Epilogue Larissa
Epilogue
LARISSA
HIS SCENT SURROUNDS me as I straddle his lap on the bench, securing my ankles around his back.
Pride shining clear in his eyes as he palms my hips in an effort to hold me steady.
The look that had me following him years ago reflecting in his sweetheart stare.
His long lashes fluttering as I subtly grind on his rapidly hardening cock.
A warning flashing in his eyes as I take the inch separating our lips, brushing mine against his to spur him on.
“Hold still, baby,” he utters, unable to hide the heat in his voice as the cold paper hits my back.
“I am—I will,” I counter, excitement racing through me.
“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, eyes roaming my profile before mouthing “mine.”
I nod as he whispers his fingers over the top of the scar on my bare back, unsure if he is aware of the slight pain in his expression.
His touch an effort to soothe a trauma that’s long since healed inside me, but still continues to haunt him, until that look again returns.
The very same that changed the entirety of my life’s path.
My journey to reach him long, transformative, and grueling.
His more so than mine. His scars not as visible, but there.
Scars I do my best to soothe when given the chance.
It’s in the reflection of that look today that I declare myself his, irrevocably, come what may.
Hoping I’m conveying as much in my return stare.
It’s the most intimate I’ve ever been with a man in my life, with anyone—period.
This sense of belonging so completely, stoking the need only to get closer—so much closer, even as our hearts beat in sync inches away.
Poised and propped for the commitment, to solidify what’s already written in my heart, he prompts me once more. “Ready?’
I nod, all too eager as the buzz of the machine sounds just before the needles prick my skin. The instant it touches me, I revel in the feel of it, of what it means, though the ink is just a formality at this point.
These last two years haven’t been without trials, but we’ve endured them for the promise of this day, and more like them.
Hearts and minds in the same place, we’ve suffered some of the hardest battles of our lives recently, alongside others who wear the same mark.
It was never a question of whether I would bear the mark, only of when.
A hesitance on Tyler’s part to make me as much of a target as he is, as the rest of my found family has been for so long.
My former heroes now my own brothers in arms. Today so significant, meaningful in so many ways.
“Fuck, baby, I’m already so hard,” he murmurs, cupping my chin in the crook of his hand, the way he always does when he’s feeling things the most intensely.
As much as he’s self-aware of many of his habits, I’m not sure he knows about this one.
As he frames my face, I know he’s taking a mental picture, one I hope he remembers more than most. My own memory soaking in just as much now as I savor every second of this intimacy, the permanency.
And though the mark will fade with time and my body will inevitably change, this vow I make to him now isn’t just for the length of time I have left, whatever that may be.
This vow is a measure that can only be explained with a single word—devotion.
Being loved by him, being his sole focus, and the warmth and love he showers me with every day keep me in a state of euphoria I didn’t think was possible.
The abundance of love I feel and have felt keeping all my fears at bay as our foundation continues to cement beneath us.
Our beautiful babies keep us tethered as we share in them.
Most nights, marveling at the changes in them as they sleep.
Sharing smiles even when they’re at their worst, knowing that out of the carnage of our war we bore something incredible.
Something so beautiful, leading to the bond we share now.
A family that began long ago, with our individual paths grooming and shaping us into who we needed to be for one another when we collided.
As I watch him back, my love and hunger only grow as he gently strokes my skin the way he always does.
Caressing me while murmuring words of devotion.
The featherlight stroke of his thumb along my jaw eliciting tears as he watches them glide down freely, knowing they stem from the love we continue to make.
“I love you,” I whisper, too filled with emotion to say anything more as the wings he’s given me are etched on my back.
“I more than love you,” he answers, as he has the last few times. “Have I ever told you Alexander’s last wishes before he died?”
I gently shake my head, too entranced to break the most intense eye-lock of my life.
“He asked for the physicians who couldn’t cure him to carry his casket, to show people that all the money in the world couldn’t save him, and that no treasure should glitter on his grave, because he understood riches are meaningless in the end.
