56. Evelyn
Evelyn
Dante’s breathing is slower now.
Deep. Even. Safe.
I lie beside him, my cheek pressed against his bare chest, counting the rise and fall like it means something.
It does.
Because for so long, I thought I’d never hear it again.
I thought the world would take him from me the way it takes everything good—through fire, through violence, through silence that stretches like a wound no one can close.
But he’s still here.
And more than that… he’s mine .
I don’t think I ever really believed in happy endings. Not the kind they write in books. Not the neat ones with soft bows and ring boxes and white picket fences. I believed in survival. In grit. In scars that don’t fade.
But Dante?
He made me believe in us .
And not because he’s perfect.
Because he’s not .
He’s ruined and feral and stitched together with rage—but under all that?
He’s the safest place I’ve ever been.
He’s home.
I shift slightly, brushing my fingers over the ink across his ribs. That tattoo—he said he got it for me, even if he didn’t know it at the time. A burning rose. Beautiful and deadly.
Just like him.
He doesn’t talk about what it did to him—what happened at the wedding. What it felt like to lose again. But I saw it in his eyes. That split second of devastation when he thought it could have been any of us, buried under the ash.
And he got us out safely. For me. For all of us.
And when he held me—when he didn’t let go—I think a part of me started to believe in peace.
Lucien and Astra…
God, I love them.
In their own way, they’re chaos, too. Lucien with his polished cruelty, Astra with her rage wrapped in silk. They shouldn’t work. They shouldn’t fit .
But they do .
They always have .
I’ve seen Lucien tear men apart with a smile—and I’ve seen him get on his knees in front of Astra like she’s something sacred. That man worships her. And she? She lets him. She lets him love her in the only way he knows how—brutal, relentless, raw.
They found their rhythm.
And now? They’re healing.
Finally.
Then there’s Harmony.
Sweet, silent, burning Harmony.
I still remember the day she walked into our first class together. Eyes down. Shoulders sharp with tension. Like she didn’t expect to survive the week.
But she did.
And she didn’t just survive—she fought .
She became something new . Something terrifying and beautiful.
And then… there’s Reese .
I was afraid of him once. We all were.
But then I saw the way he looked at her.
Not like she was fragile. Not like she was ruined.
Like she was fire he couldn’t stop walking into.
He held her after the shooting. Cried over her in front of everyone. And when she woke up, he didn’t run. He stayed . He stayed through the guilt, through the aftermath, through the rebuilding.
I don’t know if either of them will ever want the kind of life most people dream of—but I think they found the only thing that matters.
Each other.
And Damien…
I close my eyes.
Breathe in the cool night air leaking through the open window.
He’s gone .
Really, truly gone.
I don’t have to look over my shoulder anymore.
Don’t have to worry about the sound of footsteps that don’t belong.
He won’t touch another girl. He won’t break another soul. He won’t hurt Harmony ever again.
He’s rotting in the ground, and I’m glad.
I am . No guilt. No shame. Just fucking relief .
Because the shadow that haunted all of us is finally gone .
And in its place?
There’s sunlight.
Th ere’s laughter.
There’s possibility .
I glance up at Dante, still asleep, still breathing for me.
I press my lips to his chest, right over the heart that almost stopped for mine.
Then I whisper it to the dark.
Something I never thought I’d say.
“I’m happy.”
And I mean it.
* * *
The morning light wraps around us like a velvet promise.
Soft. Warming. Infinite.
Dante’s hand is warm against my back, fingers moving in lazy circles while we lie tangled in sheets that still smell like cedar and him. Always him. Smoke and sin and something unspoken.
I shift slightly, resting my chin on his chest.
“You like what you see, princess?” He murmurs.
I smile. “Always.”
He opens his eyes, dark and slow, just for me. “I know it.”
His voice is low. Rough. Touched by sleep but layered with something else— need .
My lips brush his collarbone. “Yeah?”
His fingers tighten on my hip. “Yeah.”
And just like that, the air changes.
Not in a rush.
Not in a spark.
But a slow burn . A match lit in the hollow of the dark.
I lift myself to straddle him, the sheet falling away from my bare skin. His hands slide up my thighs, reverent and rough, like he’s touchi ng something sacred and feral all at once.
“You’re not afraid anymore,” he says, like a fact.
I shake my head. “I’m only afraid of losing this.”
His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. “You won’t.”
“You promise?”
His grip tightens. “I swear on every fucking breath I have left.”
I kiss him.
And this time?
It’s not desperate. It’s not a war.
It’s devotion .
His tongue sweeps against mine, claiming. Tasting. Memorizing.
I grind against him slowly, rolling my hips until he groans, low and guttural. His hands move to my ass, guiding me harder, deeper, until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
“I love how you ride me,” he says against my throat. “Like you fucking own me.”
“Maybe I do.”
“You’re goddamn right you do.”
I sink onto him in one long, slow motion—eyes locked, breath caught between us. He fills me in ways I can’t explain. Not just my body. All of me. The broken. The bruised. The burning.
His hands find my waist.
My fingers thread into his hair.
We move together like we’ve been doing this for lifetimes—like our bodies are haunted by each other’s touch.
It builds slowly.
No rush.
No fear.
Only fire.
Only us .
An d when I fall over the edge, it’s with his name on my lips and his hands anchoring me to this world.
To him .
He follows with a growl, burying himself deep, holding me like he’ll never let go.
And when it’s over—when the storm quiets and our skin is damp with sweat and love and everything in between—he kisses my shoulder, and whispers:
“You’re everything, princess.”
And in that moment?
I finally believe it.