Chapter 160: Jaxon

Chapter 160: Jaxon
3 years later

The saltwater drips from my hair, tracing slow, cool lines down my back as I shake out my arms, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension from an hour of cutting through waves. The sun clings to my skin, heat soaked into every muscle, the rush of the ocean still thudding in my veins. I grab my board and make my way back to the boardwalk, hopping over the wooden bench that separates the sand from the walkway. My feet leave wet prints against the sunbaked wood, blending in with hundreds of others.

Three years.

Three fucking years since we stepped off that plane and left Alderstone behind.

It’s funny—sometimes it feels like another lifetime, like the person I was before moving here was someone else entirely. Other times, it feels like I’ve just been on a long vacation, waiting for something to snap me back to that life. But nothing ever does. Nothing ever will.

It took time, sure. I was restless at first, always scanning every room, every street, every shadow, expecting trouble. I trained, ran, boxed, kept myself sharp just in case. But eventually, the tension in my shoulders eased. The ocean helped. The quiet helped. She helped.

It wasn’t all smooth, though.

Two years ago, we were out late at a bar in Lisbon, sitting outside under string lights, drinking cocktails way too sweet for me but that made Paige’s eyes shine. And then I saw him. A man at the other end of the patio, laughing at something his friend said, rolling up the sleeve of his linen shirt. Right there, inked into the skin of his forearm, was the unmistakable Black Viper tattoo.

I was on my feet before I even realized I had moved, closing the distance in seconds. The second his eyes locked with mine, he knew. I grabbed him, slammed him against the wall, my forearm pressing against his throat. I demanded to know what the hell he was doing here, who he was looking for, who he was working with.

And he laughed.

Said he wasn’t working with anyone. That he was retired. That he got out a few years ago and moved here for the same reason I did—to disappear.

I didn’t believe him. Not at first.

I nearly crushed his windpipe, damn near broke his fingers to get more out of him. But then he looked me dead in the eyes and told me he had no clue who I was. Didn’t recognize my face, didn’t know Paige. He was just some guy who used to run with the Vipers, who wanted out.

Paige pulled me off him, told me to let him go. That he wasn’t worth it.

And she was right.

That was two years ago, and we haven’t seen another soul from that world since.

That doesn’t mean I’ve gone completely soft.

I’ve gotten into fights, sure. Some drunk guy at a party putting his hands on Paige’s waist while she was trying to push him away—yeah, I broke his nose. Another idiot at the beach grabbing her wrist, telling her he just wanted to talk—he left with two black eyes. But those weren’t fights for survival. Just reminders that no one touches my girl.

Now, as I step off the boardwalk, shaking the last bit of seawater from my hair, I feel... calm. Grounded. Hell, maybe even happy.

The scent of fresh pastries and coffee pulls me in as I near our favorite little café. The place is quiet, just a few customers lingering inside, and I spot her immediately through the window.

Paige.

Sitting at a corner table, a book open in front of her, one hand resting absently on her belly.

A belly that’s gotten bigger.

I grin to myself and push open the door. The little bell overhead jingles softly, and she glances up.

The second her eyes meet mine, she lights up.

She pushes herself to her feet, moving slower than she used to, but goddamn if she isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing one of those summer dresses she loves, light and flowy, hugging her in all the right places, but all I can focus on is her stomach.

Six months pregnant.

With our daughter.

I cross the room in three strides, wrapping my arms around her, pressing my lips to the top of her head before kneeling down and pressing a kiss against her belly.

"How’s my girl?" I murmur against her skin, my hands splaying over the curve of her stomach.

"Which one?" she teases, running her fingers through my damp hair.

"Both," I smirk, tilting my head up at her.

She smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes my chest ache. "She’s been kicking all morning. Probably because of the espresso I had earlier."

I groan and rise to my feet. "I thought we agreed—"

"—One a week! And today was the one!"

I narrow my eyes at her. "You swore it would be a decaf."

Her lips press together, guilty as hell.

I shake my head but can’t help the smirk tugging at my lips. "I’m gonna have my hands full with both of you, aren’t I?"

She shrugs. "You knew what you signed up for."

I chuckle and kiss her again, then glance at the book on the table. "Good read?"

"It’s okay," she says, closing it. "But I’d rather hang out with you."

"Damn right you would," I smirk, swiping the book off the table and tucking it under my arm before nodding toward the door. "Come on. It’s time to go to work."

She groans. "You’re way too excited about this."

I just grin, grabbing her bag and helping her clean up. Once everything is gathered, we step out of the café, and I help her into the passenger seat of our car. It’s not the beat-up yellow thing we first got when we moved here. No, we actually have a decent ride now—still not some flashy sports car, but good enough to get us where we need to go.

The drive to our place of work is a short one, weaving through narrow streets lined with pastel buildings, laundry hanging from balconies, people sipping coffee at sidewalk cafés. It’s the kind of place that never stops feeling warm, no matter the season.

And then we pull up to our coffee shop.

It’s small, but perfect. Painted soft blue, with warm lighting and a cozy little patio out front. Inside, the air always smells like freshly ground espresso and cinnamon, and a whole section of the shop is dedicated to books. Paige’s books. A little library corner where people can read or borrow something while they drink their coffee.

We opened it six months after we moved here, and in three years, it’s become home.

Paige stretches as she gets out of the car, rubbing her belly absentmindedly. I grab the bag of pastries we picked up from our supplier earlier, then hold open the door as she steps inside.

"Go sit," I tell her.

"I’m pregnant, Jaxon, not useless," she grumbles.

"And yet, you’re still sitting," I smirk as she glares at me but lowers herself onto a chair behind the counter.

She mutters something under her breath about overprotective men, but I just shake my head and head toward the back, where my kitchen is.

Yeah. My kitchen.

Because while Paige runs the front, making sure the book corner is always stocked and customers are happy, I run the back.

I prep the pastries. I perfect the coffee. I make sure everything tastes exactly how it should. Because if I’m going to live this life—this normal, peaceful, perfect life—I’m going to do it right.

And I’ll do it with her.