He wanted those who knew him, really knew him, to tell the truth about his flaws and asked that they forgive him for his shortcomings, for the things he did to save others.
That when people tell his story, they start with the way he laughed in the dark.
That they not sanctify him, but love him enough to remember him honestly—as a messy, loud, flawed human,” he utters, emotion filling his voice.
“That’s where I found you,” I murmur, “in the dark.”
“Thank God, and I do, Larissa. I thank Him, baby, for you, every single day.”
“Me too,” I utter as we stare at one another wordlessly, our connection alone enough to hold us as I endure every buzz of the needle.
Through it, he holds me steady, never wavering—which is what he’s done since we truly began in Barga.
Any weakness we encounter, we share, using it to strengthen one another.
Embracing my role as donna with him by my side has made things far more bearable and less grueling.
He claims often that I do the same for him as he remains steadfast in guarding Preston, as well as the rest of the world, with the secrets he holds.
The man sitting before me is just as powerful as, if not more so than, those he protects.
More so than any king or emperor has been.
His powers tightly concealed, under unbelievable control.
A control unlike any other I’ve ever known.
But even with so much capability at his fingertips and the ability to crush whomever he chooses with an iron fist, he carries himself and that power with astounding grace.
As I gaze on at my hero—and the love of my life—my thirst for him only grows.
My need for him starting to blind me as he stares back at me, the familiar fire roaring in his eyes when the gun finally stops.
Tyler kisses each of my hands as tears stream down my cheeks, both of us grinning like lovesick fools while ignoring the aftercare instructions as we stare at one another in an all too obvious haze.
It’s when I shift on his lap that his eyes spark, and I read his intent before he voices it.
“Jimmy,” he cuts him off mid-sentence, “please, man, give us the room, the fucking shop. I’ll lock up.”
“No problem, brother. Congrats, Larissa,” Jimmy chuckles as he leaves us, and I thank him genuinely, though my eyes never leave Tyler’s.
The second the door closes, our tongues are tangling as he pushes me back on the bench enough to free his rock-hard cock, and I jerk my panties down, thankful I wore a skirt.
By the time the bell rings to alert us to the close of the shop door, Tyler’s palming my mouth and impaling me from beneath.
My cry barely muffled as I instantly start to come apart.
So turned on that it takes me three thrusts of his hips to tighten around him.
“Jesus, baby,” he utters, the lust in his voice sending me into a frenzy as I begin to furiously meet his bucking hips while he massages my clit.
Finishing a second time and grinding into him to spur his release.
It’s then he snaps, gripping my hair and biting my neck, thrusting wildly as I writhe in his lap.
Within a few more, our mouths are crashing together as we both erupt into movement, chasing our release and fucking wildly until we both start to come undone.
Euphoria racing through me, he slams my hips down and grinds me back and forth, feeding me the groan on his tongue as he empties inside me.
“Forever won’t be long enough,” I whisper as he peppers kisses along my face. Both of us glistening with a light sheen of perspiration, looking freshly fucked. When we come out of our daze, we share a sheepish chuckle.
“That’s a new one, baby. Chasing a shop owner out?” He shakes his head as we begin cleaning up.
The two of us flushed and laughing at our own absurdity, we make quick work of cleaning and dressing, thankful for the nearby sink and paper towels.
After slipping my panties back on and adjusting my skirt into place, my breath hitches as I catch sight of my newly inked wings in the mirror. Stepping up for a floor-length view, I angle myself, craning my neck to get a closer look as Tyler approaches.
“How does it look, Marine?”
“Fucking perfect, little mobster,” he whispers, voice full of emotion as he grips my hand and I catch his eyes in the mirror—that look overpowering as I watch his reflection slowly start to sink to one knee.
Gasping a second time when I turn to see him kneeling before me.
Emotion twisting his features as he speaks.
“Do you know what Alexander took with him when he died?”
I shake my head again, too stunned to speak.
“Eros—intimate love,” he murmurs, eyes watering.
“Mania—crazy love. Philia—affectionate love. Agape—unconditional love,” he whispers hoarsely as my eyes spill.
