Epilogue
Beloved
Listening Companion:
Nina Simone—I put a Spell on You and more. . .
I woke to music playing.
Not the discordant strings of Penderecki or the haunting elegance of Debussy. This was something else entirely—a voice like smoke and velvet, curling through the air, wrapping around my consciousness and pulling me gently toward the surface.
Nina Simone. I Put a Spell on You.
And her voice was a spell in itself, dark and honeyed, singing about possession and obsession in that raw, unapologetic way that always made my skin prickle with recognition.
I understand this song on a whole new level now.
My eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
White.
Everything was white, but not the sterile, padded white of the isolation cell.
This white was luminous.
Ethereal.
The white of clouds and wedding gowns.
The bedroom was massive—easily three times the size of my entire apartment back in the life I used to live.
The bed beneath me was a sprawling king, draped in Egyptian cotton sheets so soft they felt like water against my skin. The headboard was carved mahogany, intricate patterns of vines and flowers winding through the dark wood.
But it was the balcony that stole my breath.
Huge French doors stood wide open, leading to a terrace that seemed to float above the world.
Sheer white curtains rippled in the breeze, billowing into the room and retreating.
Billowing and retreating.
In a hypnotic rhythm that matched the distant crash of waves.
Ocean waves.
The sound was everywhere—a constant, rolling thunder that vibrated through the floor, through the bed, through my bones. Salt hung in the air, clean and sharp, mixing with the floral sweetness of flowers blooming nearby.
I sat up slowly, taking inventory of my body.
The soreness was still there—a deep, delicious ache between my thighs that pulsed with every movement.
My muscles felt wrung out, exhausted in the best possible way.
And my skin. . .my skin still tingled with the ghost of Rook’s touch, as if his fingerprints had been permanently pressed into my flesh.
I'm out of heat.
The realization came with a strange mixture of relief and loss. The desperate, consuming need had faded, leaving behind quiet peace.
Less addiction.
More completion.
I looked down at myself and found white satin. A sleeping gown, delicate and beautiful, with thin spaghetti straps that left my shoulders bare. The fabric skimmed my curves and ended just above my knees. It was the kind of thing I never would have bought for myself.
Too feminine.
Too soft.
Too vulnerable.
But he saw me in this ensemble and that made me feel so loved and taken care of.
He dressed me again.
The thought delivered passionate warmth through my chest.
This man who had orchestrated a prison break, who had killed without hesitation, who had claimed me in front of his entire court. . .this same man had slipped a satin gown over my sleeping body with the tenderness of a lover tucking in his bride.
The contradictions don't bother me anymore.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and my bare feet sank into plush carpet. Nina Simone's voice continued to wind through the air, coming from somewhere deeper in the house, beckoning me forward.
But first, the window.
I needed to know where I was.
The balcony tiles were warm beneath my feet, heated by the sun that blazed overhead in a sky so blue it hurt to look at.
I stepped to the railing and gripped the iron. My eyes scanned the landscape below.
Oh.
Paradise.
That was the only word for it.
White sand stretched in a perfect crescent below me, pristine and untouched, meeting water so clear I could see the shadows of coral formations beneath the surface.
The blue shifted in gradients—turquoise near the shore, deepening to sapphire, then to a navy so dark it almost looked purple at the horizon.
Palm trees swayed in the breeze. Their fronds rustled with a sound like whispered secrets. Tropical flowers I couldn't name bloomed in explosions of pink, orange, and red along the path that wound from the beach toward what I now realized was a mansion.
His mansion. Our mansion.
I looked left, then right, searching for any sign of civilization beyond this place.
There was nothing.
No boats on the water.
No buildings in the distance.
No aircraft trails in the cloudless sky.
Just ocean. Endless, empty ocean stretching to infinity in every direction.
We could be anywhere in the world.
Movement caught my eye.
Two figures walked along the beach, wearing white linen pants and white button-down shirts.
Even from this distance, I could see the semi-automatic rifles strapped across their backs, the military precision in their stride.
Broken Court.
Guards.
My guards now, I suppose.
They moved in perfect synchronization, eyes scanning the tree line, the water, the sky.
Protecting their King's territory.
Protecting their Queen.
The beach was empty besides them. No tourists. No locals. No witnesses to whatever happened here.
