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His arms tightened around me, one hand finding mine, his thumb brushing over the platinum band that now encircled my finger. “Husband,” he murmured, as though testing the word. “I like the sound of that.”

“Me too,” I admitted, tilting my head to look at him. “Though we should probably discuss optimal timing for the ceremony. The statistical analysis of wedding success rates based on planning timeframes suggests—”

He cut me off with a kiss, his laugh warm against my lips. “There’s my Evan,” he murmured when we parted. “Already planning, analyzing, organizing.”

I flushed slightly, aware of how quickly I’d reverted to type. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” His expression was tender as he brushed my hair back from my forehead. “I wouldn’t want you any other way. Lists, protocols, statistical analyses and all.”

As I settled back against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, I found myself mentally revising yet another life protocol. Where once I had believed that safety lay in isolation, in control, in avoiding complications, I now understood that true safety came from trust, from connection, from finding the person whose strengths complemented your weaknesses and whose love transformed your quirks from flaws into endearing traits.

In the candlelight of our home, wrapped in the arms of my werewolf fiancé, I realized I had never felt safer in my life.

Epilogue

“Rule thirty-seven: During full moon transformations, all doors must remain closed to prevent tracking of forest debris through freshly mopped floors.”

I tapped my pen against my notebook thoughtfully. “Though perhaps an outdoor shower installation would be more efficient for post-run cleanup?”

From his position sprawled across our bed, naked and gloriously relaxed after his monthly run, Shep cracked open one amber eye to regard me with fond exasperation. “You’re adding to that list again, aren’t you?”

I closed the notebook—leather-bound, a wedding gift from Mrs. Patterson, embossed with the title “Safety Protocols for Dating Werewolves” in elegant gold script. “It’s important to document our findings for future reference.”

“Future reference,” he repeated, his smile widening. “Planning to publish a guide for other humans who find themselves mated to werewolves?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I replied primly, setting the notebook on the bedside table. “It’s proprietary information.”

His laugh was warm as he reached for me, pulling me down to sprawl across his chest. “You’re ridiculous. And I love you for it.”

Six months into our marriage, and those words still sent a flutter through my chest. I settled against him, my head finding its familiar place in the crook of his shoulder, my hand resting over his heart where I could feel its strong, steady beat.

“How was the run?” I asked, though I could tell from his relaxed state that it had been a good one.

“Perfect.” His hand stroked lazily down my back. “Caught the scent of a mountain lion near the eastern ridge. I’ll need to alert the rangers tomorrow.”

I nodded against his chest. This was our routine now—his monthly runs, my waiting up for his return, the quiet debriefing afterward where he would share what he’d observed, what might need attention from either the fire department or the park rangers. It was domestic and extraordinary all at once, this life we’d built.

“The town council approved the budget for the new fire safety education program,” I told him, knowing he’d been waiting for the news. “Full funding, including the interactive demonstrations you wanted for the elementary school.”

His satisfaction rumbled through his chest beneath my ear. “See? I told you they’d go for it if you presented it.”

I smiled, remembering my nervousness before the council meeting. Despite six months as Liberty Lake’s official Safety Consultant, I still sometimes felt like an outsider. But Shep had been right—the council had respected my detailed analysis and passionate advocacy.

“They also asked if I’d consider expanding my role to include emergency preparedness coordination,” I added, trying to sound casual though the offer had excited me considerably. “It would mean more hours, but also more involvement in long-term planning.”

Shep’s hand paused its lazy stroking of my back. “And what did you say?”

I propped myself up on one elbow to look at his face. “I said I needed to discuss it with my husband. That it would impact our schedule, especially if we’re still considering… other changes.”

His expression softened, understanding immediately what I was referring to. We’d been talking recently about starting a family—a prospect that both thrilled and terrified me with its implications, its complete upending of all my carefully constructed protocols.

“Do you want the position?” he asked simply.

I nodded. “I think I could do a lot of good. The town’s emergency plans are woefully outdated, and with climate change increasing the risk of extreme weather events—”

“Evan,” he interrupted gently. “I didn’t ask for the risk assessment. I asked if you want it.”

I took a deep breath, still learning to lead with emotion rather than analysis. “Yes. I want it.”