Epilogue

Two years later…

Gray winter light seeps through our bedroom windows, and I can't stop staring at my husband. Even in sleep, he's got one arm draped possessively over my huge belly, like he needs to touch us even in his dreams. The baby kicks against his palm, doing his normal morning stretches, and I swear he already knows when his daddy's close. Just like his big sister.

Speaking of Ember...

"Mama!" Her voice crackles through the baby monitor, followed by that happy babbling that still makes my chest feel too full. At eighteen months old, she's already figured out exactly how to get whatever she wants from her daddy. Not that it's hard - Cohen would give her the moon if she asked for it.

He stirs the second he hears her voice, those storm-gray eyes that still make my stomach do backflips blinking open. "I'll get her."

"Wait." I catch his hand before he can move. "Stay with me a little longer."

His palm spreads wider over my stomach where his son grows, and that familiar darkness I crave fills his eyes. These moments feel sacred somehow—like time stops and lets me just exist here with him, with the family we made. Sometimes I still can't believe this is real, that I get to have this kind of love. That I escaped my mother and get to live for me now.

"What are you thinking about?" Cohen's voice is rough with sleep as he props himself up on one elbow.

"How happy I am." I gesture to my huge belly. "Even if I look like I swallowed one of those giant snow globes from the mall."

He laughs, rolling to pin me against the mattress, careful of my stomach. "Did you actually set foot in a mall?"

"Shut up." But I'm grinning because he knows how much I love doing normal things now. His lips find that spot behind my ear that still makes me shiver. "You're beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. "Especially carrying my son."

"Mama! Dada!" Ember's voice grows more insistent, and I laugh as Cohen groans.

"Your daughter's awake," I tell him, pushing at his chest.

"Our daughter," he corrects, stealing one more kiss before letting me up. "And she's definitely got your impatience."

"Hey!" I smack his chest, pretending to be offended, but he's right. These days I can barely wait to experience everything life has to offer - all the messy, real moments I was never allowed before. The thought makes me smile as I throw on one of his t-shirts over my sleep shorts and pile my hair into what might generously be called a messy bun. Two years ago, the thought of anyone seeing me like this would have given me anxiety attacks. Now? Now I know I'm loved exactly as I am, bedhead and all.

Cohen follows me down the hall to Ember's room, and my heart melts at the sight that greets us. Our little girl stands in her crib, dark curls wild around her sweet little face, beaming at us with bright eyes. She’s thrown every one of her stuffed animals out into her room.

"Up!" She reaches for Cohen with grabby hands, and he scoops her into his arms like she's made of spun glass and pure magic. Which, to be fair, she kind of is.

"Good morning, little flame." He presses kisses to her cheeks while she giggles. The sight of my dangerous, powerful husband completely undone by our daughter still takes my breath away.

The first time he held her, I bawled my eyes out because the cuteness actually hurt.

"Tree!" Ember demands, pointing toward the hallway. "Tree tree tree!"

"Someone's excited for Christmas," I laugh, following them downstairs. Our daughter bounces in Cohen's arms, her dark curls, the same color as mine, bouncing with every movement.

The tree comes into view and my chest tightens with pride. It's nothing like the ridiculous masterpieces my mother used to demand. Instead, every branch holds ornaments I made myself or with Cohen and Ember. There are lopsided salt dough stars, paper chains in mismatched colors, and pinecones covered in more glitter than pine. They're terrible, if I'm being honest. Martha Stewart would have a stroke.

But they're mine. Every crooked one represents another choice I got to make for myself.

"That one's definitely my favorite." Cohen's voice holds barely contained amusement as he points to a particularly tragic attempt at a felt snowman.

"Shut up." I smack his arm while I try not to laugh and Ember squeals at the lights. "I'd like to see you do better."

Turns out he’s just as bad at crafting as I am.

His free arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against him. "I wouldn't dare try. Your horrible crafting skills are one of the things I love most about you."

"Horrible?" I gasp in mock offense, but then his lips find my neck and coherent thought becomes impossible. Even after two years, one touch from him still makes everything else fade away.

"Down!" Ember demands, squirming in Cohen's arms. The moment her feet touch the floor she toddles toward the presents, remarkably steady for someone who just learned to walk a few months ago.

