Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

Epilogue

MARGAUX

SIX MONTHS LATER

“ Y ou’ll never have to send another running pickle again,” Dex says, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

“Thank fucking goodness,” I reply with a dramatic sigh, shaking my head. “I was really worried this whole experience was going to put me off pickles. And I love a good pickle.”

“Oh, I know you do,” he says, leaning in with an exaggerated wink. “Just as well I have an excellent pickle.”

The absurdity of his statement sends us both into laughter—deep, gut-wrenching belly laughs that leave me wiping tears from my eyes. The kind of laugh I thought I could only have with Timmy back in the day.

But with Dex, it’s different. The laughter isn’t a mask for discomfort or an attempt to brush past red flags. It’s genuine. Easy. Freeing.

With Dex, there’s no baggage, no manipulation waiting in the wings. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m walking a tightrope over a chasm of chaos. He’s steady. Solid. A partner in every sense of the word.

He’s not going to do anything crazy—well, only the good kind. Like putting on a mask and chasing me through the woods. Nothing that will hurt me.

And the best part? I don’t have to fix him.

He doesn’t need fixing.

He’s perfectly imperfect.

Dex gets up every morning and goes to work, no prodding or pushing required. He handles his responsibilities with ease, whether it’s paying bills or dealing with the mundane logistics of life. His credit is better than mine—a fact he teases me about endlessly—and he’s always planning ahead, talking about investments, future trips, and dreams we can build together.

But it’s not about the money. It’s about the effort, the balance, the mutual respect. I never feel like he’s taking more than he’s giving, or expecting me to pour every ounce of myself into him without a second thought. He buys me gifts occasionally, little surprises that make my day brighter, but they’re never transactional. They’re just... kind. Thoughtful.

When we fight—and yes, we fight sometimes—it doesn’t feel like the end of the world. Dex never uses his words as weapons. He doesn’t storm off or turn silent to punish me. He raises his voice on occasion, but always calms down quickly, and we talk it out like adults. The air clears, and we move forward. Stronger.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m in a partnership, not a parent-child dynamic. I’m not his caretaker or his therapist. I’m his equal. And that’s exactly how it should be.

Do I ever think about Timmy? Occasionally.

It’s not the kind of thinking that leaves me shaking or crying anymore. It’s more like a fleeting memory—a shadow passing through my mind. I used to worry that some small, twisted part of me would always hold on to him, clinging to the idea of who he could have been. But I’ve learned to let that go.

Because the version of Timmy I loved never really existed. He was a mirage, a carefully constructed act designed to lure me in. The creative, loving, surfer boy who made me laugh until I cried? That was an act. A mask. And once I understood that, it became easier to release the truth about the love I thought I had for him.

Now, all I feel is pity and relief.

Pity for his rage and hatred of women. Pity for the people in his life who continued to enable him, turning a blind eye to his destruction. Relief that there will now be no next person who will fall for his act, walking into the storm I barely escaped.

Mostly, I pity him for himself. Because his life was miserable. He numbed himself with substances and distractions, trying to emulate the joy he didn’t know how to feel.

I see that now. I see the emptiness that drove him, the hollowness he could never fill.

When we broke up, I told him I wished him the best. And I meant it. Because despite everything, I did hope he’d be one of the rare few who could turn it all around.

But now that’s not an option.

And Timmy is not my problem anymore.

As I sit here, watching Dex putter around the kitchen, humming a tune I don’t recognize, I feel something I thought was out of reach for me.

Peace.

This is the life I fought for. The love I deserve. It’s not perfect—nothing ever is—but it’s mine. Ours.

It’s easy. It’s fun. We laugh through the good parts, and support each other unconditionally through the hard parts.

Dex glances up and catches me staring. “What?” he asks, grinning. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I just love you.”

His smile softens, and he crosses the room to pull me into his arms. “I love you too, Margaux. Always have. Always will.” And in his embrace, I know I’m finally home.

“Don’t forget our tattoo appointment later,” he suddenly reminds me.

“How could I forget?” I grin. I’m so excited.

The tattoo studio smells like antiseptic and ink, a strangely comforting scent that blends with the low hum of the tattoo machines. I glance around, my nerves tingling with anticipation. The walls are lined with designs, some bold and intricate, others delicate and simple. It’s a world of stories etched onto skin, and now, I’m about to add my own.

Dex stands next to me, his presence steady and grounding. He’s calm, confident, like he’s been planning this for ages. He catches me watching him and gives me that signature grin, the one that always makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.

“You ready for this, baby?” he asks, his green-hazel eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper—something that makes my heart race.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, trying to match his confidence, though my voice betrays the fluttering in my chest.

The tattoo artist, a burly man with a surprisingly gentle demeanor, shows us the design one more time—two small black hearts side by side—simple yet powerful. It’s perfect, an understated symbol of us, of love and resilience, of the bond we’ve forged through fire and pain.

“It’s beautiful,” I say softly, my fingers brushing against the design.

Dex leans in, brushing a kiss against my temple. “Not as beautiful as you.”

I roll my eyes playfully, but my heart melts at the warmth in his voice.

