Epilogue
Georgia
Two years later
It’s Valentine’s Day.
Two years later, Zane and I are still going strong. We keep choosing each other. Day after day.
My husband.
From time to time, I still like to turn around the title in my head when the world is quiet. It fits him.
I still work for Mick Flint, which surprises absolutely no one. What does surprise people is how easily my husband and my boss get along. Mick and Zane have settled into something that looks suspiciously like friendship, born somewhere between long flights, shared silences, and mutual respect.
Zane took over as Mick’s personal pilot last year, and since then, our lives have fallen into an easy rhythm that moves between cities and time zones.
My husband is more grounded in the sky than I’ve ever seen him anywhere else.
I’ll forever be grateful to my boss for giving my husband his wings back.
The biggest difference is that I don’t stay behind anymore.
If Zane flies, I go with him.
Mick pretends to grumble about it, but he never actually objects.
In fact, I think he likes having me close, likes knowing things are handled before they become problems across time zones.
It makes his life smoother. Predictable.
After working for him as long as I have, I know that’s what he values most.
We’re in New York now. The city feels different when you know it well enough to stop being impressed by it. The noise fades into the background and the skyline becomes familiar. Comforting, even.
It’s Valentine’s Day, but my husband is nowhere in sight.
He flew Mick to Boston early this morning for a last-minute meeting—last-minute being the phrase Mick used when he apologized to me in that careful way he reserves for people he genuinely doesn’t want to upset.
I’d been irritated, mostly on principle.
I’m his scheduling assistant. I’m supposed to know these things.
Mick swore Zane would be back in time for dinner.
“He made me promise,” Mick said, holding up a hand like an oath. “And I value my life.”
That made me laugh despite myself.
Zane and I consider Valentine’s Day our anniversary. Not the day we met. Not the day we married. But the day everything finally came into the open. The day we chose light.
I stand up from the bed and walk toward the window of our hotel suite, staring out at the shimmering city lights. I glance at my phone, face down on the table behind me.
Still no call. No text.
I let out a soft sigh. I’m bored and restless.
Maybe a stroll through the city will help.
I turn away from the window, throw on my coat, grab my bag, and head out before I can change my mind.
Outside, I hail a taxi and ask the driver to take me to the East Village. The moment I get out of the taxi, I know I made the right decision.
The street is busy—enough to keep me entertained. I wander without a plan, drifting from boutique to boutique, letting myself touch fabrics, flip through hangers, linger where I want.
But as I move around, I can’t help but feel the familiar sensation of being watched…followed.
I shake it off at first, but the feeling doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies, like the air before a storm or the pause before someone says your name.
I walk into one small shop by the road. It’s warm and crowded with mirrors and people.
Perfect.
I pick up a dress without thinking too hard about it. A dark fabric with simple lines and cuts.
“I’ll try it,” I tell the woman at the counter and head to the changing room.
The room is narrow and private, tucked down a short hallway. I step inside and pull the curtain closed and start to undress. I’m reaching for the zipper on my dress when I sense the presence of someone behind me.
I don’t turn right away. I don’t have to.
His scent reaches me first—clean, familiar, unmistakable. The kind of presence you don’t question because your body already knows the answer.
“You took your sweet time, little mouse,” Zane murmurs close to my ear.
I smile.
“So did you,” I say softly. “I was starting to think you liked watching more than being caught.”
A low sound leaves him, half amusement, half something darker. “I followed you for an hour.”
“I know.”
That gets his attention.
I turn then, finally, and he’s standing impossibly close, his dark eyes burning intently into mine.
“Show me the dress,” he says, his voice a deep growl.
I lift a brow. “You’re not even pretending this is innocent.”
“I stopped pretending with you a long time ago.”
I step back slowly, letting the curtain fall closed again.
I don’t rush. I don’t need to. The moment I slip my dress off my shoulders, his restraint snaps.
He grabs my waist and seals his mouth over mine in a hard, possessive kiss.
I moan into his mouth, my arms coming around his neck.
His hand roams my body, grabbing and caressing, sending streaks of pleasure zapping through me.
By the time we pull apart, I’m flushed and breathless and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
I don’t bother trying the dress on.
