Page 62 of Sweet Doe
I said yes without hesitating, and I haven’t regretted it since.
"I'm ready," I say, and I know it's true. "I'm ready to see what we can build together. We’re a great team and we work well together."
"Even if it means never going back? Never seeing your family again, never having the option of returning to your old life?"
"That life was never really mine anyway." The words come easier now, after months on the run. "This is the first time I've ever felt like I was living my own story."
"Ourstory," he corrects gently, bumping my shoulder with his.
"Our story," I agree, and the possessive word doesn't feel like a loss of my identity anymore.
He stands and offers me his hand, pulling me to my feet with easy strength. "Come on, then. Let's go home."
Home.
As we break camp and pack our gear, I catch myself humming—something I haven't done since childhood. The melody is wordless, made up on the spot, but it feels like joy.
Like the sound of someone who's finally found where she belongs.
The hike ahead is challenging but not impossible, eight miles of rough terrain through forests and across streams that run cold with snowmelt. But I'm stronger now than I was six months ago, my body hardened by constant physical activity and outdoor living. I can carry my share of the gear, navigate by compass andlandmarks like Asher taught me, and sometimes I’m able to start a fire in wet conditions.
I've become someone who can survive in places like this. Someone who canthrivein isolation.
The morning sun climbs higher as we shoulder our packs and set out on the final leg of our journey. Behind us, the lake reflects our movement in its still surface—two figures moving through a landscape that could swallow them completely.
Ahead lies home.
And I'm excited by it.
Because I'm not facing it alone.
I'm facing it with someone who would burn the world down to keep me safe and happy.
Someone worth becoming Sarah Mitchell for.
Epilogue 2
ASHER
Somewhere in Alaska.
She’s already trembling by the time I step back into the room.
Blindfolded. Wrists tied to the headboard. Legs cuffed wide to the corners of the bed I built with my own damn hands. She’s laid out for me—every inch bare, flushed, slick and desperate in the morning light bleeding through the frosted windows.
I made her wait.
Hours.
I wanted her needy. Mind fucked. I wanted her soaked from nothing but the wind howling outside and the sound of my voice echoing through her skull like a curse. And now?
Yeah. She’s fucking wrecked. Just how I wanted her.
Her chest is rising like she’s been running. Her thighs twitch every time the cuffs tug. The scarf over her eyes is damp with sweat. Her mouth’s parted in a breathy little whimper—my name spilling out like she’s praying I’ll finally put her out of her misery.
“Asher… please…”
I lean in the doorway a second longer, arms crossed, just watching her. Taking in the way her hips jerk. The way her whole body is strung so tight it’s like she might shatter from one fucking touch.
