It feels like something we get to live.
53
EPILOGUE - JUSTIN 5 YEARS LATER
The house is quiet in the way only lived-in homes ever are. It’s not empty or still… just settled. Like we are.
I stand at the kitchen window with a mug that’s gone cold in my hand, watching the land beyond the fence ripple in the early morning light. The fences are taller now. Reinforced. Subtle upgrades no one notices unless they know what to look for. Old habits don’t die—they just evolve.
Rowan is still asleep upstairs.
She’s carrying our second child, her body changing in ways that still catch me off guard. Not because she looks different—because she looksstronger. Like life keeps choosing her, and she keeps choosing it back. I’ve learned not to hover too much, though every instinct in me wants to track her heartbeat the way I once tracked her.
Missy will be up soon. She’s four now, and she has a mind of her own, and a character that’s all her own. Strong-willed. Defiant. Stubborn. She pads into the kitchen every morning like she’s on a mission, getting ready to start her day with a massive dose of attitude.
Justice will arrive later with Lily. He andMissy share a special bond. Thick as thieves from the start, they grew into something steadier—siblings in everything but blood. The kind of connection you don’t question, but protect with everything in you.
If you’d asked me ten years ago where I thought I’d be right now, I wouldn’t have been able to answer. Not because I lacked ambition. But because I lacked the foresight to see that this is what I needed. What I wanted.
Back then, my life was a collection of contingencies. Backup plans. Controlled variables. I measured success in damage minimized and monsters stopped. Happiness wasn’t a destination—it was collateral, accidental at best.
And yet here I am.
A husband. A father. About to be a father again.
Standing in a house that holds laughter instead of trauma.
Titan understands that in a way no one else ever could.
He’s more than my mentor now. More than the man who taught me how to survive what the world throws at you when you choose to look directly into the eyes of evil. He’s my brother. Earned, not named.
We’ve shared blood, silence, and the kind of decisions that leave a bloody stain on your soul. We’ve buried truths and dug them back up when the cost of forgetting became too high.
These days, we share the load.
He’s learned how to loosen his grip without losing vigilance. I’ve learned how to step back without abandoning responsibility. We move differently now—less reactive, more deliberate. And we’re stronger for it.
Goliath still stands. But it’s changing. It needs to. Clara has proven that.
She doesn’t lead like Titan or me. She doesn’t rely on intimidation or history or reputation. She listens. Sheconnects. She sees patterns where others see noise, understands that justiceisn’t just about stopping monsters—it’s about preventing them from being made in the first place, proving that prevention really is the best medicine.
She’s formidable—not because she raises her voice, but because she never has to.
She walks into a room and it shifts around her, attention bending in her direction without her lifting a finger. Authority settles on her naturally, not forced or borrowed. Earned.
Her years as an assistant at Goliath gave her the foundation—the tools she needed to become what she is now. She spent every waking moment watching, analyzing, dissecting. Quietly learning the mechanics of power, the weight of decisions, the cost of getting them wrong. First under Titan. Then under my tutelage.
She never wasted a lesson.
I’ve watched her dismantle arguments without breaking a sweat. Watched hardened men pause, reassess, recalibrate the second she enters a room. Watched survivors place their trust in her with truths they would never give to anyone else. Not because she demands it. But because she makes them feel seen.
It’s time.
Goliath was born out of rage. It was sustained by necessity. Now it needs vision. And Clara has it in spades.
Titan agrees. That was never in doubt. He’s always known when to hold the line—and when to let someone else redraw it. Stepping back doesn’t mean stepping away. It means choosing what matters most.
For me, that’s here.
