Epilogue
MAREN
T he steady rhythm of the knife against the whetstone fills our kitchen with a sound that's become as familiar to me as Riggs' heartbeat. I drag the blade in a perfect arc, watching the metal catch the afternoon light streaming through our windows.
Our house isn't much. Just a small two-bedroom on the outskirts of town with peeling paint and creaky floorboards. But it's ours. The mailbox at the end of the driveway says RHODES in black letters. Not that we get much mail.
I test the knife's edge against my thumb, satisfied when it draws a perfect line of blood. Sharp enough.
The screen door slams, and Riggs appears with his arms full of grocery bags. His dirty blond hair is longer now, falling into his eyes. I like it this way—it makes him look a little dangerous, a little less like the golden boy he pretended to be for so long.
“Got everything?” I ask, setting the knife down on the cutting board.
“Everything on the list.” He sets the bags on the counter and starts unloading them. “It was hell to try and find the wine. I can’t even pronounce the fucking name Maren. And those weird chocolate things you like.”
I smile, watching him move around our kitchen with the same grace he once showed on the ice. He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I wipe my bloody thumb on my jeans. “My uncle's coming for dinner tonight.”
Riggs freezes for a half-second, barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. “Hmm.”
The little hesitation makes me laugh. “Still scared of him?”
“I'm not scared,” he says, continuing to unpack the groceries. “Just…respectfully cautious.”
“That's natural.” I push away from the counter and move behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. “You don't get where he is in the Del Mar Family without being one scary-ass fucker.”
Riggs turns in my arms, his hands settling on my hips. “Is this a social visit or business?”
“Both, probably.” I shrug. “He wants to see the place. And talk about that thing.”
His eyes darken slightly. “The Miller thing?”
I nod. Professor Miller had been a loose end we couldn't leave dangling when we left St. James. The way he'd looked at me in class was one thing, but when he started asking questions about my connection to the Del Mar Family…well, some questions are better left unasked.
“Matteo thinks we handled it well,” I say, “but he wants to be sure nothing comes back on the family.”
Riggs traces a finger along my jawline. “Nothing will. We were careful.”
“We always are.” I rise up on my toes to kiss him, but he pulls back slightly.
“You know this isn't just about Miller,” he says, his voice low. “Your uncle's testing us.”
I roll my eyes.
It reminds me of the night after we handled Miller and Matteo came by this house he had helped two college kids with no credit and no jobs get.
“I've got a place for someone like you,” he'd told Riggs, his voice casual but his eyes assessing. “If you're done playing games with sticks and pucks.”
Riggs had just looked at him, then at me, before nodding once.
I step away from Riggs now, picking up the knife again. The weight of it feels good in my hand—familiar, like an extension of myself.
“You know,” I say, testing the edge again, “working for the family wouldn't be so bad.”
“You sure that's what you want?” he asks, his eyes searching mine. “Once we're in with your family, there's no getting out. No normal life.”
“Like we were ever going to have a normal life, Riggs. Like we ever wanted one.”
He leans against the counter, watching me with those eyes that see too much. “Remember when I asked you what you wanted, that day in your kitchen? You said you wanted quiet.”
“This is my version of quiet,” I tell him, gesturing around our little house with the knife. “Away from all the trauma my former life gave me. No more pretending to be something I'm not. I’m still a monster, baby.”
He backs me against the counter, caging me with his arms on either side. “No, you're a nightmare.” His lips brush against my ear. “My fucking nightmare.”
I smile against his neck. “You say the sweetest things.”
“Only to you.” His hands slide under my shirt, finding skin. “Only ever to you.”
I lean into him, this man who once watched me kill and didn’t flinch—who bled for me, killed for me, loved me without apology.
Let them whisper. Let them fear me.
I hope they do. Because I’m not hiding anymore.
I was never made to be saved. I was made to be his.
And if they’re still stupid enough to call out my name in the dark? I hope they choke on it.
He’s not afraid of the monster in me. He helped me sharpen her teeth.
We’re not ghosts. We’re not legends.
We’re the warning they should’ve listened to.