A private island?
The thought should have terrified me. I was trapped on a hidden island with a serial killer and his cult of devoted followers, completely cut off from the world I used to know.
Instead, I felt. . .safe.
Safer than I had ever felt in my carefully constructed life of suppressants, clinical distance, and walls built so high I couldn't see over them myself.
Rook tore down those walls. And I let him.
Nina Simone's voice pulled at me again, and I turned from the balcony, padding back through the bedroom toward the door.
Two massive men stood outside.
Clubs, both of them—I recognized the brand on their foreheads, the coiled readiness in their posture. They were easily six and a half feet tall, with shoulders like boulders and hands that could probably crush skulls.
They bowed when they saw me. Actually bowed, folding their enormous frames in half and fixed their eyes on the floor in a gesture of absolute submission.
"Good morning, Queen." The one on the left spoke without raising his gaze. "We hope you slept well."
Queen.
The title still felt strange to my ears, but something inside me had started to accept it. Had started to understand that in this world—Rook's world—I was exactly that.
"I did." I smiled. "Thank you."
"The Trickster is in the kitchen." The one on the right gestured down the hallway. "He asked us to escort you when you woke."
I nodded and began walking.
The guards fell into step behind me, close enough to protect, far enough to give the illusion of privacy.
The mansion unfolded around me as I walked.
Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, supported by columns wrapped in climbing jasmine.
Artwork lined the walls—some classical, some modern, some that I recognized with a jolt as Rook's own work.
Windows stretched floor to ceiling, flooding every space with golden light and ocean views.
It was beautiful.
It was excessive.
It was exactly what I would have expected from a man who turned murder into performance art.
The music grew louder as I descended a grand staircase, my hand trailing along a banister carved from a single piece of driftwood.
Nina Simone's voice wrapped around me in an embrace, singing about the spell she'd cast, the hold she had.
Did he play this song for me? Or is this just his favorite song?
I made it to the kitchen.
Oh. This is amazing.
White marble countertops sprawled for what seemed like miles, broken only by a massive island topped with a breakfast bar.
Professional-grade appliances gleamed under pendant lights.
Fresh flowers spilled from vases on every surface. And there, standing at a six-burner stove with his back to me, was the Trickster.
Shirtless.
The skull tattoo grinned at me from between his shoulder blades, that manic smile, those wild eyes, rendered in such vivid detail that I could have sworn the ink shifted as his muscles moved.
It's flirting with me again.
My heart swelled at the sight of Rook. This man who had broken me apart and rebuilt me into something new. This man who had claimed me, consumed me, and in doing so, had finally made me feel whole.
He didn't turn around. Just lifted his nose slightly, inhaling, and I watched his shoulders relax with recognition. "Good morning, Beloved."
Three words.
That's all it took.
Three words in that voice like smoke and honey, and my body responded—a pulse of warmth, a flutter in my chest, a clench of muscles that remembered exactly what he could do to me.
"Good morning." I moved closer, drawn to him the way I'd been drawn from the first moment I smelled him in that asylum corridor.
Rook turned then, and the sight of him made my breath catch.
The playing card tattoos wound down his arms, across his ribs, disappearing into the waistband of loose linen pants that hung low on his hips.
His long curly hair was damp, as if he'd recently showered, the curls wilder than ever.
And his eyes—those dark green eyes that had haunted my dreams for five years—locked onto mine with an intensity that made my knees weak.
In his hands, he held two plates.
Eggs, sunny-side up. Thick-cut bacon, perfectly crisp. Golden hashbrowns, shredded and fried until the edges curled.
"I hope you're hungry, Beloved." He set the plates on the breakfast bar, then turned back to pour two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice. "You need to rebuild your strength."
I climbed onto one of the leather stools. The marble cooled against my bare thighs where the satin gown rode up. "I'm starving, actually."
"Good." He slid into the seat beside me, close enough that our arms brushed, close enough that his scent enveloped me—pine, smoke, and that dark musk that my body now recognized as home. "Eat."
I picked up my fork, but my mind was spinning with questions.
The music had faded to a soft background hum, and in the quiet, I could hear the ocean again—that constant, rolling rhythm that seemed to match my heartbeat.
"Where are we, Rook?"