The possessiveness in her voice—the claim she stakes with that single word—undoes me entirely. This woman, who knows exactly what I am, who has seen the monster beneath the man, is claiming me as her own.
"Yours," I confirm. "Irrevocably. Eternally. For whatever those words are worth from someone like me."
"They're worth everything." She settles against me with a contented sigh. "Now let me sleep. I'm growing a human being, and apparently that's exhausting."
I hold her as she drifts off, watching the sunlight creep across the floor, painting golden stripes on the ancient wood.
For the first time in my life, I'm not thinking about threats. Not calculating risks or planning contingencies. Not bracing for the inevitable moment when everything falls apart.
I'm just... here. Present. At peace.
It won't last. I know that. The world outside these walls is still dangerous, still full of enemies and complications and darkness. The Brotherhood will have expectations. My brothers will have questions. The life I've built—the monster I've become—won't simply vanish because I've found something worth protecting.
But for now, in this moment, with this woman in my arms and our child growing between us, none of that matters.
For now, there is only this: the miracle of being loved by someone who sees you clearly and chooses you anyway.
It's more than I ever deserved.
It's everything I never knew I wanted.
And I will kill anyone who tries to take it from me.
Epilogue - Poppy
Six Months Later
The nursery is finished.
I stand in the doorway, one hand resting on the swell of my belly, watching the afternoon light spill through the windows. The walls are a soft sage green—a compromise between the pale yellow I wanted and the dark forest Gabriel suggested. The crib is white oak, handcrafted by an artisan Gabriel flew in from Denmark. The mobile above it features tiny silver stars and moons that catch the light when they spin.
It's beautiful. It's perfect. And six months ago, I never could have imagined standing here.
"You're supposed to be resting."
Gabriel's voice comes from behind me, his arms sliding around my waist, his hands settling on my stomach. The baby kicks in response—she always kicks when she hears her father's voice—and I feel his sharp intake of breath against my neck.
"She's active today," I say.
"She knows I'm here." There's wonder in his voice, even now, even after months of feeling her move. "She knows her father."
Her.We found out the sex two months ago. A girl. Gabriel went very quiet when the doctor told us, and later that night, I found him in the nursery, sitting in the dark, staring at nothing.
I don't know how to raise a daughter,he'd said.I don't know how to protect her from the world without becoming the kind of man she needs protection from.
Then we'll learn together,I'd told him.That's what we do.
It's become our mantra—we'll learn together. A constant reminder that neither of us knows what we're doing, and that's okay. We're figuring it out as we go.
"Your mother called," Gabriel says, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "She wants to know if she should bring the bassinet she found at that antique shop, or if we have enough baby furniture to furnish a small country."
I laugh. "She's excited. Let her be excited."
"I'm not complaining. I'm merely observing that our daughter will have more places to sleep than she could use in a lifetime."
Our daughter. The words still send a thrill through me every time he says them.
My mother has changed in the past six months—slowly, tentatively, like a flower remembering how to bloom after a long winter. When I first told her I was staying with Gabriel, she was terrified. She begged me to reconsider, to run, to disappear the way she had.
