Epilogue
ROWAN
Two months later…
Iris has turned me into a princess, and I’m still not entirely convinced this isn’t some elaborate form of revenge for not visiting her weekly as she previously demanded.
Especially as she directs my mom in cinching the corset of my dress, tighter and tighter, the structured boning forcing my shoulders back and my spine straighter than I’ve stood in my entire life.
“Perfect.” She claps her hands like she’s just solved a problem the rest of us didn’t know existed, then spins me around so I’m positioned next to Mom.
The skirts of my gown fan out around me in a soft rush of fabric—layers of deep midnight blue that catch the light with hints of silver threading, like stars stitched into the night sky.
“I’ve never been more proud. The Prescott women are going to dazzle like the finest pickle juice tonight. ”
My nose wrinkles. “Super.”
“What your grandmother means to say is that you look beautiful,” Mom says, her smile soft and bright in a way that tugs at something deep in my chest.
“We’re all beautiful,” I correct, glancing at her reflection beside mine.
And we are.
Mom’s wearing a gown of rich forest green that drapes over her like it was made for her and only her, the fabric soft and fluid where mine is structured.
The sleeves fall just off her shoulders, her auburn hair pinned back in a way that leaves a few loose strands framing her face.
She looks effortless. Like she belongs in a room like this without having to fight for it.
There’s still a part of me that has to pause and take her in like this—alive, here, and standing beside me as if we didn’t temporarily lose this closeness.
“Now, can we be done with dress up?” I ask Iris, taking in her all-black attire.
A flowing gown that falls over her slightly rounded frame before flaring softly at the bottom, the fabric catching the light with a subtle sheen.
The neckline is dramatic without being impractical, and the silver jewelry at her throat and wrists glints with every movement like she’s daring anyone to look away.
She gasps as though I’ve personally offended our ancestors. “Done? We haven’t even finished your hair.”
“My hair is fine.”
“It’s not fine,” she argues, already reaching for another pin. “It’s acceptable at best, and tonight is not a night for settling. Tonight is history.”
“That’s a lot of pressure for a hairstyle,” I mutter.
Mom laughs softly under her breath, and the sound alone is enough to make me give in just a little, even as Iris continues her assault on my appearance.
Iris’s quarters, in the basement of NightShade, have been turned into a dressing room.
One that more resembles chaos than beauty.
Racks of gowns line the walls, borrowed and traded and somehow accumulated over the last week as guests poured into the manor from every corner of the supernatural world.
Shoes are scattered in mismatched pairs, jewelry glints from every available surface, and somewhere behind me, I’m fairly certain someone is arguing over a missing glove like it’s a matter of life and death.
“Thirty years,” Iris says suddenly, her voice shifting just enough to catch my attention.
I meet her gaze in the mirror.
“Thirty years since the last ball held here,” she continues, adjusting the final pin in my hair with more care than it probably needs at this point. “The night your mother knew she had to run away with you before anyone found out you existed.”
We all go still until Mom’s hand finds mine, squeezing gently.
“I didn’t know then what that night would cost me,” Iris adds, quieter now, though no less steady. “But I know what it gave me.”
I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat.
Her lips curve, something softer than her usual sharpness breaking through. “Both of you.”
That I don’t have a sarcastic comeback for.
So instead, I lean into her just slightly, careful not to wrinkle the masterpiece she’s created, and bump my shoulder against her. “Don’t get sentimental on me now, Grandma. You’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, straightening immediately. “I’ll insult someone within the hour.” But then she pinches my arm. “Also, I told you to stop calling me that. It makes me sound old.”
She shudders as if she’s not pushing seventy…
“My apologies, Mimi,” I say with a grin. “I’ll get it right next time.”
“You better, or I’m going to leave rotten tuna in your house. Somewhere you’ll never find it, until you’re forced to tear out all the drywall.”
Mom laughs again, and this time it feels lighter.
Though I’m mildly concerned with that threat…
“Alright,” Iris declares, stepping back to admire her work, her gaze sweeping over both of us like she’s committing the image to memory. “You’re done. Try not to ruin it before we make it upstairs.”
I glance down at the fitted bodice, the carefully layered skirts, the way even my heels feel like too much. “No promises.”
“Of course not.”
