Epilogue
The hardwood groans beneath my boots as I stalk the hallway, slow and deliberate. It’s the kind of gain that used to make grown men piss themselves.
“Papa!”
The war cry comes with glitter.
Literal fucking glitter.
A pink, sparkling hurricane barrels toward me, her tutu flaring like a battle flag, her tiara hanging haphazardly on her head. She’s five and fucking fierce. A feral little princess in combat boots and tulle because softness in this house comes laced with sharp edges.
“Calypso,” I grunt just as she hurls herself at my leg.
Forty pounds of chaos, and she brings me to a dead stop like a tank. She stares up with a gap-toothed grin and lethal blue eyes that are identical to my own.
Fucking weaponized cuteness, as Misha calls her.
“You said I could do your nails today.”
I blink. “I said that?”
“Mmhmm. You said it last week,” she replies. “Which means today.”
The bottle of pink glittery polish with skulls on the cap is already in her hand. It’s non-toxic, of course, because Cressida made sure of it. Calypso holds it up like a threat, her chin tipped in challenge and her tiny jaw squared like she’s ready to throw hands if I even think about backing out.
From behind her comes a giggle and the soft thudding footsteps of a much smaller pair of feet.
Nikolai appears in the doorway, blond-haired and wide-eyed, already glaring at the world like it owes him something. He’s three and already my miniature mirror with his stoic and grumpy personality.
He climbs onto the couch with a grunt, like he’s storming a fortress. “Gon’ make you sparky ‘gain.”
“Traitor,” I mutter.
He shrugs, grabbing his wooden knife and stabbing the pillow next to him with focused precision.
That’s my boy.
Calypso narrows her eyes. “Sit down, Pakhan.”
I can’t help the laugh that rips from my throat as I sit. “You are the boss, Soroka.”
My little magpie has me wrapped around every glitter-dipped finger.
She climbs into my lap as if she owns an empire, because she does, and starts painting my nails with militant focus. She hums under her breath, soft and content, as her brush runs over my nails.
I’d kill to protect that sound.
I already have and would again.
A shadow moves in the doorway. Cressida leans against the frame, her arms crossed and one brow arched. She’s barefoot, her glittery black painted toes on display, wearing one of my shirts and a pair of leggings. She’s fucking dangerous. Her mouth curves, equal parts amused and predatory.
“He let you use the pink glitter again?”
Calypso nods. “Papa said I’m the boss.”
Cressida’s smirk deepens. “Did he now?”
“She is vicious,” I say dryly. “You created a glitter warlord.”
My little fox crosses the room and kneels beside me. Her fingers wrap around my wrist, inspecting the half-finished sparkly mess with faux seriousness. Then she looks up with glowing eyes.
“You love it.”
I do.
More than fucking anything.
I pull Cressida close and kiss her in the way that shows her what she means to me. It is slow and reverent, a vow sealed in silence. Her lips curve against mine before she pulls away.
“Eww,” Calypso groans. “Can you not? I’m working.”
Cressida snorts and rises, scooping Calypso into her arms. “Time for bed, glitter gremlin.”
“But I’m not—”
She gives her a look, and Calypso sighs with a pout. “Fine.”
Nikolai doesn’t argue. He never does. He just trails after them like a little general, scowling and determined to keep them in line.
I watch them disappear, and my heart, this mangled fucking thing in my chest, clenches like it’s still trying to learn to beat around joy.
We weren’t supposed to have this. I used to think love made you weak. That it stripped you down and carved out your edges. But I have come to realize that love doesn’t make me weak, it makes me lethal.
Because I’ll destroy anything that threatens what I love.
We survived the fire Giselda brought to our door.
We bled, we broke, and we built this from the wreckage.
My empire still stands and now, it’s ruled by a girl in a tutu with glitter in her hair.
Climbing to my feet, I follow behind them and dive into the routine we’ve established once Nik was born. Bath then bed then story time with papa.
Once the story is finished and my kids’ eyes are heavy, I kiss them both on the foreheads and whisper the words that come easier now.
“I love you.”
“Love you, Papa,” Cal whispers.
“Wuv you,” Nik replies sleepily.
Cressida goes one way, and I go the other as we finish out our nightly duties. I wait until the house goes quiet. I wait until the stars are high and the lights are low.
Then I stalk down the hall, slow and silent, toward where my wife waits.
The door is cracked but the room is dark, lit only by the soft gold glow of the bedside lamp. The air is lit with something electric.
Cressida stands at the window in nothing but my shirt this time, her legs bare, her hair down in a wild tumble and begging to be pulled.
“I just checked on them. They’re fully asleep,” she says softly.
“Good.”
She turns, watching me with eyes that scream her excitement.
I move and she bolts through the bathroom connected to our room and out the door that connects to the hallway.
We both know it’s a game, a chase, a promise that I’ll always find her.
My growl echoes down the hall as she runs, her feet slapping the hardwood. She’s fast, but I’m always going to be faster.
I catch her halfway down the stairs, one arm wrapped around her waist, and drag her against my chest. “Caught you.”
She shivers. “Took you long enough.”
Lifting her, she wraps around me like she was made for it because she absolutely fucking was.
We don’t make it to the bedroom. I pin her to the wall at the base of the stairs, and my mouth finds her throat. Her fingers claw at my shirt, her thighs tightening around my waist.
This woman. My wife. My fucking queen. The only one who’s ever known how to love the monster and survive the fallout.
I worship her like the storm she is.
After we make it to the bedroom for another round, we lie tangled in the quiet, her head on my chest and her fingers tracing lazy circles across my ribs.
“You’re soft,” she teases.
“Only for you.”
“And Caly and Niko.”
“Do not spread it around. I have got a reputation, yes?”
She kisses me again, slow and sweet, then leaves me staring up at the ceiling as warmth buzzes through my limbs.
Once, I was the Bogeyman. The one whispered about in dark alleys and blood-slick dreams.
Now, I am hers.
The father of her feral daughter and her stoic son.
I am the bedtime monster that tells stories and paints his nails glittery pink when his little princess demands it.
Tomorrow, Calypso will order me to pay tribute again, and I will.
Nikolai will challenge my throne with his wooden knife Misha carved for him, and I will let him win with a roar that scares the rugs.
Cressida will watch us with eyes that see beyond the monster under my skin and chooses to love him anyway.
Misha will grumble but love my family as his own, while Sunniva will smuggle contraband sugar in.
And Lucetta . . . she will not take her eyes from them, so they do not have to suffer the scars that she has had to endure.
The city will test my fences, and I will be there with a knife and a smile.
And if anything ever tries to take the crown from my wife, the glitter from my girl, or the knife from my boy, I will show them what love looks like when it has teeth.
Always, I will burn the world to ash for them.
Always, I will light the match with glitter-painted nails and a smile.
Because the Bogeyman no longer just thrives in the dark.
He’s found something worth protecting in the light.