Epilogue
LUCA
H ell is nothing like I expected.
No evil presence greets me, no dancing little minions with pitchforks to herd me into the fiery bowels of the underworld. No three-headed dog or river that needs to be crossed.
Instead, there’s glittering chandeliers and familiar cinnamon furniture. There’s an oval bar and heavy dark doors that lead to halls I remember walking a million times. But instead of being filled with masked strangers, Désirer is empty.
Silent.
Lonely.
Desperation crushes my chest at the thought of being stuck here for an eternity. Out of all the punishments I imagined waiting for me, this is the last thing I would have thought of .
I move to the bar, grab a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf, and pour a glass before pausing. Leaving the full glass on the bar top, I lift the bottle to my lips and gulp down the sweet amber liquid, welcoming the burn that settles in my stomach like an old friend.
A familiar scent—vanilla and roses—floats into the room on a warm breeze.
“Is the liquor sweeter down here, il mio mostro?”
The bottle slips from my grasp as I meet my piccola demone’s beautiful gaze. “You came.”
Her full lips curve upward as she makes her way toward me, hips swaying as she prowls slowly. Her body is perfect, not a scratch marring her skin, encased in a short, white, feathery nightdress. A pair of angel wings grace her back, held up by straps that encircle her shoulders—the silvery platinum ones she never wore at Désirer.
Misty reaches for the bottle that fell but never broke, reappearing on the bar top as though I’d never dropped it in the first place. She lifts it to her lips and grins, saying, “I told you I’d find you.”
“And I told you, this seems more like Heaven than Hell.” I keep my gaze trained on her as I walk out from behind the bar.
She takes a sip and shrugs before placing the bottle back on the smooth wooden surface. “Maybe the Devil owed me a favor. ”
“Or maybe this is part of my punishment, and you’re not really here.” My hand tingles as I reach for her, anticipating the flesh to dissolve or melt beneath my touch.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my palm finds her waist, warm and supple as I splay my fingers over the soft feathered material of her dress.
My lungs fill with a sharp gasp as her tinkling giggle fills the room. Her hands slide up my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake as she hooks them behind my neck. “I’m real, Luca. This is real.”
I willingly bend as she pulls me down for a kiss, meeting her lips with ardent fervor. I rip at her dress, the feathers flying everywhere, surrounding us in a soft, downy white cloud.
She’s real.
She’s real, and she’s here, and she’s mine.
She’s mine.
“Mine,” I growl against her lips in case the Devil himself is listening.
“Mine,” she repeats with the same warning as we dare Death to try and separate us. “Now fuck me, Luca.”
“Patience, piccola demone,” I whisper against her lips, even as I lift her petite body and sink into her wet heat. “We have time, and I plan on spending every second of it filling you so full that you’ll be dripping with me for the rest of eternity. ”
Her cries of satisfaction cut off her laughter, and later—when we find that the glass can indeed break and cause a type of pain that washes away instantly—cries of pleasured pain join in.
Our symphony of forever.
Hers and mine.
And Death’s.
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Turn the page for a look at where it all began in Burn With Me.