up as wife. Who would have thunk it?
I stretch and the fabric of Marco’s shirt rides up my thighs. He’s already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed scrolling through something on his phone. His hair is messy in that effortlessly hot way that would take me forty-five minutes and three products to achieve.
The ridge that runs from his cheekbone to his jaw catches the light.
He doesn’t hide anymore. Not from me.
