Epilogue
Sofía woke to the quiet.
Not the heavy, dangerous kind—the kind that comes before a door opens or a voice says your name—but the ordinary hush of a safe house at night.
The small place near Portland was tucked between evergreens and shadow, the kind of location that didn’t exist unless you already knew where to look.
The curtains were drawn. The lights were low. The world outside felt far away.
She lay still and listened.
In the living area, Rafael moved.
Not loudly. Not carelessly. Just enough that she could hear the soft shift of his boots across the floor, the muted clink of a mug being set down, the rustle of clothing as he shifted in a chair. He was doing it on purpose. Letting her know he was there. Letting the night stay human.
For the first time in weeks, her chest didn’t lock up at the sound.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pressed her palms to the mattress, grounding herself. The room smelled faintly of clean linen and pine from the open window. No disinfectant. No metal. No fear baked into the walls.
She should have slept.
Instead, the truth waited.
She had to tell him. Tell all of them. What had really been happening. Who had really been pulling the strings. The part of the story she had kept locked behind her teeth because once it was spoken, it became real. Once it was real, it would change things—for her, for Rafael, for the Covenant.
She needed protection from the people who had taken her.
That much was obvious.
But what twisted deeper in her gut was the other truth—the one she hadn’t let herself think too hard about yet.
She needed protection from her own family.
The thought still felt impossible, even now. Blood wasn’t supposed to be the danger. Home wasn’t supposed to be the place that could sell you out. But it had been. Quietly. Efficiently. With signatures and phone calls and doors that opened because someone had decided she was expendable.
Sofía dragged a hand through her hair and exhaled.
She was not weak.
She had never been.
But strength didn’t mean you could do everything alone.
Her gaze drifted to the closed bedroom door.
Rafael was out there.
Not hovering. Not crowding. Just present. A constant. The man who had carried her out of fire and blood and then given her space to decide what came next. The man who hadn’t asked for her secrets—but had made it clear he would stand between her and whatever came for her when she was ready.
An idea formed.
Not a plan. Not yet.
Just a possibility.
One that didn’t work without him.
Sofía rose quietly, bare feet silent on the floor. She paused at the door, hand hovering over the handle, nerves flickering low in her stomach. Vulnerable didn’t mean powerless—but it did mean choosing to be seen.
She opened the door.
****
Rafael kept moving.
Not pacing. Not hovering. Just enough noise to remind the woman sleeping down the hall that she wasn’t alone.
The safe house was small, tucked deep outside Portland, wrapped in trees and shadow. On paper, it was a rental he’d owned for years. In reality, it was one of his contingencies. Off books. Off maps. No cameras feeding back to Chicago. No one knew it existed except him.
He sat back in one of the chairs at the dining table, forearms resting on the scarred wood, and tried to think.
He wasn’t very good at waiting for shit to happen and not acting.
He ran scenarios instead.
Keeping her with him and what that might look like. Sending her to Luca and Mara, where there was warmth and structure and safety built into every wall. Letting her disappear entirely if she asks it of him—clean, quiet, alone.
Every option that didn’t involve keeping her with him twisted his gut.
But that wasn’t the deciding factor.
What mattered was what she wanted.
And that was the problem.
He still didn’t know her story. Not really. He didn’t know who she’d been before the bruises, or what kind of life waited on the other side of her fear. He’d been careful—given her space, time, silence when she needed it. Waiting for trust to come on her terms.
He just didn’t know if she was getting closer to that ... or further away. And he didn't think they had a lot of time before they needed to know.
The door to the bedroom opened softly.
Rafael looked up at once.
She walked toward him slowly, bare feet silent on the floor.
In the lamplight, he could see how much she’d healed—and how much she hadn’t.
The worst of the bruises had faded to pale shadows along her collarbone and ribs.
Her arm was in a brace now instead of a cast, the sling gone, her movements careful but stubborn.
She wore one of his shirts, sleeves rolled, dark hair loose around her shoulders.
Still fierce. Still standing. Still carrying something heavy behind her eyes.
She stopped a few feet from him.
He felt it immediately—the shift in the air. The moment before a truth landed.
His mind snapped back into motion, lining up possibilities with ruthless efficiency.
She was going to ask to leave. She was going to thank him and say she needed to do this alone. She was going to tell him men like him were too much—too dangerous, too intense—and she didn’t want to live inside that gravity.
He’d seen it before. Strong women didn’t want men like him once the crisis passed. Men like him were useful in a firefight—and left behind when the smoke cleared.
He braced for it.
She lifted her chin.
“Rafael,” she said softly. “Will you marry me?”
The world stopped.
For one stunned heartbeat, his mind went completely, catastrophically blank.
Then, very clearly, came the only thought he had left.
Well fuck.
What the hell did he know?
The End