Page 19

Epilogue

C olor me shocked—and mildly turned on. I never thought I’d see the day when Hamilton Porkwell, CEO of Porkwell Corp.

and general pain in my ass, would be standing on my grandmother’s porch with actual pig ears sprouting from his head, arguing with his brother about the correct way to install a porch swing.

Yet here we are, three months after I dragged three city-slicker pigs into the wilderness, and somehow ended up with all of them as… what? Boyfriends? Partners? Co-conservationists?

Whatever label you want to slap on this weirdness, it’s working better than anyone—especially me—ever expected.

“You’re drilling it too deep,” Hamilton snaps, his curly pig tail twitching with irritation. “The structural integrity will be compromised.”

Percy, sporting similar porcine features but with a more relaxed set to his shoulders, just rolls his eyes. “It’s a porch swing, not a skyscraper. Your control issues are showing again.”

“My control issues are what keep this family from total chaos,” Hamilton retorts, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Not anymore.

I lean against the doorframe of the cottage, my wolf ears twitching at every sound from the forest surrounding us.

My sanctuary.

Our sanctuary now, I suppose.

The place that changed everything.

“You’re both wrong,” Prescott calls from where he’s setting up some complicated-looking tech system at the end of the porch. His pig snout wrinkles as he squints at his tablet. “According to the specs I pulled up, you need to offset it by another two inches if you want optimal swing trajectory.”

I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “Optimal swing trajectory? I just want somewhere to drink my coffee while watching the sunrise.”

All three brothers turn to look at me with varying expressions—Percy’s amused, Prescott’s earnest, and Hamilton’s… well, Hamilton’s still got that intensity that makes my fur stand on end in ways I’m not entirely mad about anymore.

“The wolf has simple needs,” Hamilton says, his tone sliding into that teasing register that would have made me want to bite him three months ago.

Now, I just want to bite him in completely different ways.

“This wolf,” I correct, strolling out onto the porch, “has very specific needs. And right now, they include watching three supposedly sophisticated business pigs fail at basic carpentry.”

Percy abandons the swing project to wrap an arm around my waist, nuzzling my neck in a way that sends a delicious shiver down to my toes. “We excel at other things,” he murmurs against my skin. “As you well know.”

I push him away playfully. “Focus on the swing. I’ve got plans for it later.”

“Do these plans include all of us?” Prescott asks, abandoning his tech to join us.

“That depends on how well you install it,” I respond with a wink. “I’m not risking a concussion for any of you, no matter how cute those ears are.”

Hamilton huffs, but there’s the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Three months ago, I wouldn’t have believed he could smile like that—genuine, unguarded.

Three months ago, I was storming into Porkwell Development, ready to shred their project.

Three months ago, these three were my enemies.

Now they’re… mine.

In ways I’m still figuring it out.

The transformation didn’t happen overnight.

After our… encounter by the lake during that fateful hiking trip, things were complicated.

Messy.

Hamilton, in particular, fought the inevitable as if it were his job (which, in a way, it was).

The Project was his baby, his revenge against wolves, his obsession. Giving it up meant admitting he was wrong, and Hamilton Porkwell didn’t do wrong.

Except, apparently, he does when presented with the right motivations.

“I’m still amazed you actually canceled the Wolfstone project,” I say to Hamilton as Percy returns to his swing installation with renewed determination.

“That press conference might have been the happiest day of my advocacy career. The great Hamilton Porkwell, announcing a conservation initiative instead of luxury condos.”

Hamilton’s ears twitch backward—a pig tell I’ve learned means he’s feeling defensive. “It was a business decision. The public relations benefits alone—”

“Bullshit,” I interrupt cheerfully. “You fell in love with the land. And possibly with a certain inhabitant of said land.”

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth ticks up. “I thought wolves were supposed to be intimidating, not delusional.”

“Admit it, Ham. You went swimming in a lake, rolled in some mud, and your cold pork heart grew three sizes.”

“What my brother is failing to articulate,” Percy interjects, looking up from his work, “is that we found something more valuable than another development project.”

“Preservation has substantial tax benefits,” Hamilton adds stubbornly.

I roll my eyes. “Romantic as always.”

“The wildlife monitoring system is almost complete,” Prescott interrupts.

