Page 125 of Jax & Knox

"Just like her brother," Knox adds.

"Just like her mama," I say.

As I drift off to sleep, wrapped in the steady warmth of the two men who refuse to let me go, I turn over everything I’ve survived, the fists and the silence, the constant fear, the nights spent running with nothing but a baby and a half-formed plan, and set it against everything I’ve been given in return: a love that doesn’t demand my silence, a safety that doesn’t feel temporary, a family that chose me, and a home that finally feels like mine. I used to believe I didn’t deserve any of it. I was wrong. I deserve all of it, and so do the children sleeping under this roof, and so do the men whose arms are still around me. This is my life. This is my family. This is my home. And I am never letting it go.

FINAL EPILOGUE: FIVE YEARS LATER

AINSLEY

The sound of chaos wakes me.

Not the terrifying kind, the beautiful kind.

The kind that comes from a house full of children who feel safe enough to be loud, wild, and completely themselves.

I stretch slowly in bed, my body warm and relaxed, and reach for the space beside me. Empty. Both sides. I smile, already knowing where they are.

Downstairs with the kids.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the cool hardwood floor. The morning sun streams through the curtains, casting golden light across the room Jax and Knox built for us five years ago when we moved into this house.

Our house.

Not club housing. Not a safe room. Not a temporary shelter.

Home.

I pull on one of Knox's hoodies, still too big, still smelling like him, and pad barefoot down the hallway.

The walls are covered in family photos. Owen at two, grinning with frosting all over his face. Our daughter Olive at six months, sleeping between her fathers. The twins, Emmett and Elizabeth, at their first birthday party, covered in cake. And the newest addition, our four-month-old Maisie, who looks exactly like me but has Jax's mischievous grin.

Five kids.

Five.

Sometimes I still can't believe it.

I pause at Owen's bedroom door and peek inside. His bed is empty, the dinosaur sheets tangled at the foot. Posters of motorcycles and superheroes cover the walls. A bookshelf overflows with chapter books he's already reading on his own.

Eight years old. Confident. Smart. Kind. Brave. Everything I hoped he'd be.

I move down the hallway, peeking into each room. Olive's room is an explosion of pink and purple, her bed already made because she's a perfectionist like Knox. The twins' room is chaos, toys everywhere, bunk beds unmade, stuffed animals scattered across the floor. Maisie's room is our nursery.

All empty.

They're all downstairs.

I follow the sound of laughter and the smell of pancakes, my heart swelling with every step.

When I reach the kitchen, I stop in the doorway and just watch.

Knox is at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of precision only he could manage. He's shirtless, wearing low-slung sweatpants, his tattoos on full display. Maisie is perched on the counter beside him, "helping" by stealing chocolate chips from the bowl.

Jax is at the table with Owen, Olive, and the twins, all of them laughing at something he just said. He's got Emmett on his lap, and Elizabeth is trying to braid his hair with her tiny fingers.

"Dada, you're silly," Elizabeth says, giggling.

"Yeah, well, you're sillier," Jax shoots back, tickling her until she squeals.