Page 38 of Brick’s Anchor

My mom is crying. My dad takes the phone. "Where are you? We'll come get you."

"I'm in Millhaven. With people who helped me. I can't come home yet, Dad. The people who did this are still looking. But I'm protected here."

We talk for twenty more minutes. My sister gets on the line, crying and yelling at me. I let her. She's earned it.

When I hang up, I'm exhausted but lighter. "They're okay. They understand I need time."

Eden does my medical assessment. I'm bruised and underweight but physically intact. She prescribes rest, food, and therapy. I agree with all of it.

By evening, I'm back in Brick's room. He's sitting on the bed. I close the door behind me and lock it.

"So," I say. "We're doing this."

"Looks like it."

"It's probably going to be a disaster."

"Probably."

"I'm going to be impossible sometimes."

"I know."

He pulls me onto his lap. "Rosie. I want this. Want you. Want to see where this goes. Want to be the man who gets to help you heal."

"Why?"

"Because you matter. Because you survived. Because you're strong and furious and real. Because I'm already falling for you and I want to see what happens when I fall the rest of the way."

"That's insane. You barely know me."

"I know enough. Phoenix knew with Ivy. Judge knew with Nora. Canvas knew with Eden. Sometimes you just know. And I know you're who I want."

I kiss him.

"Okay," I whisper. "Let's figure it out together."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You and me."

We lie back on his bed, tangled together, and I think about the future. About therapy and healing and learning to trust again. About a man who breaks bones for a living but holds me like I'm precious.

It won't be easy. But it will be real.

And real is all I need.

Epilogue - Brick

Three years later

The drive to Rosie's hometown takes two hours, and our daughter screams for approximately ninety minutes of it.

"She's got your lungs," I tell Rosie, who's twisted around in the passenger seat trying to soothe Maya with a pacifier that keeps getting spit out.

"She's got your stubbornness," Rosie shoots back. "Maya, baby, please. We're almost there."

Maya Lane Hayes is one year old, has her mother's dark hair and my dark eyes, and possesses a will of iron that makes me simultaneously proud and exhausted. She's currently refusing the pacifier, refusing her bottle, and refusing to accept that car rides don't end the moment she decides she's done with them.