Page 38 of Her Savior Biker
Mason Holt tried to destroy us. He forgot one crucial thing.
Some things are worth fighting for. And the Savage Kings never back down from a fight. Especially when family is on the line.
Epilogue
TwoYearsLater
The late afternoon sun slants across the lawn, glinting off the chrome of two motorcycles parked side-by-side in the driveway. My black Harley, a familiar beast, sits next to Shannon’s midnight-blue Indian Scout. Behind them, our SUV stands ready for family duty, its backseat already fitted with a car seat for the new arrival. A crisp white picket fence frames it all, barely containing the chaotic, joyful noise of my entire world.
“I got it! I got it!” Aiden’s triumphant shout cuts through the air as the plastic bat connects with the wiffle ball. The ball sails in a wobbly arc, and our two dogs—a big German Shepherd mix named Deez and a scrappy terrier called Pudge—tumble over each other in a frantic, barking pursuit. He’s five now, all gap-toothed grin and sturdy legs, and watching him run imaginary bases with the unthinking confidence of a boy who has never known fear in his own home makes something in my chest settle. This. This is what it was all for.
From the porch swing, Shannon watches, a soft smile on her face. Her hand rests on the high, firm curve of her stomach, where our daughter is currently practicing what feels like gymnastics. She is breathtaking. The summer has deepened the rich mahogany of her skin, and her braids are woven with a few strands of gold that catch the light. She is heavily pregnant, radiant with it, and the sight of her, so full of life and our future, stills something deep inside me.
“I think he’s got a future in the majors,” I say, walking over to stand behind her. I place my hands on her shoulders, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple.
“He gets his athletic coordination from my side of the family,” she teases, leaning her head back against my chest.
“Is that so?” I slide my hands down to cup her belly, feeling the solid warmth of it. Just then, a sharp kick makes my palm jump. “Whoa. She’s definitely got your fire.”
“She’s telling you to stop bragging about your non-existent baseball skills,” Shannon says, her laughter a warm, easy sound that has become the soundtrack of my life.
I gently push the swing, the rhythmic creak a peaceful counterpoint to Aiden’s happy shrieks. We watch him slide triumphantly into the "home plate" by the porch steps, the dogs licking his face in celebration. This ordinary, perfect moment is everything. It’s the quiet reality I never knew I was fighting for.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, the memory of a cold, rusty boxcar still finds me. The image of a terrified woman clutching a tire iron, shielding her broken child. I remember the eighteen dollars, the dead-end desperation, the bone-deep fear in her eyes.
Then I look at her now—my wife, the mother of my children, the president of our chaotic little household—and the two images don’t seem like they belong to the same person. But they do. The steel that got her through that night is the same steelthat runs our home, that keeps our son grounded, that faces down my stubbornness with a simple, knowing look.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks softly, turning her head to look up at me.
“Just how far we’ve come from a rail yard in the middle of nowhere.”
Her smile softens. “It’s our anniversary next week, you know. The day you found us.”
“I know.” My thumb traces the line of her jaw. “Best decision I ever made, not being smart that night.”
“I’m glad you weren’t smart,” she whispers, her eyes full of a love that still floors me. “I’m glad you were just… you.”
Aiden abandons his game, running over to us with the dogs at his heels. “Mama, can we have ice cream after dinner? Dad said maybe!”
“Dad said maybe, huh?” Shannon raises an eyebrow at me over Aiden’s head.
I shrug, feigning innocence. “A home run like that deserves a reward.”
“Okay, buddy,” she says, ruffling his hair. “We can have ice cream. Now go put the bat away before Pudge decides it’s a chew toy.”
He dashes off to obey, a whirlwind of happy energy.
I kneel in front of Shannon, my hands returning to her belly. “You sure you’re okay? Not too tired?”
“Reyes,” she says, her voice full of fond exasperation. “I’m pregnant, not made of glass. And I wouldn’t miss a minute of this for anything.” She cups my face, her touch gentle. “This is what you gave us. This normal, beautiful life.”
“No,” I say, my voice rough with an emotion that never gets old. “This is what you gaveme.”
Another strong kick from inside her belly presses against my hand. I look from her stomach to Aiden, who is now trying toteach the terrier how to hold the plastic bat. I look at the picket fence, the solid SUV, the two Harleys that promise freedom and partnership. I look at my wife, the woman who saw something worth saving in a man who thought he was disposable.
Mason Holt was wrong. Shannon was never nothing. She was everything, just waiting for me to find her. And standing here, with my son’s laughter in the air and my daughter’s life kicking beneath my hand, I know with absolute certainty that this—our family—is the only thing that was ever really mine.