EPILOGUE
BIANCA
The sharp, clean tang of turpentine and the heavy, intoxicating scent of roasting garlic clash in the air of the cabin, creating the unique perfume of my new life. It is the smell of pure, unadulterated bliss.
I step back from the easel tucked into the sun-drenched corner of the living room and wipe my hands on a rag so stained with oils and acrylics it has become a piece of art itself. Afternoon light—the golden, bruised honey of a Grizzly Peak autumn—spills through the massive windows. Six months ago, those windows looked out onto a wilderness that felt like an isolating prison. I used to stare at the jagged tree line and feel the cold breath of the mountains trying to snuff out my light.
Now, those towering ancient pines don't look like bars. They are the walls of a sanctuary. A fortress built of timber, stone, and the terrifyingly absolute protection of the man who owns my soul.
My latest series,Grizzly Peak Shadows, has sold out at the Pine Valley gallery in less than three hours. The critics call it "visceral" and "hauntingly intimate." They don't realize theyaren't just looking at landscapes; they are looking at the internal map of a woman who has been found in the dark. I came to this mountain for inspiration and find a muse that is more mountain than man—a Sergeant at Arms who has taught me that being "claimed" is the only way to be truly free.
"It needs more yellow, Bee. You’re being too broody again."
A small, authoritative voice critiques from the floor. I look down, a smile tugging at my lips. Maddie is sprawled across the oversized leather rug, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she aggressively colors a picture of a dragon. She is wearing one of my old band t-shirts—a vintage Nirvana find—that hits her knees like a dress. She looks safe. Deeply, fundamentally grounded. The nightmares of "shadows" and "monsters" have been replaced by a fierce confidence that only comes from knowing your father is the baddest man in the valley.
"You think so, ladybug?" I tilt my head, looking at the canvas. The abstract piece is a swirl of chaotic slate grey, deep blacks, and vibrant, burning orange. "I am trying to capture the way the fire looks at night."
"Yellow," she insists, finally looking up with those storm-gray eyes that are a perfect, softened mirror of Shane’s. "Like Bumble. Like the sun when Daddy comes home. Yellow is happy."
My chest tightens with a swell of affection so sharp it is almost painful. Six months ago, I was a broke girl from Philadelphia with a dying Beetle, a predatory gallery owner on my heels, and an eviction notice on my door. I drove up this mountain with nothing but a death wish and a prayer.
Now, I am the monster’s keeper. And the monster is the only thing keeping the world from breaking me.
The low, primal rumble of a Harley-Davidson engine vibrates through the floorboards, distinct from the wind or the house settling. It is a sound that lives in my marrow now—a heartbeat of chrome and thunder.
"Daddy!" Maddie scrambles up, abandoning her crayons.
The growl of the bike cuts out, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on the porch. The front door swings open, and the air in the room shifts instantly. It becomes heavier, thicker, charged with the kind of static electricity that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
Shane Gunnar fills the doorway.
Fresh from the auto shop, he looks like every delicious sin I have ever dreamed of committing. Dust from the mountain road coats his Broken Halos cut, the black leather creaking as he moves. Grease stains smear his jeans, the denim straining over thighs that are thick enough to crush bone. He doesn't say a word; he just stands there, his massive 6'5" frame blocking out the sun, his eyes cataloging every breath we take.
It is a ritual. Every time he comes home, he scans the room for threats, for tears, for anything that might have disturbed his property while he was gone. Only when his dark gaze lands on me—and stays there—does the tension in his massive shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
"Daddy!" Maddie launches herself at his legs.
Shane catches her with a grunt of effort, lifting her high enough to make her squeal with delight. He kisses the top of her curlyhead, his massive, scarred hand encompassing her entire back. "You good, Mads? No trouble while I was at the shop?"
"No trouble," she announces, her arms wrapped around his neck. "I didn't have any bad dreams. Bee says the monsters are scared of you because you're too big and you have a loud bike."
Shane’s eyes lock onto mine over Maddie’s shoulder. A silent, heavy weight passes between us—a shared memory of the night in the safe room, of the promises made in the dark. The hunger in his gaze hasn't faded over the months; it has sharpened into something predatory and permanent.
"Yellow," he rumbles, his deep baritone vibrating through the floor and up my legs. "Is that what we’re arguing about?"
"The painting needs it," Maddie says. "And Bianca made garlic bread. I can smell it."
"Go wash up for dinner, ladybug." Shane sets her down with a gentle nudge toward the hallway. "I need a minute with Bianca."
Maddie scampers off, her footsteps fading toward the bathroom down the hall.
The silence that follows is thick and expectant. Shane stays by the door for a moment longer, his gaze raking over me. He looks at the paint smudges on my tank top, the way my curls are tied back in a messy knot, and the flush that is already rising on my chest just from being in his proximity.
"You're staring, Sergeant," I say, my voice sounding breathier than I intend.
"Checking my property." He pushes off the doorframe and starts toward me. His walk is a prowl—slow, deliberate, the movementof a man who knows exactly what he owns. "Making sure everything is exactly where I left it."
"I haven't gone anywhere, Shane. I never do."
