"Boy or girl, this child is going to be so loved," I murmur, placing my hand over his on my stomach. "So protected."
"And free," he adds, surprising me. "Free to be whoever they want to be. Not forced into this life if they don't want it."
The insight touches me deeply—this man who claimed me so possessively, so completely, already planning to give our child choices he never had.
"I love you," I tell him, the words inadequate for the emotion swelling in my chest.
"I love you more," he responds, kissing the top of my head. "Both of you."
My fierce, dangerous, tender husband. The father of my child. My forever.
epilogue
. . .
Vance
Two years later
The soft gurglescrackle through the baby monitor on the nightstand, and I feel the corner of my mouth lift before I even realize it. Lucy’s eight months old now, and every damn day she finds new ways to remind me how completely she owns me. I push off the wall outside the nursery door—where I’ve been standing for the last ten minutes just listening—and step inside quiet.
Wynter’s at the changing table, folding another stack of those impossibly small clothes that seem to multiply when we’re not looking. She doesn’t turn, but her shoulders relax the second she senses me. She always knows when I’m close. Always has.
“She’s fine,” she says softly, adding a onesie to the pile. “Just talking to her stuffed animals.”
“I know.” I cross the room in two strides, slide my arms around her from behind, and pull her back against my chest. Her body fits mine like it was carved for the spot—soft, warm, still the only thing in this world that can make my heartbeat steadywhen everything else is screaming. “Just needed to see her. And you.”
She leans into me, head tipping back against my shoulder. Even after everything—Vegas, the compound, the blood, the baby—her scent still hits me the same way it did that first night. Clean cotton, faint vanilla, and something that’s just her. My wife. The mother of my child. Mine.
“You’re supposed to be in a meeting,” she reminds me, tilting up for a kiss.
“Ended early.” I brush my lips over hers—gentle, because she’s still the most precious thing I’ve ever touched. “Diesel’s handling the rest.”
She smiles against my mouth, and I feel the last of the day’s tension bleed out of my shoulders. The club still needs me. The violence still lives in my hands. But everything has a different weight now. I don’t fight for respect or fear anymore. I fight so this—my wife folding tiny clothes, my daughter babbling in her crib—stays safe. Stays mine.
I press another kiss to her temple. “How’s she been today?”
“Perfect.” Wynter turns in my arms just enough to look up at me. “Diesel took her on a tour of the garage. I think she’s gonna be a mechanic when she grows up.”
The image flashes—my princess in grease-stained overalls, tiny hands on a wrench—and something fierce and proud swells in my chest. “As long as she doesn’t date until she’s thirty,” I mutter, only half joking.
Wynter laughs—that soft, bright sound that still feels like a gift every time I hear it. “Good luck with that, Daddy.”
The word lands low in my gut like it always does. I growl against her ear, “Careful, baby doll.”
Lucy’s gurgles shift—more insistent, edging toward fuss. Nap’s ending.
“I’ll get her,” I say, already moving.
Wynter leans against the doorframe to watch as I lift our daughter from the crib. Eight months and she still feels impossibly light in my arms—like I could break her if I forgot how careful I have to be. But she never flinches. Never cries when I pick her up. Just looks up at me with those big eyes—Wynter’s eyes—and pats my stubble like it’s her favorite toy.
“There’s Daddy’s girl,” I murmur, voice dropping to the soft register I didn’t even know I had until she was born. “Did you have a good nap, princess?”
“Ba-ba-ba,” she answers solemnly, like she’s explaining the secrets of the universe.
I nod seriously. “Very insightful.”
Wynter laughs again from the doorway, and my gaze flicks to her. She’s glowing—motherhood has softened her edges, rounded her in places that drive me fucking insane, made her stronger in ways I didn’t think possible. She’s more beautiful every day, and it still floors me that she chose this life. Chose me.
