A whole damn year since the day judge Flores got dragged out of his mansion, tied to a chair, his dirty secrets pinned to his chest like a badge of honor for the police to collect.
Since I watched Sage sit across from the law force and tell her story with steel in her spine and fire in her eyes.
Since she became mine. For good.
One year.
Now we live at the edge of town in a cabin with a wraparound porch, a pie cooling in the kitchen, and a woman inside who makes my world turn right. I left my cabin to Saint and moved to a bigger one.
She laughs more now. Not afraid anymore. She sings while she bakes. Her hair’s longer. Her smile hits harder. And she’sstill the only person on earth who can make me want to wear an apron and battle a stand mixer for three hours straight.
Hell, I even joined the class.
One Tuesday, she was teaching her class at the community center. I only showed up to walk her home, but Dorothy spotted me lurking in the hallway and yanked me inside like I was late for detention.
Now I’m apparently “a regular.” God help me.
Gladys calls meher cinnamon roll. Dorothy pinches my ass when she thinks Sage isn’t looking.
They flirt. I glare. Sage laughs and shakes her head like she’s proud of me anyway.
I’d burn the whole world down for her. But she saved mine instead.
We got married one month after Ghost and Nya tied the knot. It wasn’t flashy. No suits. No church. Just my brothers, her seniors, Viper holding a bouquet because he lost a bet, and Sage barefoot in a sundress, sayingI dolike she meant it.
She did.
I did.
And now?
Now we’re trying for a baby.
She hasn’t told anyone yet. Wants to wait until she’s sure. But I see the way her hand rests over her belly when she thinks I’m not looking. I see the hope in her eyes.
And I’ve already built the damn crib.
I walk in from the kitchen, wiping grease off my hands, and find her curled on the couch, barefoot, legs tucked under her, reading a baking magazine like it’s a mission briefing.
I lean in the doorway and just watch her.
She looks up, catches me staring.
“What?”
“Just lookin’ at my wife,” I say.
“Still not tired of it?” she asks, teasing.
“Not a fuckin’ chance.”
I walk over, drop to my knees in front of her, and tug the magazine from her hands. Her smile softens. I slide my hands under her thighs, pulling her forward until she’s straddling my lap.
She cups my jaw. “You’re greasy.”
“Sweetheart, I’m always greasy.”
She laughs. “True.”
