His tenderness breaks something open inside me, pleasure building slow and sweet rather than sharp and desperate. I clutch at his shoulders, overwhelmed by the emotion pouring from this usually stoic man.
"Gray," I gasp as he hits that perfect spot inside me. "I love you. I love you so much."
Something flickers in his eyes—vulnerability, wonder, and finally, surrender. "Love you too," he admits roughly, the words sounding torn from his chest. "Love you, Beck. My Beck. Mother of my child."
The confession—the first time he's ever said those three words—pushes me over the edge into a gentle orgasm that washes through me in warm waves. He follows shortly after, his release careful and controlled as he empties himself inside me with a reverent groan.
He rolls us immediately so I'm draped across his chest, his arms cradling me protectively. One hand returns to my stomach, stroking in gentle circles.
"A family," he murmurs, sounding dazed by the concept. "Never thought I'd have that. Deserve that."
I prop myself up to look at his face, finding a vulnerability there I've never seen before. "You deserve everything," I tell him fiercely. "Everything good in this world."
He shakes his head slightly, but doesn't argue. Instead, he pulls me back down against his chest, his heartbeat steady under my ear.
"Going to take care of you both," he promises, his voice rumbling through me. "Keep you safe. Give you everything you need."
I smile against his skin, completely at peace for perhaps the first time in my life. From hunted to protected to loved to carrying his child—my journey with Gray has been unconventional in every way. Terrifying at times. Overwhelming at others.
But as his hand continues its gentle exploration of my belly where our baby grows, I know with absolute certainty that I'm exactly where I'm meant to be. With the man who hunted me, claimed me, and ultimately, loved me into a version of myself I never knew could exist.
Safe. Cherished. Home.
epilogue
. . .
Gray
One year later
I watchBeck from the edge of the property line, Lily strapped tight against my chest in the carrier, her tiny head tucked under my chin. The pink onesie looks ridiculous on her—on both of us, really. Six-foot-five ex-mercenary with a six-month-old in pastel pink babbling against my tactical vest, sidearm still holstered where it belongs. One hand cradles the back of her downy head; the other stays free, always ready. Old habits die hard. Never will.
The motion sensors blink green as I finish the perimeter sweep. Three layers of security. Cameras, tripwires, pressure plates. Excessive? Maybe to anyone else. To me, it’s the bare minimum required to sleep at night knowing my girls are inside that cabin.
I glance up. Beck’s on the porch swing, wrapped in my old flannel, one hand resting on the round swell of her belly—our second child growing strong in there. The sight of her like this still stops my heart for a second every damn time. Mine.Carrying my seed again. Safe. Happy. Choosing me every day even after she knows exactly what kind of monster I am.
Lily gurgles, squirming. I press a kiss to the top of her head. She smells like baby and innocence—nothing like the cordite and blood that used to be my constant perfume.
“All clear, princess,” I murmur to her. She answers with a sleepy fist to my collarbone. Strong already. Good.
I head back toward the house, boots crunching on the thin layer of early snow. Beck spots me, waves. I lift Lily’s tiny hand and make her wave back. The smile that breaks across Beck’s face hits me like sunlight after years underground.
Who the hell would’ve thought hunting a target would end with this—porch swings, baby carriers, and a second kid on the way?
Beck teases me as I climb the steps. “Security check complete?”
“For now.” I bend, kiss her slow, tasting the mint from her tea on her lips. My beard scrapes her cheek the way she likes. I unstrap Lily carefully, pass her to her mother. “She’s getting hungry.”
Right on cue, Lily roots against Beck’s chest. Beck unbuttons my flannel—looks better on her anyway—and guides our daughter to her breast. I sit beside them on the swing, arm stretched across the back, fingers threading through Beck’s hair while I watch Lily nurse.
Never gets old. The sight of my wife feeding our child—my child—still does something primal to me. Pride. Possession. A fierce, quiet joy I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.
“You just like seeing my boobs,” Beck says, smirking.
“Those too.” My hand finds the curve of her belly, stroking slow. “How’s this little one today?”
“Active. Kicking like he’s already training for combat.”
