Page 101 of Vicious Betrayal

"I know," I say again. "But we'll figure it out. Together."

He turns to look at me, his expression uncertain. "I don't know how to do this," he admits. "I don't know how to be a husband or a father. I've never thought about it, because I never thought I'd need to. And there's going to be rough patches. I'll do my best⁠—"

"We'll learn," I say softly. "We'll figure it out as we go. And we'll make mistakes, but we'll do it together."

He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. "I'm going to do everything I can to keep you safe, and the baby. I promise you that."

"I know you will. And I'm going to do everything I can to make this work. To be the wife you deserve, and the mother our child deserves."

"You already are," he says, his voice rough, before he pulls me in for a kiss.

We sit there for a long moment, holding hands in the quiet of the car, and then he opens the door and helps me out. We walk up the front steps together. Inside, the house is warm and familiar, and I feel something settle in my chest. This is home. This is where we're going to build our life together.

Cormac pulls me into his arms again, holding me tightly, and I rest my head against his chest. "We're going to be okay," I whisper. "Aren't we?"

"Yeah," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "We're going to be okay."

And standing there in the entryway of our house with his arms around me, I believe him.

We've been through hell. We've been torn apart and put back together. We've lost so much, and the cost of our happiness is something we'll carry for the rest of our lives.

But we're here. We're together. And that's all either of us could have ever asked for, and all I'll ever want.

EPILOGUE: OKSANA

The house smells like coffee and cinnamon rolls, though I didn't make them. Cormac must have picked them up this morning while I was still asleep. They're sitting on the kitchen counter next to the coffeepot as I stand there in one of his old T-shirts, my bare feet cold against the tile floor. I hear the soft creak of the stairs, and then his voice, low and rough with sleep. "Morning, mo ghra."

I turn to see him padding into the kitchen, our daughter cradled against his chest. She's three months old now, with a shock of strawberry blonde hair. She blinks up at me sleepily.

He shifts her gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "She woke up and decided she wanted to see her mama."

I cross to him and reach out, brushing my fingers over her tiny fist. She grabs onto my thumb immediately, her grip surprisingly strong, and I feel that familiar surge of overwhelming love. How did we make something this perfect? "You want me to take her?" I ask.

"No." He smiles, his eyes soft. "I've got her. You sit down and eat something."

I want to argue, but the truth is I'm exhausted. The first few months have been a blur of sleepless nights and constant feedings, my body still recovering from the birth and my mind still adjusting to the reality that I'm someone's mother now. Cormac and I are parents. We survived everything that tried to destroy us, and now we have this.

I sit at the table with one of the cinnamon rolls, tearing off a piece, and sigh at the warm sweetness. It's delicious. Cormac settles into the chair across from me, adjusting our daughter so she's lying in the crook of his arm, her head resting against his bicep.

"You're good at that," I say quietly.

He looks at me, startled. "At what?"

"Being a dad."

He doesn't answer right away. He just looks down at her, his expression unreadable, and then he says, "I'm terrified every second of every day that I'm going to fuck it up."

"You won't."

"You don't know that."

"I do." I reach across the table and take his free hand. "You're the most careful, protective person I've ever met. You'd die before you let anything happen to her."

His jaw tightens, and I know he's thinking about all the ways the world could hurt her. All the dangers that come with being the daughter of a man like him, even if the heat from the FBI has died down since Rian took the fall.

The thought of him is a constant ache we both carry. We write to him every week. Cormac visits when he can. Rian always asks about me and the baby, and Cormac says he smiles when he hears we're doing well. But I know it weighs on Cormac.

"We'll keep her safe," Cormac says finally, his voice low. "Whatever it takes."