"Wait for us, little flame." Cohen keeps his arm around me as we follow her, and I lean into him, already missing his touch if he moves even an inch away. Some things never change.

"Pretty," Ember declares, pointing to a package wrapped in silver paper. She inherited Cohen's ability to zero in on exactly what she wants, and she won’t be distracted by anything until she gets it.

"Should we let her open one before breakfast?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Neither of us can deny her anything.

Cohen pulls me closer, his hand sliding to my belly where our son shoves an elbow… or maybe a foot? "Let her enjoy it. This Christmas is nothing like the ones you had growing up."

He's right. My childhood Christmases were photo opportunities, every moment staged for maximum marketing appeal and over the last couple of years, I’ve told him more than he ever realized. But here, watching our daughter attack wrapping paper with unrestrained joy while wearing footie pajamas covered in dancing reindeer, I finally understand what Christmas is supposed to feel like.

"I love you," I whisper, turning in his arms. "Thank you for giving me this. All of this."

His eyes darken as he cups my face. "You gave me everything worth having." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "A family. A future. A reason for existing."

A shiver runs through me at the intensity in his voice. Even after two years, one look from him still makes everything else fade away. We're still as desperately in need of each other as we were that first Christmas. Maybe more now that we have Ember and another baby on the way.

A squeal of delight pulls us from our moment as Ember discovers the rocking horse Cohen insisted she needed. She's still too small for it, but that didn't stop him from having it custom made.

"Help!" She commands, making grabby hands at Cohen. He releases me reluctantly, though his hand trails across my lower back as he moves, like he can't bear to break contact completely.

I know the feeling.

I sink into the oversized armchair, curling my legs under me while I watch my husband lift our daughter onto the horse. His massive hands span her tiny waist as he shows her how to hold the reins, and my heart does this weird flutter thing that happens every time I see them together.

"Remember when you were so nervous about being a father?" I ask, watching him with Ember. Back then, after he'd confessed everything—about the pregnancy test, about the real night I lost my virginity—I think that was the only time I'd ever seen him truly afraid.

He looks up, those storm-gray eyes intense even as Ember tries to eat the rocking horse's mane. "I'm good at this because of you. Because you love me despite everything. Because you understood why I did what I did."

"I'll always understand you," I say, but I'm tearing up because pregnancy hormones are no joke.

"Mama cry?" Ember's bottom lip trembles in sympathy.

"Happy tears, little flame." I hold out my arms and she launches herself off the horse, trusting completely that one of us will catch her. Cohen does, of course. He always catches us.

She climbs into my lap—or tries to, given my enormous belly—and pats my face with sticky hands. I have no idea what's making them sticky since she hasn't had breakfast yet, but that's just life with a toddler.

"More presents?" She asks hopefully.

Cohen settles on the floor beside my chair, one hand automatically finding my ankle. "What do you think, little one? Should we spoil her more?"

"Like you haven't already bought out half the toy stores in Seattle." But I'm smiling because I love how much he loves giving her everything I never had. Freedom. Choices. Unconditional love.

And so. Many. Toys.

My thoughts drift briefly to my mother, serving her twenty-five-year sentence in federal prison. The evidence Cohen had collected destroyed not just her social standing, but her entire world. The charges of fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy had shocked Emerald Hills' elite almost as much as the revelation that their perfect society queen had orchestrated my father's death.

But those thoughts don't hurt anymore. Not with Cohen's arms around me, our daughter's laughter filling our home, and our son growing strong inside me. My mother's darkness has no power here in the light.

"Speaking of presents..." He reaches behind the tree and pulls out a small wrapped box.

"Cohen." I narrow my eyes. "We said no gifts for each other this year."

His smile is pure sin. "When have I ever followed rules about giving you things?"

"Give Mama!" Ember bounces in my lap, more excited about the gift than I am. Though knowing Cohen, it's probably something ridiculously extravagant that will make me cry.

He hands me the box, but his fingers linger against mine longer than necessary. Even these tiny touches between us still feel electric, like that first night in the chapel. If anything, our need for each other grows stronger every day.

"Open it," he says, that dangerous smile playing at his lips. "Before Ember decides to help."

