Page 108 of Rampage

"Welcome to Sweet Beginnings," I announce, my voice strong and clear.

As the first customers enter, exclaiming over the beautifully displayed pastries, Reid pulls me close, his lips brushing my ear.

"This is just the beginning," he promises, his hand against my abdomen where our child grows. "The sweetest is yet to come."

And looking into his eyes, surrounded by the family we've built together, I believe him with all my heart.

epilogue

Months Later

Reid

The courthouse steps gleam in the afternoon sun as I exit the building, loosening my tie with one hand while checking my phone with the other. The trial is finally over, with Frank Dawson convicted on all counts and sentenced to life in prison without possibility of parole. Justice, they call it. But it doesn't feel like enough.

Not after what he did to Lily. Not after the years of terror he inflicted on her.

"Hey." Lane falls into step beside me, his expression grim despite our victory. "You good?"

I nod, pocketing my phone. "Lily's at the bakery with Meadow. I told her I'd swing by after we finished here."

Lily didn't want to come today, she is pregnant and this whole ordeal has been so fucking stressful on her. She had to sit in front of that fucker, and he would smirk at her in an attempt to try to intimidate her.

Lane studies me carefully, reading the tension in my shoulders. "But you're not heading there yet, are you?"

"No." The single word hangs between us, heavy with unspoken intent.

He sighs, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "You sure about this? The club's behind you either way, but?—"

"I'm sure." My voice is steel, my decision made weeks ago when I first arranged this. "He needs to understand what it means to take someone's power away. To live in darkness and silence."

Lane nods once, not arguing further. He knows what Frank did to Lily, knows the nightmares that still wake her, screaming some nights, her hands protectively cupping her growing belly as if afraid someone might take our child too.

"The guard will give you forty minutes," Lane says quietly as we reach my bike. "Not a second more."

"It's enough."

The prison is a thirty-minute ride north of town—a sprawling concrete complex surrounded by razor wire and watchtowers. I park in the visitors' lot, my medical bag heavy in my hand as I approach the entrance.

The guard is waiting, just as arranged. Office Reynolds, a man with gambling debts the club helped resolve in exchange for today's favor.

"Dr. Matthews," he greets me, his voice professionally neutral despite the envelope of cash I'd passed on to him last week. "This way, please."

We move through security with minimal fuss, my medical credentials and the story about checking Dawson's injuries from a recent prison altercation providing the necessary cover. The prison corridors echo with the sounds of confinement—metal doors clanging, distant shouts, the heavy footfalls of guards on patrol.

Office Reynolds stops before a door marked Exam Room 3.

"Forty minutes," he reminds me, unlocking the door. "I'll handle the cameras."

Frank Dawson sits handcuffed to a metal chair in the center of the small room, his orange jumpsuit bright against the institutional gray walls. He looks smaller than I remember, his once imposing frame diminished by prison food and the constant awareness required to survive inside. His eyes narrow as I enter, recognition followed swiftly by contempt.

"Well, well. The doctor boyfriend." His voice drips with mockery. "Come to check on me? How thoughtful."

I say nothing as I set my medical bag on the small table, removing latex gloves and snapping them over my hands. The sound echoes in the small room.

"Not talking today, Doc?" Frank taunts, straining against his restraints. "Your little whore too afraid to come herself?"

My movements remain measured, clinical, as I withdraw a syringe filled with clear liquid. "Lily is at our bakery," I say conversationally, tapping the syringe to eliminate air bubbles. "She's doing well. Thriving, actually. Our baby is due in three months."