“Mine,” he breathes, the word heavy with meaning.
The sound of it, combined with the way he touches me, pulls me apart. I rock into his hand without meaning to, chasing the feeling.
“Feels so good,” I whisper.
He swears softly and shifts, turning me onto my back, his control fraying. “You make me lose my mind,” he mutters, and I know it’s true because I feel it too—this reckless pull, this need that drowns out reason.
I clutch the sheets as he moves with me, meeting me stroke for stroke, until all I can do is say his name and hold on.
When it’s over, he stays there, hovering above me, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s memorizing every inch.
“My wife,” he says quietly.
The certainty in his voice settles deep inside me.
I know it then. Know it without doubt.
This man owns my heart.
And I am his.
Epilogue
The cemetery is quiet in a way that feels intentional. Respectful. It’s a silence that doesn’t rush you through grief or try to soften it. Winter clouds hang low overheard, the air cool and clean, smelling faintly of wet earth and stone.
My arm is still trapped tight against my side, hidden beneath my coat. My father walks beside me, slower than usual, like he’s afraid to outpace me, or maybe afraid of what waits at the end of the path.
We stop in front of her simple headstone.
Sadie Masterson.
Beloved Mother.
Gone Too Soon.
The words hit harder than I expect. My chest tightens, breath catching before I can stop it. I stare down at her name, tracing the carved letters with my eyes like if I look enough, I might finally understand the woman everyone else knew better than I ever did.
My father clears his throat.
“I haven’t wanted to come up here,” he admits quietly.
I don’t look at him. “Why now?”
He exhales, long and shaky. “Because I can finally face her without hate or vengeance coursing through my veins.”
That makes me glance up.
He looks smaller out here. Not weak—just human. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his coat, shoulders bowed like the weight of everything he didn’t see has finally settled in.
“She tried to tell me,” he says. His voice cracks on the words, and he pauses, jaw tightening like he’s fighting the instinct to swallow it back down. “Not all at once. Not in a way that would’ve blown everything apart. But she tried.”
My heart stutters.
“She’d ask questions,” he continues. “About Emma. Shaw. About whether I was really sure certain people were loyal. She’d be everywhere I always was, poking in. I thought it was drugs. She was so scared and paranoid. I told myself it was easier to believe she was unraveling than to consider something was wrong.”
I hug my coat tighter around myself, the cold of the early morning winds seeping in places the fabric can’t reach.
“She came to me once,” he says softly. “Late. Emma and the kids were sleeping. She was shaking. Told me something felt wrong. That someone was watching. That Laurel—” his mouth twists around the name. “I shit her down. Told her to sober up and get off my property.”