The artist gets to work, starting with Dex. I watch as the two hearts take shape on his forearm, each line bold and deliberate. He doesn’t flinch, just sits there with calm resolve, his eyes occasionally meeting mine. There’s something mesmerizing about seeing him like this—strong, steady, and completely at ease.

When it’s my turn, I take a deep breath and lay my arm on the padded chair. The buzz of the needle sends a jolt through me at first, but then it settles into a dull, rhythmic sensation. As the artist works, Dex stays by my side, his hand resting on my knee, his thumb drawing soothing circles.

“You’re doing amazing,” he murmurs, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’m proud of you.”

I glance up at him, and the tenderness in his gaze nearly undoes me. I focus on the sensation, the sting of the needle, the permanence of the ink. This is more than a tattoo—it’s a declaration, a piece of him and me etched into my skin forever.

When the artist finishes, I lift my hand and study the design on my wrist. The two black hearts are simple, but their meaning runs deep. They’re us—two souls intertwined, connected, unbreakable.

Dex grins, his expression a mix of pride and excitement. “Looks amazing,” he says.

“You too,” I reply, admiring his matching tattoo. The symbolism isn’t lost on me. We’re tied together now, not just in spirit, but in something tangible.

He stands and pulls me into his arms, holding me close, his lips finding mine in a kiss that’s full of promise and passion. In this moment, everything feels right.

The weight of the past lifts, and all I see is our future, as bright and unbreakable as the bond we’ve just sealed in ink and love.

TWO WEEKS LATER

The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting the world in hues of amber and violet. My heart races as Dex’s deep, commanding voice cuts through the stillness.

“Run, baby,” he growls, his tone dripping with challenge. “You have five minutes.”

My breath catches in my throat. His green-hazel eyes gleam with a primal intensity, but there’s something else there—love, trust, the unshakable connection that binds us. I hesitate for a moment, searching his face for the playful reassurance that always lingers beneath his edge. It’s there, subtle, but it’s enough.

A slow, deliberate smirk tugs at his lips. “What are you waiting for? Go .”

That single word jolts me into motion. I bolt, the cool evening air whipping against my skin as I sprint into the forest. My pulse pounds in my ears, a mix of adrenaline and excitement coursing through me. This isn’t fear—it’s exhilaration, the wild kind that only Dex brings out in me.

This time is a little different, though. This time there are little markers Dex has left for me along the way. He wants me to solve some kind of puzzle.

The trees blur as I weave through them, my breaths coming in quick gasps. And then I see it— the first marker . A black leather glove, one of his favorites, hanging from a low branch. It’s unmistakable, and I pause for just a moment, my fingers brushing over it.

A memory flashes through my mind—Dex slipping his gloves on before one of his brutal rides, his hands steady as he guided me onto his bike for the first time. “Trust me,” he’d said, and I had. Completely.

I keep running, my heart hammering with anticipation. The second marker appears moments later—a small jar of sand, tied with a strip of leather. I stop again, my chest heaving, and pick it up. The grains sparkle faintly in the fading light, a reminder of the time we sat on the beach, his arm around my shoulders, as he promised me a world bigger than my fears.

Tears prick my eyes, but I don’t linger. I press on, the forest growing darker, the air heavier with every step. I stumble across a third marker—a small, carved heart. His initials are etched into the wood, alongside mine. My thumb traces over the grooves, and I can almost hear his voice, low and steady, telling me I’m his.

The final marker stops me in my tracks. Two black hearts tattooed onto a piece of canvas, a perfect replica of the ones on our arms. The sight steals my breath. He’s thought of everything, every piece of us, every moment that’s brought us here.

“Dex,” I whisper, my voice trembling, though I’m not sure if it’s from the exertion or the overwhelming love swelling in my chest.

I don’t have to go much farther. The clearing opens before me, bathed in the soft glow of string lights strung between the trees. My breath catches as I see him—Dex, kneeling on the forest floor, his broad shoulders straight, his gaze locked on me. In his hand, a simple, stunning ring sparkles in the light.

I take a shaky step forward, then another, until I’m standing before him, my chest rising and falling with emotion.

“I don’t need to say much,” he begins, his voice raw, the gravel in it only making it more real. “You know what we’ve been through. You know what you mean to me.”

Tears spill down my cheeks as he continues, his gaze unwavering. “Margaux, I’m not perfect. I’ve got my demons. But I’ll fight them every day to be the man you deserve. I promise to stand by you, to protect you, to love you in every way I can for the rest of my life.”

My legs give out, and I sink to my knees before him. “Dex…”

“Will you marry me?” he asks, his voice trembling, just slightly, for the first time.

I don’t hesitate. “Yes,” I say, the word spilling from my lips with everything I have.

His grin is blinding, his hands steady as he slides the ring onto my finger. The cool metal feels like a promise, a tangible symbol of everything we’ve built, everything we are.

Dex pulls me into his arms, his lips finding mine in a kiss that feels like stepping into the warmth of the sun.

The world around us fades, leaving only the two of us, tangled together in the heart of the forest, forever.

And for the first time in my entire life, I know I truly belong.