Page 64 of Owned In Misty Mountain

“And now?”

He looks up. Eyes wet.

“Now I’m gone.”

Twenty Seven

Epilogue

Two and a half years later

Mike

I wake up with a foot in my ribcage and a tiny hand smacking my cheek.

“Mama said no kicking.”

I crack one eye open. Our daughter is sitting on top of me like she’s the queen of Misty Mountain, curls wild, pajama shirt inside out, grinning like she just won a fight.

“She also said no waking Daddy up at six a.m.,” I mutter.

“But pancakes.”

Christ.

I glance over.

Shanay is still half-asleep, curled up in the sheets, bare shoulder peeking out, lips parted.

Even now—two years, one kid, and a lifetime later—she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

And our daughter? She’s her twin.

Same warm brown skin, same sharp little smirk. Except smaller and louder and sticky at all times.

“Okay,” I sigh. “Let’s make pancakes.”

—-

Fifteen minutes later, I’m shirtless in the kitchen with a toddler on my shoulders and pancake batter in my beard.

Shanay walks in wearing my flannel shirt and nothing else, eyes still heavy with sleep.

My brain shorts out completely.

She tilts her head. “You’re staring.”

“Always.”

“You’re still hopeless.”

I nod. “Completely.”

She grins and kisses the top of our daughter’s head. “He’s gonna let you get away with murder, you know.”

“Only if you’re the accomplice,” I add, flipping a pancake.

Our girl shouts, “MURDER!” and I sigh into the spatula.

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