“And although I could never diminish the love I was gifted before you, because of the way you love me, I don’t have to.
You made it possible for me to have every one of these types of loves again by accepting me for the loud, obnoxious, and greatly flawed human I am—by laughing with me in the dark, where you found me,” he rasps, tears spilling over.
“Megáli agápi—my great love,” he continues.
“And so, great love, if I promise to give you the same for as long as my heart beats, and after—will you marry me, Larissa DiCicco?”
His purposeful use of my last name frees me, as it always does.
His acceptance of my blood ties and of everything that comes with me, and his unconditional love for me despite all of it.
And maybe because of it, too. The last name no longer feels as damning, as we spend our lives now changing its meaning.
Especially as he asks for my life to permanently intermingle with his.
I nod eagerly, far too emotional for words. Understanding it—understanding me—he slips the sparkling diamond onto my finger before standing and taking my mouth to seal our fate.
“It’s so beautiful,” I say, admiring the cut when he pulls away, and palming his jaw before kissing him a second time, then pulling back, utterly dazed. “Name the day.”
“That’s on you, baby, but I’m motivated because while the tattoo is for your protection”—he lifts the ring on my finger—“this is for everyone else’s,” he chuckles. “But I’m happy as long as it happens.”
“Trust me, it’s happening sooner than later. You just have to tell me what kind of wedding you want.”
“One where I get to marry you,” he states firmly. “You know, she wanted you to have the big ceremony. It was her gift to you, her blessing for us.”
Loving that he’s not afraid to talk to me about her, and knowing every bit of their history, both together and apart, I give him my sincere truth. “Then for her and us, I’ll make it a fucking spectacle.”
“I love that you love her.”
“I do, Tyler. How could I not? She helped shape you into the man you are, and you know I admire her greatly.”
“I know you mean it. It means a lot to me, but, baby, our wedding is about us.”
“Oh, trust me, it will be because Tula.” I widen my eyes, and we both laugh. “Shit, and Taylor.” We both wince.
“Think Tobias will get butthurt if I ask Daniello to be best man?”
“Aren’t they the same person?” I ask, the two of them so similar it’s ridiculous.
“Think people will be able to tell them apart?” he jokes.
“This is going to be an Italian shit show,” I prompt as we turn the lights out and lock up the shop as promised.
“I don’t care, as long as I get to call you my wife,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling as we clasp hands outside the front door. “I know that might not have seemed romantic—”
“It was perfect,” I say, lifting my ring. “Don’t you dare second-guess it.”
“Well, we can do anything you want now.”
“Dealer’s choice?” I remind him of the day we christened every single room of our new build on his acres, and he winks.
“Exactly.”
“Let’s go home to our babies.”
He lifts a brow. “To that boring life of apples?”
Jerking him to me, I shut him up with my kiss, both of us knowing nothing would top off this night better than sharing a pillow with the spoils of our war.
It’s on the drive home—as I stare at the man I’ve been forging fire with since we solidified ourselves—that I find myself grateful for that girl with the foolish heart who followed him all those years ago.
Who dreamt of a life she’s now living, with a man she fights alongside now.
A man who strengthens her, challenges her, supports her, and keeps her fearless.
A man who slow-dances with her in the dark, beneath a blanket of stars.
Who gifted her the flesh-on-flesh life she demanded after seeing them with him for the first time.
As if reading my thoughts, he turns to me, eyes alight with love, no trace of that war to be found now as he kisses my newly ringed finger. It’s as I gaze on at him that I bask in how far we’ve come.
Though naming our children the way I did might have been a reminder of the pain I suffered during the hardest part of our battle, in hindsight, those names only become more meaningful.
Because though they were conceived during a war between their parents, that war ended in a blissful surrender by both.
Their names Tyler now considers proof of victory of the greatest war of his life.
A battle he fought to end his conflict against the life he idealized, but ultimately let go of to embrace the life we’ve been living blissfully for two years—which is anything but a boring life of apples.