Epilogue #2
He took a bite of bacon, chewing slowly, and his eyes never left mine. "We’re on our private island."
"Private island? I didn't know you had a private island."
"There's a great deal you don't know about me yet, Beloved." His smile was sharp and fond all at once. "We have a lifetime to remedy that."
"But where is this island? What ocean? What country?"
"None." He reached over and tucked a braid behind my ear, and then his fingers lingered against my cheek. "This island doesn't exist on any map. It has no coordinates that any government recognizes. No flight paths cross overhead. No shipping lanes pass within a hundred miles."
I stared at him. "How is that possible?"
"Money," He said the word simply, as if it explained everything. And perhaps it did. "Enough money can erase anything from existence. Can make a thirty-acre paradise simply. . .disappear."
"The police—"
"Will never find us." His thumb stroked my cheekbone, and I leaned into the touch without thinking. "The FBI, Interpol, every agency in the world—they're searching for ghosts, Beloved. Following trails that lead nowhere. We are absolutely safe here."
Safe.
The word settled into my bones.
"How long will we be here?"
He held my gaze. "Forever."
"Forever?" The word came out breathless.
"I have everything I need." He gestured broadly at the kitchen, at the mansion beyond, at the paradise outside the windows.
"I have my pack. I have a garden I'll show you later—you'll love it, Beloved.
Fresh fruit and vegetables as well as orchids, roses, and jasmine that bloom year-round.
" His hand dropped to my thigh, warm through the satin.
"I have you. And soon. . .you'll give me children. "
“Children. . .” The word unlocked something in my chest—an image so vivid it stole my breath.
A baby in my arms.
Small.
Warm.
Perfect.
Rook's dark green eyes looking up at me from a tiny face. Fingers like flower petals curling around my thumb.
I would rock that baby in a chair overlooking the ocean. Would sing lullabies while the waves crashed below. Would watch Rook hold our child against his tattooed chest, his massive hands impossibly gentle, his murderer's fingers tracing patterns on soft skin.
He would kill for that child. Would burn the world down to keep them safe. Just like he would for me.
"Why would I ever want to leave?" Rook's voice pulled me back. "And if you want to continue practicing psychology. . ."
I quirked my brows.
His smile turned knowing. "Surely the Broken Court could provide you with patients."
A surprised laugh escaped me. "Your pack? As my patients?"
"They would be honored, Beloved. To have their Queen analyze their minds, help them understand their own darkness.
Help them heal all the trauma welled up inside of their dark souls.
" He leaned closer, and his breath warm against my ear.
"And you would have access to case studies that no researcher has ever dreamed of.
Fifty-two unique psychological profiles, all yours to explore. "
I thought about it.
Really thought about it.
The Spade who had laughed while taking bullets. The Diamond who had slit a throat without breaking stride. The Hearts couple who killed while holding hands, so bonded that one's wound made the other scream.
What made them this way? What trauma, what biology, what twist of fate turned them into the Broken Court?
The clinical part of my brain—the part I thought had died in that padded cell—stirred with interest.
With hunger.
With the familiar thrill of a puzzle waiting to be solved.
"I could help them," I said slowly. "Not cure them—I don't think any of them want to be cured. But I could help them understand themselves. Help them function within the Court. Help them find. . .peace, maybe."
"You could." Rook pressed a kiss to my temple. "And they would worship you even more for it."
I would still be Dr. Willow Lark. Still be a psychologist. Still have purpose beyond being his Queen.
The realization filled me with unexpected joy. I hadn't lost myself in this transformation—I had expanded. Become more than I was before. The clinical detachment and the primal surrender could coexist, two sides of the same coin.
Just like love and madness.
"How do you feel?" Rook's voice softened as he studied my face. "Truly?"
I considered the question. Felt into my body—the pleasant ache, the satisfied exhaustion, the strange new wholeness that hummed beneath my skin.
"Sore," I admitted. "But absolutely loved."
His eyes darkened with satisfaction. "Good. That's exactly how you should feel."
"My heat. . ." I touched my abdomen, suddenly aware of the possibility growing there. "I think it's over."
