How is this possible?
How can they all be so insanely—and unfairly—attractive, even all these years later?
Time has been kind to them, carving them into finer versions of themselves, like marble statues gradually revealing their true forms beneath the stone.
“Arguing with the kitchen staff about the cake,” Ridge says, his voice vibrating against my shoulder as he scans the gardens, his eyes alert and shoulders tense even now, even here, even in our own home.
He’s unable to fully shed his role as my protector, the mantle sitting on his shoulders as naturally as his own skin.
None of them are able to.
After all, it’s not just me they’re protecting anymore.
“Something about buttercream versus fondant,” Ridge adds, his nose scrunching in that adorable way he does when he's trying not to laugh. “Her mates are trying to intervene. Poor bastards.”
I smile, picturing it—Harper in full hurricane mode, all thunder and lightning and unstoppable force, her three men attempting to calm the storm with varying degrees of success.
Their story had been its own kind of miracle, a different flavor of impossible than mine. She'd found them during the Nóthos peace talks years ago, and now she runs the kingdom'sdiplomatic corps with the same ferocity she once applied to keeping me sane during my darkest days.
“She'll win,” I say, certainty ringing in my voice like a bell. “She always wins.”
“Oh look.” Luka stands at my elbow and presses a glass of sparkling cider into my hand—no alcohol for me tonight, not when I'm still nursing our youngest. “Brock's pack just arrived. They're in the west garden.”
I find them through the window—Brock with his dark hair gleaming like raven wings in the afternoon sun, surrounded by his pack and their mate, their children already mingling with mine like streams converging into a river. He looks up as if feeling my gaze, those sharp eyes finding mine across the distance, and raises his glass in salute.
We don't speak often these days, our lives having diverged down different paths, but there's warmth there. History. The kind of bond forged in crisis that never fully fades, like a brand on the heart.
“And there…” Ridge's arm tightens around me.
I follow his gaze across the lawn to where the Nóthos princes stand with their mate. Even from here, I can see the way they orbit her like planets around a sun, the way she anchors them, the way they find every excuse possible to touch her, caress her, love her. The devotion in their posture is palpable even at this distance, a visible force like heat shimmering off summer stone.
God, I still love hearing how they met and came together.
But that's a story for a different time.
“Mom!” Elara's voice echoes from below, closer now, accompanied by the rapid patter of small feet on marble. “Aunt Harper says come cut the cake or she's eating it herself! With her hands!”
“She wouldn’t dare.” I gasp dramatically and press a hand to my mouth, eyes wide. “Not the buttercream!”
Elara giggles, the sound like silver bells, and breaks into a run, her little legs carrying her toward the ballroom door, the frog presumably still in tow.
“Shall we get you your cake, m'lady?” Ridge asks, affecting a ridiculous posh accent that sounds more like a stuffy duke than the fierce warrior he is. He extends his arm with a flourish, bowing slightly. “Before the hurricane consumes it?”
“Why, of course, fine sir.” I mimic his snooty tone, pitching my voice higher, and take his arm, wrapping my fingers around his bicep—solid and strong as iron wrapped in velvet.
Luka moves to stand on my other side, and his hand finds the small of my back. Together, we make our way through halls that have become home.
The ballroom glows with candlelight and joy when we enter, the air thick with the scent of vanilla and sugar and beeswax. The chandeliers drip with crystal like frozen waterfalls, scattering light in all directions.
Teddie stands by the massive cake, Caran at his side with my youngest—Aurora—on his hip, the child playing with the crown that sits slightly askew on Teddie's head. My brother catches my eye and smiles—that same smile from his coronation day, softened now by time and love and the peace that comes fromknowing you are exactly where you're meant to be, like a key finding its lock.
Our children rush to us—Elara with her frog now cupped in careful hands, its throat pulsing with its rapid heartbeat; the twins, Sarabella and Sebastian, arguing about who gets to blow out which candle, their voices overlapping like competing melodies; our oldest, Cassian, trying to look dignified at thirteen and failing magnificently when Kylian ruffles his hair, the boy's composure cracking like thin ice.
“Happy birthday,” Colter grunts, pulling me into his arms.
He’s not wearing his mask.
He hasn’t worn his mask since our son was born thirteen years ago.