“We’ll have real-time data on migration patterns, breeding seasons, and everything needed to maintain the reserve properly.

” His enthusiasm is infectious. “I’ve even designed special cameras that adjust for different light wavelengths to capture nocturnal activity without disturbing the animals. ”

“And this information helps us how?” Hamilton asks, though his tone lacks the dismissive edge it once had.

“It helps us protect what matters,” I say simply.

Something shifts in Hamilton’s expression—it softens, just for a moment. “Yes. It does.”

Percy stands, dusting off his hands. “Swing’s installed. Who wants to test it?”

“Not yet,” I warn. “I need to check your work first. Last time I trusted a Porkwell engineering project, I ended up with a collapsing bookshelf.”

“That was Prescott’s design,” Percy protests.

“I’m a tech engineer, not a carpenter,” Prescott defends himself. “And you insisted on ‘improving’ my specifications.”

I leave them bickering and walk to the edge of the porch, surveying what was once just my grandmother’s old cottage and surrounding woods.

Two months ago, Porkwell Development officially announced that it was abandoning plans for the luxury resort complex and instead dedicating the land to a protected conservation area.

The press had a field day.

“Pigs and Wolves Unite: Historic Enemies Turn Conservation Partners.”

“Porkwell Heir Abandons Development for Wildlife Preservation: Love Behind Business Decision?”

“Interspecies Dating: Taboo or Progressive?”

That last one had made me throw the newspaper across the room, but Hamilton had just laughed.

I’m still getting used to that sound.

My pack’s reaction was more complicated than the simplified headlines.

Alpha Thorncrest initially saw my relationship with the Porkwell’s as a betrayal—until the conservation announcement.

“You’ve used unconventional means,” she told me during a tense pack meeting, “but you’ve protected Wolfstone more effectively than generations before you.

” The younger wolves embraced the change immediately, while some elders still maintain a respectful distance from my pig partners.

“You’ve always been the weird one in the pack,” my cousin Mara teased when we visited last week.

There’s still distance to bridge, still suspicions to overcome, but when the pack gathered for the last full moon ceremony and allowed my three mates to observe from a respectful distance—a first in wolf-pig relations—I knew we were making progress.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Percy asks, appearing beside me.

“Just thinking about how much has changed,” I admit. “Three months ago, you designed a resort that would have destroyed my home.”

“And now I’m designing eco-friendly observation platforms that blend into the natural environment,” he finishes. “Much more challenging, actually. Anyone can build another soulless resort complex. Creating something that works with rather than disrupts nature? That’s artistry.”

“Your modesty continues to astound me,” I say dryly, but I can’t help smiling. Percy’s passion for design hasn’t diminished—it’s just found a new, better direction.

“Come look at this,” Prescott calls from his laptop. We all wander over to where he’s sitting on the porch steps.

“Is that a wolf?” Hamilton asks, pointing to a grainy image on one of the screens.

“Red fox,” Prescott and I say simultaneously. I shoot him an impressed look, and he grins.

“I’ve been studying,” he explains. “Did you know they can hear rodents under the snow from up to two feet away?”

“Amateur,” I scoff playfully. “Wolves can hear prey from up to six miles away under the right conditions.”

“Is that how you always knew when we were coming?” Hamilton asks, a hint of his old suspicion creeping in.

“You three have the subtlety of a fireworks show at a silent retreat,” I reply. “Especially you, Ham. Your cologne announced your presence half an hour before you did.”

“I no longer wear that cologne,” he says stiffly.

“I know. You smell better now.” I lean closer, inhaling deliberately. “Like forest and earth. It suits you.”

His ears twitch again, but in a different way, a way I’ve come to recognize as pleasure.

Prescott clears his throat, “anyway, I’ve set up thermal imaging across the main trails. We can monitor without disturbing. And look—” he points to another screen showing what appears to be a clearing—“I’ve identified three potential sites for the educational center.”

The educational center was Percy’s idea.

“A place where children can learn about conservation and shifter heritage,” he’d explained, eyes bright with vision. “Where they can see that wolves aren’t the villains of fairy tales, and pigs aren’t just helpless victims.”

It had been that moment—seeing the genuine passion in his eyes for changing perceptions—that made me realize these brothers weren’t just going along with this to placate me or for PR.

They actually cared.