"I noticed." His hand covered mine, pressing gently against my belly. "Your scent has changed. Settled. You smell like yourself again, but. . .different. Deeper."
"Different how?"
A wicked smile curved his lips. "Like you might be carrying my child."
My heart stuttered. "It's too early to know."
"Perhaps." His thumb stroked circles against my stomach. "But my biology recognized you before science could explain it. Why should this be any different?"
Pregnant.
The word bloomed in my mind like one of his garden orchids—terrifying, beautiful, and utterly transformative.
"And if I'm not pregnant?"
The wickedness in his smile intensified, and heat flooded my cheeks.
"Then we try again, Beloved." His voice dropped to that low register that made my thighs clench. "And again. And again. Until your body accepts what it was made to carry."
A shiver rolled through me—not of fear, but of anticipation. The memory of his knot swelling inside me, locking us together, the endless pulses of his release flooding my depths. . .
Yes. We'll try again.
"I would like that," I whispered.
Something shifted in his expression. The playfulness faded, replaced by something raw. Something that looked almost vulnerable on his sharp features.
He stood from his stool and turned me on mine, positioning himself between my knees. His hands cupped my face, tilting it up toward him, and for a moment he just looked at me.
Studied me.
Memorized me.
"I waited my entire life for you. Years of emptiness. Years of wondering if I was broken beyond repair, incapable of the connection that came so easily to others."
I placed my hands over his, holding him against my cheeks.
"And then I saw your photograph, and everything made sense." His thumbs traced my cheekbones. "The waiting. The emptiness. The violence I couldn't explain even to myself. It was all because I was incomplete, Beloved. Half a creature, searching for its other half."
"Rook. . ."
"You made me whole." His forehead pressed against mine, his breath mingling with mine. "You, Willow. My Beloved. My Queen. My other half."
And then he kissed me.
Not the venomous assault from the padded cell. Not the claiming possession from the operating table.
This kiss was different.
This kiss was a sensual conversation.
His lips moved against mine with devastating tenderness, speaking words that language couldn't hold.
I love you. I need you. I will spend eternity proving that you made the right choice.
I responded in kind, my mouth opening to him, my tongue sliding against his in a dance that felt as old as time.
I know. I know. I feel it too.
The kiss deepened, and I tasted salt, coffee, and something that was purely him—that dark, addictive essence that my cells now craved like oxygen.
His hands slid from my face to my neck, thumbs pressing gently against my pulse points, feeling my heart race for him. Then lower, over my shoulders, pushing the spaghetti straps of my gown aside until the satin pooled at my waist.
"Beautiful," he murmured against my lips. "So fucking beautiful."
I arched into him as his mouth left mine, trailing down my jaw, my throat, finding the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder. His tongue traced patterns on my skin, and I gripped his shoulders, my nails digging into the ink of his playing card tattoos.
Then he sucked.
Hard.
I gasped as pleasure and pain collided, as blood rushed to the surface of my skin, as he marked me in the most primal way possible.
"Rook—"
His teeth sank in.
It wasn't deep enough to break skin.
Just deep enough to claim.
Just deep enough to brand.
I moaned—a sound that came from somewhere deeper than my throat, somewhere deeper than my chest. A sound that came from the very core of me, from the place where his knot had locked us together, from the bond that now lived in my blood.
He released the bite and soothed it with his tongue, gentle strokes that made me shiver.
Then his lips found my ear.
"You're mine, Willow." His voice was a growl, a promise, a prayer. "Mine forever. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life pampering you, protecting you, and pleasuring you."
His teeth grazed my earlobe. "My Queen. My Beloved. My other half."
Tears pricked my eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming rightness of this moment.
I had walked into Blackmoor State Hospital for the Criminally Insane as Dr. Willow Lark, forensic psychologist, published author, and woman so suppressed she'd forgotten what it felt like to be alive.
I had emerged as something new.
Something wild.
Something his.
And as Rook gathered me against his chest, his heartbeat steady against my ear, his arms wrapped around me like he would never let go—I knew with absolute certainty that I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Not lost.
Found.
Love: the willing surrender of sanity. The choice to fall and trust that the madness will catch you.
Rook had caught me.
And I never wanted to be sane again.