Page 182 of Top Shelf

EPILOGUE

SEVEN YEARS LATER

The last emailof the day is a complaint about parking. Apparently, Slither the Serpent has been abusing his access privileges and keeps leaving his golf cart in executive spaces.

Firing off a response, I lean back in my chair and glance around my office. The view still catches me sometimes. Seven years later, and I still occasionally have moments where I look around and think,holy shit.I did it.

My office sits high above the rink, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ice below. Practice ended an hour ago, but a few players still linger, shooting pucks and talking near the benches. I scan the ice, looking to see if my men are down there, but I don’t see them. Nowadays, they don’t hang around for long after practice.

The walls are lined with framed photographs of championship wins, community events, and youth hockey clinics. There are trophies too. Proof of years of hard work. But my favorite thing in the room isn’t any of that. It’s the wall beside my desk. The one covered in photographs, letters, news articles, and thank you cards from various men, women, and children. People who have benefited from the Serpents Foundation.

My gaze lands on the newest framed article.

SERPENTS SAFE ICE PROGRAM EXPANDS NATIONWIDE

Beneath the headline is a photograph from last month’s launch. The initiative offers counseling services, legal advocacy, emergency grants, support networks, and resources for survivors of sexual assault and their families.

Seven years ago, none of it existed. Now, more than half the league participates.

Pushing back from the desk, the sleeve of my blazer rides up, exposing the teal moth tattoo on my wrist. Something else I’ve gained in the past seven years. It’s similar to Lucian’s, only my moth is whole. Healed.

Just like me.

My thumb brushes over the wings.

Then a sharp kick lands against my ribs.

I freeze.

A second later, it happens again.

I glare down at my protruding stomach.

“Seriously?” I mutter.

Another kick.

“It wouldn’t be hard to guess that your fathers are hockey players,” I grumble to my unborn child.

The office door opens.

“Talking to yourself again?” Lucian teases, grinning at me from the doorway. Seven years older and not one bit wiser.

“Your child is mistaking my insides for an ice rink.”

The wedding band on his finger catches the light ashe crosses the room. Once he’s at my side, he reaches out, resting his hand on my stomach. “Please, she’s just dying to be free so we can put skates on her feet and a stick in her hands.”

“It could be a boy,” Ronan points out for the millionth time as he enters the room.

Lucian scoffs, like he does every time. He’s been convinced since the day I told them I was pregnant that we’re having a girl. Silas thinks it’s a boy. Ronan says he doesn’t care what it is, so long as they’re healthy.

I…can’t decide. I want a mini Lucian, a mini Ronan, and a mini Silas.

But I’m also aware that, as the only girl, I’m already massively outnumbered, and I need to even the playing field a little.

“You’re not still working, are you?” Ronan asks, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“Just finished,” I assure him. With only a couple of weeks until the baby is due, he’s paranoid about me overdoing it. Thinks I should be at home resting, but who would run the team if I wasn’t here? He didn’t seem to understand the point I was trying to make when I made that argument. So instead, he grumbles about how much I work, and I mostly ignore him.