Epilogue
Eva
Six months later
C astle Blacklake has never looked like this.
My fortress of stone and shadow has come to life, inside and out, as if it were spun from summer itself.
Garlands of wildflowers twine along the carved balustrades.
Candles float in tall glass vases across the long tables, their flames catching the last of the sun bleeding over the lake.
Music drifts through the Great Hall and out onto the terrace—violins and fiddles that should sound incongruous here, but don’t.
It smells of roses and wood polish, fresh bread from the kitchens, wine uncorked in abundance. My empire’s seat, once feared, is unrecognizable.
And it’s not just because of the wedding decorations. It’s because it’s become a home .
And all because of her.
Down in the gardens, Robin stands at the center of it all, sunlight caught in her hair, her dress a sweep of ivory silk. I chose a simple shift, but secretly I’m delighted that Robin chose a full-skirted gown and tiara. She looks like royalty, and that’s how I plan to treat her.
She’s really mine, now.
My wife.
And I feel as much joy and pride in her family as I look around to locate them, too, among the crowd.
Maisie still wears her crown of daisies from her duty as flower girl, her smile so bright it feels like it should burn.
Alicia is running around with friends, chasing them through the maze, lifting up her silk skirts as she runs.
She was determined to keep her bridesmaid dress on instead of changing for the reception.
Dane, on the other hand, has already undone his bow tie, his shirt rumpled and untucked, mischief brimming as he flirts outrageously with one of the village girls who came up to the castle to see the wedding.
Adrian and Mira made it back from their travels in Portugal with only a few hours to spare, and they are closer than ever.
She’s staring up at him now with the kind of fierce affection that reminds me of her grandfather.
They’re good for each other—Adrian’s earnest warmth balancing Mira’s sharp edges, her confidence drawing out his strength.
And among the guests are all my newest allies.
Or—perhaps friends. The Americans who helped me when I was at my most desperate were delighted to come over to witness my marriage.
I worried at first that it might prove difficult, mixing Consortium attendees, villagers, my own house staff, and Americans all in one place, but my fears proved unfounded.
I see Leon talking animatedly with Johnny de Luca now, who was wise enough not to inquire why Stefan Novak wasn’t attending today.
Leon has smiled more today than I think he has in the past thirty years.
He started smiling when he stood up as my Best Man, and hasn’t stopped since.
Dimi is introducing his Swedish girlfriend to everyone and has bragged to more than one person, in my hearing, that she will win Wimbledon this year.
And Nik Kusek even gave me a hug earlier. “Congratulations,” she said, and then, with a wicked grin very unlike her, added, “You proved me completely wrong. And I’m really happy that you did.”
Instead of bantering back, I found myself answering her honestly. “So am I, Nik. So am I.”
That’s as sentimental as I’ve allowed myself to be tonight, because I want the focus to remain on Robin. She deserves the attention, the love.
And a moment later, her hand slides into mine, her ring clinking against mine as she does.
I never thought I’d wear one, never thought I’d let anyone lay claim to my heart, much less my name.
But Robin’s grip is steady, warm, grounding.
She leans close, voice pitched low for me alone. “You’ve been staring at me again.”
“Admiring,” I correct. “Because just like everyone else here today, I am captivated by you.”
She blushes, even after everything. My sweet little bird has turned into a bride, into a Novak. Has taken her rightful place at the center of my life.
I thought love was a leash, a trap. How very wrong I was.
And how very glad I am to know that now.
“You promised me a surprise,” she says, hip-bumping me. “So when do I get it?”
I smirk, thinking of it. “Soon enough, wife. Soon enough.”
At last, we’re allowed to make our retreat. We aren’t leaving the castle—not tonight—but the revelers allow us to slip away for privacy once night has fallen.
And this is the moment I’ve been waiting for all day: to be alone with Robin.
The corridors hum faintly with the celebration we’ve left behind—music, laughter, the clink of glass—as I lead Robin through the castle to her promised surprise.
After the invasion, when Leon and I sat down to consider security changes, I also started thinking about internal as well as external changes. Since I would have to have Castle Blacklake restored, why not redecorate a little?
And why not let Robin and her family—my family—make their mark on the place, too?