“I’ll take it,” I tell the woman at the counter a few minutes later. My cheeks are flushed and hair slightly out of place. She must have guessed what went on in the dressing room because she hands back Zane’s card with a knowing smile that makes me flush even deeper.
Zane’s hand rests at the small of my back as he walks me out of the boutique, steady and possessive and entirely unapologetic.
In the car, I ask him the question that’s been at the back of my mind since I noticed him following me. “What happened with the trip to Boston? Was Mick’s meeting canceled?”
“No,” he replies, his lips curving in a mysterious smile. “Everything today went exactly according to schedule.”
I blink at him in confusion.
What the hell does that mean?
Zane
Well, maybe not exactly to plan.
Georgia took longer to get restless than I expected. I’d counted on her impatience kicking in sooner, on that familiar itch that sends her searching for an adventure. But she’d taken her sweet time, and it’d cost me mine.
I adjusted on the fly. I always do.
By the time she finally left the hotel, I was already on the move.
Everything was in place…or close enough.
I tracked her the way I’ve learned to track her now, a small dot gliding through the city on my phone screen.
It’s easier these days. Legal. Consensual.
Still, it felt like an old habit wrapped in something safer.
I followed at a distance. Close enough to feel her presence. Far enough not to be seen.
When she stepped into that boutique, I told myself I’d wait. Told myself I’d give her a minute, but I didn’t last thirty seconds.
The dressing room is a distraction I don’t regret.
Now we’re back at the hotel. I hadn’t given her a clue about my plans on the way back, but she can be very observant, so I can only hope she’s still in the dark about my surprise.
I guide her down the long hallway that leads to our suite, keeping my hand on the small of her back. When we get to the door, I push it open and take a step back.
She gasps.
Rose petals spill across the floor, the bed, the low table near the windows. Soft light glows from lamps I repositioned myself, and the bed is filled with wrapped boxes of gifts I picked out and a handwritten card that reads “Happy Valentine’s, my little mouse.”
I watch it hit her all at once, the surprise, the emotion she tries and fails to hide.
“Zane…” she breathes.
I step inside with her, close the door, and kiss her before she can say anything else. Not a frantic or desperate kiss, but a slow, grounding reminder that she’s my light.
She melts into my arms, giving me all of her as always. I help her out of her coat, then everything else, piece by piece. She lets me, her hands staying on me the whole time, as if she needs the contact as much as I do.
“Time for a bath, little mouse,” I murmur against her lips.
She groans but doesn’t protest when I guide her toward the bathroom.
Steam curling through the air when I open the door engulfs us.
The bath is already drawn, the water still gently rippling.
I make a mental note to tip the staff more than usual.
They didn’t ask questions when I requested all of this to be ready on such short notice. They just made it happen.
Georgia steps closer to the tub, eyes soft, shoulders finally lowering like she’s letting the day go. I help her in first, then quickly take off my clothes and settle behind her. She snuggles into my arms immediately, a soft, content sigh leaving her lips.
“I love you, Zane,” she says quietly. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, little mouse.”
I grab the bottle from the edge of the tub and squeeze some of the contents onto my palm. I lather her back slowly. I let my hands roam her body, pausing occasionally to caress the mole on her bare shoulder or stroke her hardened nipples until she lets out a soft moan.
I’d intended to just bathe her and make gentle love to her in bed, but that sound is my undoing. Or maybe it’s the feel of her skin against mine. Silky and soft. And wet.
I cup both of her breasts in my palms, squeezing gently before trailing my fingers down her ribs and over her stomach. I slip my hand lower to her mound, squeezing her pussy in the palm of my hand until she gasps and presses further into me.
“Wet,” I murmur, caressing her delicate folds. “I knew you would be, for me. As wet as the sea. Taste yourself, little mouse.”
Before she can refuse, I slide my finger between her parted lips, letting her taste her own desire. She moans low in her throat.
I return my hand to her folds, slipping two fingers inside her this time. “Want me to stop, baby?” I whisper against her ear.
“Don’t stop, don’t ever stop,” she cries out, arching into my touch.
I move slowly in and out, shifting her body in the tub so that her legs spread wider apart, pushing in deeper, as far as my fingers can go.