Page 91 of Striker’s Rebel

I smile.

“It’s a yes.”

Something in his face opens.

Then he kisses me.

Hard. Deep. Like he’s still making sure I’m here.

When he finally lifts his head, I stay wrapped around him.

For most of my life, family has meant loving people while waiting for them to disappear.

Striker looks at me like he’s already decided exactly where he belongs.

With me.

And for once, I don’t have to wonder where I belong either.

Epilogue

Striker

Two years later

My daughter has been fighting sleep for the better part of an hour.

She’s six months old and already stubborn as hell.

June says she gets it from me.

June might be right.

I pace the kitchen with the baby tucked against my chest, one hand spread over her back while she makes another pissed-off little sound into my shirt.

“You’re tired, sweetheart.”

She squirms harder.

“Yeah. I know you disagree.”

Her blue eyes blink up at me.

Same color as June’s.

Gets me every fucking time.

I rub a hand down her back until the fight starts going out of her, her cheek settling over my heart.

“There you go.”

“Did you finally win?”

June’s voice comes from behind me.

I turn.

She’s leaning against the doorway in one of my shirts, bare legs underneath, honey-colored hair messed up from sleep.