Page 68 of Possessed By the Mountain Man
Thorne growls. “Gladly.”
He kisses me again—slow this time. Claiming. Forever-level.
And just like that—chaos wins.
Love wins.
And so do we.
Later, as the sun sets orange behind the pines and the fall air turns crisp, Thorne holds me close while our friends dancelike absolute feral animals—witches and wolves and denim and flannel and everything messy and perfect about Devil’s Peak.
Zane raises a glass and shouts: “To chaos and love and accidental pregnancies!”
Everyone roars.
Thorne leans down, mouth brushing my ear. “Still think I’m seasonal depression in flannel?”
I grin. “Yeah. And now you’re my sexy seasonal depression in flannel.”
His laugh is rough. Beautiful.
“You ready for forever, Aspen?”
I lace my fingers with his.
“I was made for it.”
Second Epilogue
Thorne
Three Years Later
Aspen says I hover.
Which is bullshit.
I don’t hover.
I guard.
There’s a difference.
And right now, I’m nothovering—I’m tracking my pregnant wife across our property because she thinks just because she’s seven months along, she can still “do things.”
Like lift pumpkins.
Or balance on ladders.
Or bend over in that tight jack-o-lantern dress that makes every single one of my caveman instincts go defcon one.
“Stop following me,” she calls over her shoulder, waddling toward the courtyard in front of Cabin Six—our favorite one to rent out for elopements.
“I’m not following you,” I growl. “I’m supervising.”
She shoots me a look, hands on her hips. “You’re attached to me like a haunted barnacle.”
“You’re carrying my baby in that belly. Don’t start with me.”