With that, we’re finally released from Iris’s command, and the moment we step out of the basement, the energy shifts.
It’s subtle at first—the faint hum of music drifting down the hall, the low murmur of voices layered over it—but with every step, it grows. Alive in a way that NightShade hasn’t felt since I arrived.
By the time we reach the lobby, the house is glowing. Literally.
Lights spill from every space, golden and soft, reflecting off polished floors and dark wood that hums with its own quiet magic.
The air carries the scent of spiced wine and something sweet I can’t quite place, while laughter rises and falls in waves that feel almost unfamiliar after everything we’ve been through.
Wolves. Witches. Vampires.
All in one place.
Not circling each other like threats.
Just existing. Talking, dancing, and living their best lives.
For a second, I hesitate at the edge of the lobby, taking it all in.
This is what it was supposed to be.
A place where everything meets and nothing has to break to make it happen.
“Don’t just stand there,” Iris says, brushing past me with a dramatic flick of her hand. “You’ll block the view, and I didn’t put this much effort into tonight for that.”
I snort softly, but my attention has already shifted.
Because I feel him, well before I see him.
The bond hums low and steady, something warm and familiar pulling my gaze across the room until it lands on Cade.
For a strong second, I forget how to breathe.
He’s standing near the far side of the lobby, half-turned toward Bram, who’s saying something that looks just sarcastic enough to be entertaining. But Cade isn’t really listening.
He’s looking at me as intently as I am at him.
I’ve seen him in a lot of ways—covered in dirt, blood, exhaustion, standing between me and danger like he was built for it—but this?
This is something else entirely.
He’s dressed in a black suit. One that I would bet money is magically tailored to fit his perfect form.
A fitted jacket pulls across his shoulders in a way that makes it very clear just how much strength lives beneath it, the crisp lines of the fabric doing absolutely nothing to soften the fact that he’s still very much Cade, the alpha of Solara.
A shiver races down my spine, straight to my core.
His shirt is dark charcoal, the collar open just enough to show a hint of skin at his throat, like whoever dressed him knew exactly how far to go before it stopped being respectable and started being dangerous.
The sleeves of his jacket hug his arms, making me acutely aware of how often those arms have been wrapped around me, holding me together when everything else was falling apart.
His hair is still slightly unruly, like he either refused to let anyone touch it or they were too afraid to try—probably both—and it somehow makes the whole thing feel even more like him instead of something forced.
Like he didn’t dress up.
The world adjusted to him.
The music softens. The voices blur. The movement around us becomes nothing more than background noise to the steady pull of something that’s always been there, now stronger than ever.
His gaze drags over me slowly, the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly in a way that sends warmth rushing through me from the inside out.
There’s something in his expression—something quieter than hunger, deeper than pride—that makes my chest tighten.
As though he’s seeing me for the first time all over again, and likes what he finds.
No, more than that.
Salivates for it. For me.
“Well,” Bram mutters loudly enough to carry, glancing between us with poorly concealed amusement. “I think I’ve just been dismissed.”
“Correct,” Cade replies without looking away from me.
Bram huffs a laugh. “Rude.”
I catch the flicker of Liz approaching him from the side, her expression already edged with something that suggests she’s been watching longer than we’ve realized. Still, she saves the moment.
“Come on,” she says, hooking her arm through Bram’s. “Team RoCa needs a minute and that doesn’t include you.”
He chokes on his laugh almost as hard as Cade groans. “Team RoCa? Please, tell me more.”
“I will.” She tosses him a wink. “I’ve been told you should be supervised at all times, so you’re stuck with me.”
His grin only increases as he grabs her hand. “I’m mildly offended.”
“You’ll survive.”
“With you?” His tone cheekier than ever. “Maybe.”
Their voices fade as they move off together, leaving the space between Cade and me wide open.
I don’t remember deciding to cross it.
One second, I’m standing at the edge of the room, and the next I’m moving toward him, drawn by something that feels less like choice and more like inevitability.
He meets me halfway.
His hand finds my waist the second I’m close enough, anchoring me to him in a way that still feels new even though it shouldn’t. Like I’m rediscovering something I’ve always known.
“You clean up well,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that it stays between us.
“You say that like I don’t always.”