So we began remaking the castle together. The children each chose a room that belonged to them, special places where they could retreat to, and still feel at home.
This wing we’re in now became multiple guest suites, each meant to welcome the allies and friends who now fill our lives. But tonight, one chamber stands ready as something more. A bridal suite, dressed in candlelight and silk, waiting for me to claim it first with Robin.
The heavy door seals out all noise, and I’ve made sure any noise made in here will remain private. The silence is immediate and intimate, a hush that belongs to us alone.
New plaster and pale stone. A bank of candles burning low, the air threaded with rose and beeswax. A four-poster dressed in fresh linen and a spill of silk coverlets. On the opposite wall, a gilt mirror—tall, old, newly restored—angling the bed back at itself.
Our first night as wives deserves its own stage.
Robin leans against the door. Her cheeks are pink from champagne and dancing; loose curls have fallen from the pins, and she has never looked so beautiful to me.
“I haven’t seen this room before!” she realizes, soft, a little breathless.
“Surprise!” I say, turning the key and dropping it on a side table. “We’re going to christen it tonight.”
She doesn’t look at the room. She looks at me.
“Come here,” I say.
She crosses the carpet in a rustle of skirts, and my hands find her waist, her spine, the silk-covered shape I’ve coveted all evening. I skim my knuckles up her back and curl them around the nape of her neck.
“What exactly do you have planned?” she murmurs, smiling.
“Terrible things,” I murmur back. “But they’re all legal between wives.”
Her mouth curves into something wicked. “Show me.”
I turn her slowly, enjoying the small shiver that runs through her when I guide her forward to the bed. The mirror beyond takes us in: the clean lines of my white shift dress, the cascading flare of her gown.
“Look how gorgeous you are,” I tell her. “Just look at yourself, little bird.”
She lifts her eyes to her own reflection. I watch her watch us, and hunger surges—mine, then hers, then mine again, echoed back and forth between the glass and the bed.
“Over,” I say, and press.
She goes down willingly, palms on the mattress, the dress fanning around her like a cloud.
I take two fists of silk and draw them up, up—patient at first, then not—until the skirts are rucked high over her hips and the whole confection is bunched at her waist. She wears garters and stockings, and tonight she insisted on ditching her usual cotton underwear for lace and satin.
I complained at the time, but I think she was right. The sight is indecent and perfect.
“Hold,” I say, and place the gathered silk into her hands. She clutches it obediently, arms taut. I pull her chin up gently so she can see everything: the flush rising in her throat; her parted lips; the way her breath shakes when my knuckles graze the back of her thigh.
“Wait,” I tell her.
In a velvet box on a chair in the corner lies the real surprise.
I take my time stripping off my clothes and pulling on this new toy, not for show—though the mirror makes a spectacle of everything—but because she deserves ritual.
The buckles catch, the straps settle, and the weight that rides my hips feels solid.
I adjust the harness until it sits perfectly, the black leather stark against my skin, then reach down to stroke the length of the toy, slick it with lube until it gleams in the candlelight.
She watches me in the mirror, no coyness in her stare, only hunger, until she turns to look at me over her shoulder.
“Eyes on the glass,” I remind her, returning to her back. My palms fit to her hips. My wife. My bride.
Mine .
I bend over her, letting my breath find her ear, one hand sliding up to tug her breasts out of the low-cut bodice, thumbing her nipples until she whimpers.
“I’m going to fuck you in this pretty dress,” I murmur. “So every time you open the wardrobe, you’ll remember this. Remember how you bent over for me on our wedding night, how you spread yourself open and begged me to fuck you.”
Her answering sound is a plea and a dare.
I straighten, align myself behind her, and press forward just enough to make her gasp, the head of the toy nudging against her entrance, testing.
She’s already so wet I really didn’t need the lube, and the sight in the mirror—my bride bent over, skirts hiked up, waiting for me to take her—makes me clench my teeth with desire.
I pull her panties aside and stroke a finger down her seam, shining slick in the candlelight.
“Watch how well you take it,” I say, one hand bracing her hip, the other guiding the cock as I push forward.
Her lashes flutter, her mouth falls open, and she holds the skirts tighter, knuckles whitening. In the mirror, I see her eyes go wide and dark, and her whole body shudders as I enjoy her for the first time as my wife.