Page 50 of Judge's Justice

"Did he tell you that?"

"No. But I can tell. I'm very observant." She says it with such confidence, so much like Warren, that I have to laugh.

It's been a year since we told Grace that Warren and I were together. A whole year of taking things slow, of family dinners and movie nights and Warren teaching Grace to play chess. A year of him proving, day after day, choice after choice, that he wasn't going anywhere. That he meant every promise he made.

Grace took it better than I expected. Actually, she took it perfectly. Looked at both of us like we were the slowest people on earth and signed, *I already knew. I've known forever. You're not good at hiding things.*

Six months ago, Warren proposed. Got down on one knee in the kitchen while Grace and I were making breakfast, pulled out a ring, and asked if I'd marry him. If Grace would let him be her dad—officially, legally, permanently.

Grace said yes before I could even open my mouth.

And now here we are. Two years after the worst day of my life turned into the best thing that ever happened to me.

The war with the Vipers ended months ago. I don't know all the details. Warren keeps the violent parts away from me, says I don't need that darkness, but I know it was brutal. Know that Phoenix and Warren and the other brothers put everything on the line to end it.

Know that Demon is dead, and the Vipers scattered.

Know that we're finally, truly safe.

Grace throws her arms around my neck, careful not to crush the flowers in her basket. "I love you, Mama. I'm so happy Warren's going to be my dad."

"Me too, baby. Me too."

A knock on the door interrupts us. Ivy pokes her head in, already dressed in a beautiful lavender dress, her short auburn hair styled in soft waves. "You ready? Everyone's waiting."

I take a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm ready."

Grace grabs my hand and squeezes. "Don't be nervous, Mama. Judge loves you. This is the easy part."

We walk down the hallway together—me, Grace, and Ivy. The clubhouse looks completely different than it did two years ago. Someone, probably Canvas, strung lights everywhere. White flowers are arranged in vases on every surface. The common room has been transformed into something beautiful, something magical, and I have to blink back tears because this is happening. This is real.

The brothers are all here. Canvas standing near the makeshift altar, grinning like an idiot. Brick by the door, arms crossed, but smiling. Saint near the front, looking uncomfortable in a button-down shirt but happy. Wraith with his daughter Mariah beside him. She's the same age as Grace, and the two of them have been inseparable since they met. Echo in the back, quiet as always but nodding at me when I pass. Diesel and Ranger near the windows. Phoenix at the altar, officiating, because of course he is.

And their girlfriends scattered throughout: women who found their own way to this club, who built their own lives with these dangerous, beautiful, broken men.

The music starts.

Grace looks up at me. "Ready?"

I nod, and she starts walking down the aisle, scattering flower petals with this serious, focused expression that makes everyonesmile. Mariah follows behind her, her own basket of petals, both girls taking their job incredibly seriously.

Then it's my turn.

I step into the doorway, and every eye turns to me.

But I only see one person.

Warren.

He's standing at the altar next to Phoenix, and Grace was right, he looks like he's about to cry. His eyes are wet, his jaw clenched, his hands fisted at his sides like he's holding himself together by sheer force of will.

He's wearing a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to show his tattoos, his Iron Phoenix vest over it. His dark hair is neat, his jaw clean-shaven, and he has never looked this handsome.

He's forty-five now. I'm thirty-three. Twelve years between us that used to feel like a chasm and now feels like nothing. Like we were always meant to find each other, no matter how long it took.

I walk down the aisle, no one to give me away because I'm giving myself, and with every step, Warren's expression gets softer. More vulnerable. More openly emotional than I've ever seen him.

When I reach the altar, he reaches out and takes my hand. His fingers are warm, calloused, scarred. Perfect.