She smiles, cupping my jaw. "You’re here now."
I gently withdraw and pull her shirt back down, covering her. "Come on," I say, offering her my hand. "There’s a view from the master balcony I want to show you."
She slides off the sideboard, legs wobbling. I catch her instantly, steadying her against my side. We walk up the stairs together, the wood solid beneath our feet. As she leans her head on my shoulder, her hand resting subconsciously on her flat stomach, I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
The Costas can watch from their cliffs all they want. The club can run the town. But this house? This woman?
This is mine. And I dare anyone to try and take it.
EPILOGUE
COURTNEY
The smell of fresh-cut pine and expensive sawdust smells a thousand times better than any designer perfume I’ve ever wasted money on in Chicago. It hangs heavy in the master bedroom, a thick, earthy scent mixing with the aroma of the man himself—weathered leather, hot motor oil, and that deep, musky spice radiating off Austin after a day working the land.
I run my hand along the smooth, sanded edge of the new windowsill. Three months ago, this wood was a nightmare of dry rot and invasive mold, flaking away under my fingertips like the rest of my family’s neglected legacy. The glass was so cracked the mountain wind whistled through the halls like a taunting ghost. Now, the frame is solid oak. Reinforced. Airtight.
Just like us.
Outside, the late afternoon sun begins its slow dive behind the jagged, purple silhouette of Grizzly Peak, casting long, bruised shadows across the yard. Patches of vibrant green fight through the thawing mountain mud where the winter snow has finally retreated. Down near the equipment shed, Austin’s massiveframe dominates the space as he swings a heavy axe, splitting logs for the fireplace.
I know I should focus on the stack of files James dropped off this morning. Wade Legal is officially open for business on Main Street, and the response from the valley has been overwhelming. James has been a godsend, helping me navigate local politics and transitioning the old Wade records into my care. He focuses on the larger estate trusts now, leaving the "gray area" defense and local disputes to me. It is the most fulfilling work I’ve ever done. For the first time in my career, the law feels like it bleeds real blood.
But I can't look away from the man in the yard.
Austin wears a simple charcoal thermal henley, the fabric one flex away from shredding across his broad shoulders. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows reveal the corded, tattooed muscles of his forearms working in a brutal, hypnotic rhythm. Every swing displays controlled violence, raw power channeled entirely into providing for our home.
Our home.
The words still send a heavy, liquid throb straight to my core. I spent a decade running from the memory of the boy who looked at me like I was his entire universe, terrified of the man he was becoming. I thought I wanted a safe, sterile life in a high-rise. True safety means sleeping beside the most dangerous predator on the mountain, his arm draped over your waist like a steel shackle.
Austin pauses, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. By habit, he scans the perimeter—checking the tree line where the Costa scouts used to linger, checking the long driveway.His vigilance hums constantly under the surface. Then, his gaze snaps up to the window.
He sees me.
Even from twenty yards away, the impact of his eyes feels physical. Possessive. Utterly focused.
He doesn't smile. He just stares, chest heaving from exertion, holding my gaze until my breath hitches. He drops the axe into the stump with a dull thud I feel in my own marrow, then turns to stalk toward the back porch.
I step away from the window, heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Three months later, and he still affects me like the very first night. The "Thunderbolt" hasn't faded. It has hardened into something denser. Something permanent.
I hear the heavy, rhythmic tread of his boots on the stairs. The screen door creaks open downstairs. He doesn't stop in the kitchen for a drink. He is coming straight for me.
I stand by the bed when he fills the doorway. He brings the crisp mountain air in with him, the scent of the woods clinging to his clothes and warring with the heat radiating from his body. He is beautiful in his grit—sawdust in his dark hair, a smudge of grease on his cheekbone, shirt damp with sweat.
He looks like a beast who has just finished a hunt and has come home to claim his mate.
"You're staring again, Courtney," he rumbles. The low, gravelly vibration travels through the floorboards and settles right between my thighs. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his massive arms.
"I was admiring the craftsmanship," I say, voice breathy and thin. I try to summon the professional attorney persona, but around him, I melt. "The window looks perfect. No drafts."
"The window's fine." His eyes drop, dragging slowly over my body. I’m wearing one of his old flannel shirts over leggings, the fabric swallowing me and hanging off one shoulder. He makes no secret of the fact that he loves seeing me in his colors. "You didn't eat your lunch."
"I wasn't hungry."
He pushes off the doorframe, closing the distance in three long, predatory strides. The room suddenly feels microscopic. He towers over me, blocking out the fading light, his presence encompassing everything. He reaches out, his calloused thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
"You need to eat," he murmurs, the command wrapped in velvet. "I want you healthy. I want you strong."
