Epilogue
VAL
Six months later:
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
I smirk at the stoic, serious expression on Roman’s face. I mean, it’s a situation that does warrant serious and stoic. But I’m choosing to look at it as a celebration instead.
“Will you stop being so fucking serious about it?”
He scowls. “It is serious, Val. I mean it’s a surgical procedure.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but it’s a surgical procedure like getting stitched up after a fight is surgical procedure.” I shift on the medical gurney, tugging at the not-so-comfortable hospital gown. “Relax. I’ll be in and out in time for us to go get dinner.”
His brow knits. “Why don’t we skip the restaurant, and just eat at the hotel—”
“Roman.”
He exhales. “I’m just asking if you’re sure.”
“Well, we flew all the way here,” I shrug. “Can’t back out now.”
The nurse steps in and smiles. “Herr Bancroft?” She says in her heavy accent. “Ve are ready for you now.”
An orderly walk in, unlocks the wheels of my gurney, and starts to wheel me out. Roman swallows, grabbing my hand.
“I’ll be right there waiting for you,” he mutters, his eyes searching mine.
I wink. “I know you will, wreckage.”
“It…doesn’t look bad, actually.” Roman’s brows arch from across the table as I lift the short sleeves of my button up and peel away the bandage.
“Right?” I shrug. “I mean, it’s fresh, so it looks rough. But the swelling should go down in a few weeks.” I wink. “And then it's time for some new ink.”
Once upon a time, I was ashamed of the letters carved into my arm, so I covered it with chaos and anger, myriad lines crisscrossing to obscure the word and the scars.
As I got older, I began to accept that part of my body. I never forgot what was there, but I could live with it.
But then, a month or so ago, I saw an article about a doctor who was using a new experimental treatment—a mix of lasers, dermal abrasions, and mad-scientist surgical skills—to remove scars from the body. And when I saw that his offices were in Vienna, of all places?
Fuckin’ kismet.
So here we are.
My arm does hurt—more than I’ll ever admit to Roman.
But fuck, it feels amazing not to have that brand on my body anymore.
The skin won’t ever be smooth and “normal”.
It’ll look more like a shiny burn spot. But it’ll be without the scars and the chaotic ink, and I'll have room for the new ink I’m getting there.
Roman sighs, shaking his head at me. “You’re not seriously going to get it tattooed there, are you?”
I grin, reaching across the table of the Michelin restaurant to stab at the last of the delicious sachertorte cake we just shared for dessert.
“Sure am.”
He blushes.
“What?” I grin. “Ashamed to have your name tattooed on my body?”
He smiles widely. “Of course not. Just...maybe…a little honored, and not sure how to thank you?”
“I can definitely think of a way you can thank me back at the hotel. Or, you know…” I nod across the restaurant. “The bathroom in, say…one minute?”
Roman chuckles, shaking his head. “Let's skip the ultra-romantic bathroom fuck for now. I want to show you something.” He rolls his eyes as I grin widely. “Not my dick.” His face flames as he looks down. “I mean, not right this second.”
Back in New York, it’s somewhat difficult for us to go out, just us two. I mean, the man is the head of one of the most powerful Bratva families in the world. There are tons of guards who shadow us when we go out.
Here…well, there are still guards. But only two, and they’re very good at giving us space.
We leave the restaurant. When I notice our car isn't waiting for us, I turn to see Roman smiling.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
“You’re the boss, pakhan.”
He rolls his eyes and takes my hand, and we start to walk through the Old City toward the Danube. It’s dark out, all the lights along the river glittering and gleaming.
“My name on your arm,” he muses as we start to walk over the beautiful old Floridsdorfer Brücke bridge that crosses the river.
“Right?” I sigh. “Guess that means we're getting serious. I mean, more serious than the whole living together and sharing a bed every night thing.”
I’ve thanked Vaughn profusely for the lavish loft, but I’ve returned it to him. I’ve got another bed where I’d rather spend my nights now.
Roman is oddly quiet as we get to the middle of the bridge. He stops walking, tugging on my hand and turning me to face him.
“I was actually hoping we might make it even more serious,” he murmurs.
I’m not really sure what the fucker is doing when he drops to one knee in front of me.
“Are you okay?” I ask in alarm. “Was it dinner, or—”
“Val, can you shut the fuck up?” he sighs, pulling a box out of his jacket pocket. “I’m trying to propose to you.”
I go still, blinking rapidly, my mouth falling open as I stare at the silver band sitting in the velvet box he’s just opened.
“Wait…wait…” I drag my eyes up to his. “What the fuck is happening?”
Because this cannot be happening. There’s still a part of me inside, even after all these months of pure bliss with this motherfucker, that whispers in my ear in the dead of night sometimes that I don’t deserve any of this.
Happiness. Or love. Or him.
But as I look at the ring, and the man holding it, and the promise in his eyes, the last vestiges of that voice begin to fade and scatter, blowing away like dust.
“I’m asking you to marry me, Val,” he says quietly.
“Asking?”
His eyes gleam. Fuck, I love this new edge he’s got since becoming pakhan.
“Telling,” he growls. “You’re marrying me.”
“That’s more fucking like it,” I groan. I grab his hand, yanking him to his feet and wrapping my arms around him. His forehead presses to mine as we look into each other's eyes and breathe the same air.
“Hell yeah, wreckage,” I growl quietly. “I’ll marry you.”
His mouth slams to mine, and I moan as my fingers slide into his hair, crushing him harder to my mouth so I can taste every fucking bit of him—the man I love.
The man who will roar in defiance at the darkness with me.
The man who completes me.
The man who loves me back.
And all is fucking right with the world.
The Darkest Dance series continues with Bane’s story in Dance of Thorns.