The paper falls away to reveal a long velvet box. Inside, nestled in black silk, is a delicate gold chain with two tiny flames—one in rose gold, one in yellow gold.

"One for each of our children," Cohen murmurs, his voice dropping to that tone that still makes my skin tingle. "Though we'll need to add more soon."

My eyes snap to his. "More? I'm not even done cooking this one yet."

"You know I want a whole army of babies with you." His hand slides up my leg to rest on my stomach, and my body responds instantly to his touch, to his words. Heat floods through my veins and settles between my legs. I love being pregnant with his children, love how possessive he gets, how incredible it feels to carry a piece of him inside me. Pregnancy hormones aren't helping and neither is the glint in his eye as he watches me.

"Dada baby?" Ember pats my belly, completely unaware of the heat building between her parents.

"That's right, little flame." Cohen's voice is gentle with her even as his eyes promise wickedly ungentle things to me later. "You're getting a baby brother soon."

I touch the necklace with trembling fingers. Two years ago, I never could have imagined this—being cherished, being free, being so completely and utterly loved.

"Thank you," I whisper, though it's for so much more than just the gift. It's for everything he's given me. Everything we've built together.

"Let me put it on you." He moves behind my chair, and I lift the hair that’s fallen out of my messy bun out of the way. His fingers brush my neck as he fastens the chain, and that simple touch makes my nipples tighten.

"Pretty!" Ember claps, then immediately slides off my lap and gets distracted by more presents under the tree.

Cohen's lips find that spot behind my ear that he knows drives me crazy. "I love watching you with her," he murmurs. "Seeing you be the mother I always knew you could be. Carrying my son. Being everything I ever wanted."

"Cohen," I breathe his name as his teeth graze my skin. But Ember's delighted shriek as she discovers another present breaks through the heat building between us. She's already created a war zone of wrapping paper and bows in here.

"More!" She demands, brandishing an empty box like a trophy.

"Breakfast first," Cohen says, scooping her up onto his shoulders. He navigates through the sea of destroyed wrapping paper while I follow them to the kitchen, already craving his chocolate chip pancakes. Some traditions are worth keeping.

"Cakes!" Ember declares from up on Cohen's shoulders as we make our way to the kitchen. "Chips!"

"Like father, like daughter," I laugh, remembering that first time Cohen made me chocolate chip pancakes. The day he told me he loved me for the first time.

The kitchen is warm and bright, nothing like the sterile showcase of a house my mother maintained. Ember's artwork covers the fridge, bright crayon scribbles that Cohen treats like masterpieces. There are still half-decorated cookies waiting on the counter from yesterday’s attempt at baking.

It's messy and imperfect and completely ours.

"What are you thinking about?" Cohen asks as he settles Ember in her high chair. His tilts my chin up so he can look into my eyes and brushes some of my messy hair out of the way.

"How different everything is now." I lean into him, watching our daughter systematically destroy a banana. "How happy we are."

His arm goes around my waist and tighten, pulling me into his body. "Happier every day." His other hand spreads over my belly. "Though I still want to hunt down anyone who ever made you doubt you deserved this."

"No one can hurt me anymore." I turn in his arms, pressing closer despite my enormous stomach between us. "You made sure of that."

His eyes darken with that possessive heat that always makes my knees weak. "Always will. You and our children are everything to me. My whole world."

"Dada help!" Ember interrupts, holding up her mangled banana with sticky hands.

I catch the flash of regret in Cohen's eyes at having to let me go, but he moves to help our daughter. I watch them together, and my heart feels too full to contain.

This is what freedom feels like. What real love feels like. What having a real family feels like.

"I love you," I whisper, though with Cohen's scary-good hearing, I know he catches it. His eyes meet mine over Ember's dark curls, and that electric connection between us crackles again.

"Until the stars burn out," he says, and I know it's true. What we have—this consuming, desperate kind of love—it's forever.

Just us. Just this. Just our little family built from the ashes of everything that tried to break us.

And as I watch my husband and daughter tackle breakfast together while our son grows inside of me, I know this is exactly where I'm meant to be.

Home isn't a place. It's wherever we are together.

Always has been.

Always will be.