But once I was discharged, once I was standing on my own two feet again, I didn’t hesitate.
I went after her.
I fought for her.
It wasn’t easy, reality never is, but it was worth every scar, every moment of doubt. I told her the truth about who I am. About the world I come from. About the choices I’ve made.
Things are different now. I don’t kill men who don’t deserve it. Do I still make questionable decisions? Absolutely, especially when it comes to keeping Emmy safe.
My past can’t be erased. It follows me like a shadow, not because of what I do now, but because of what I once did. Because of what my father built.
Emmy lives with me now.
I fall asleep with her in my arms. I wake up to her warmth, her breath against my skin. She accepted my darkness and chose me anyway.
My father is dead.
The nightclub shooting was his design, but his men failed. And Liam, waiting patiently in the wings, finally had his opening.
He ended it when our father least expected it.
Liam.
Nine stolen years. Nine years lost to a man who never saw us as sons, only weapons to be sharpened and controlled.
But Liam is back now.
The life he lived in the shadows is his to carry. He keeps it close, guarded. Only Jaxon and I know the truth of it.
Some stories aren’t meant to be told.
They’re meant to be survived.
It’s Saturday morning.
Emmy is still asleep, curled into my side like she belongs there, like she always has. I lie awake, breathing her in, the quiet of the morning settling over us. For once, the world feels distant. Still. No shadows reaching for us.
Sunlight slips through the curtains, brushing over her skin, turning her warm and gold. She glows like something unreal. I lower my mouth to her temple and press a soft kiss there, a promise disguised as affection.
She stirs, lashes fluttering as she slowly opens her eyes.
And the world stills.
My breath catches, every time, because no matter how many mornings I wake like this, I still can’t quite believe she’s here. That she chose me.
“Morning, Little Heaven,” I murmur into her hair.
“Morning,” she whispers around a yawn, stretching before settling again, her hands finding my chest like they know exactly where they belong. Her fingers trace familiar lines, muscle, skin, until they pause.
Right over the scar.
She looks at it for a heartbeat, something tender and fierce flickering across her face, then leans in and presses a kiss there. Slow. Intentional. Like she’s sealing a vow into my skin.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” she murmurs softly.
Something tightens in my chest, not pain, not fear, but the weight of everything I survived to have this moment.
I tighten my arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “So am I.”
