He’s quiet for a moment, eyes tracing my face with that intensity that still makes my heart race. “How are you feeling? Really?”
I consider the question, searching for the truth he deserves. “Relieved. Vindicated. Exhausted.” I swallow hard. “And sad, strangely enough. Not for Steffan—never for him—but for the years I lost. The person I might have been if I hadn’t met him.”
“You didn’t lose those years,” Mason says softly. “You survived them. Used them to gather evidence that’s now dismantling criminal networks across three states.” His hand squeezes mine gently. “And the person you might have been wouldn’t have been as strong, as resilient, as extraordinary as the woman sitting beside me now.”
Tears prick at my eyes, but they’re different from the ones I’ve shed over the past six months—not tears of pain or fear, but of release. Of understanding that even our darkest chapters shape us in ways that matter.
“Take me home,” I whisper, suddenly eager to shed the formal suit, the careful makeup, the public persona I’ve maintained throughout the trial. “I’m ready for this day to be over.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Willow
Six MonthsLater
Home isa renovated waterfront property north of Seattle—close enough to the city for our work, remote enough to provide the security and privacy we both crave. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Puget Sound, the water reflecting the late afternoon sun in rippling gold.
I kick off my heels at the door, a small act of freedom that still brings me joy. In Steffan’s house, shoes were always worn, appearances always maintained, even in private. Here, with Mason, I exist without performance.
“Wine?” he asks, shrugging off his suit jacket and loosening his tie. Today’s deposition was the last one—the final thread in the unraveling of Steffan’s criminal network. Even with Steffan gone, the evidence I gathered over those three years continues to topple corrupt officials, one after another.
“Please.” I pad toward the bedroom, already unbuttoning my blouse. “I’m going to change.”
He murmurs low in acknowledgment as I step into our bedroom—the space we’ve shaped over the past six months. Not his Spartan precision, not my carefully curated luxury. Something new lives here.
Comfortable yet elegant. Secure. Welcoming. Ours.
I pull on soft leggings and one of Mason’s worn T-shirts. The fabric carries his scent, a comfort I never tire of. In the adjoining bathroom, I wash away my makeup, revealing the woman beneath.
The mirror doesn’t lie. Six months have carved change into every line of my face. The haunted shadow behind my eyes has lifted, replaced by something steadier—calm, anchored, resolute. I don’t flinch when doors slam anymore. My spine holds straighter. My gaze meets the world without apology. And I move like someone who no longer expects pain for being seen.
I touch the fading scar at my temple—a souvenir from the crash in the Montana snow. It’s barely visible now, a thin white line hidden by my hairline. Mason says it’s my battle scar, proof of survival. I’m learning to see it that way too.
When I return to the living room, Mason has changed as well, trading court formality for jeans and a Henley that does nothing to hide the powerful build beneath. Two glasses of wine wait on the coffee table, along with a small, wrapped package I didn’t notice before.
Bear and Chaos lounge by the fireplace, the picture of contentment. They’ve adapted to Pacific Northwest living faster than any of us expected. Bear still chases waves at the private beach below our property, while Chaos patrols the perimeter with the same vigilance he showed in Montana.
“What’s this?” I gesture toward the package as I curl into my favorite corner of the sofa.
Mason hands me a glass of wine, then settles beside me. “Open itand see.”
The box is small, wrapped in simple blue paper. Inside, nestled in tissue, lies a delicate silver bracelet. A single charm hangs from the fine chain—a mountain peak crafted in polished silver.
“Mason,” I breathe, lifting it carefully.
“A year,” he says quietly. “Since Montana. Since you found me in that storm, or I found you—I’m still not sure which way it went.” His fingers trace the mountain charm gently. “Thought you might want a reminder that not all defining moments are painful ones.”
I extend my wrist, offering it to him silently. He understands immediately, securing the bracelet with careful fingers. The metal is cool against my skin, the weight barely noticeable yet somehow grounding.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, blinking back sudden tears. “Thank you.”
His thumb traces my pulse point, that unconscious gesture of possession that still sends warmth flooding through me. “Have you decided what you want to do next?”
The question we’ve been circling for weeks. We’ve both focused so intently on dismantling Steffan’s network that we’ve neglected looking beyond. I sip my wine, gathering my thoughts.
“I want to finish setting up the new legal clinic,” I say finally. “The foundation approved the funding last week. I can start offering services to domestic violence survivors as early as next month.”
Pride flashes in his eyes. “You’re going to change so many lives.”
