Epilogue
Roxy
The ballroom glows the way winter nights always seem to when money is involved, all amber light and crystal reflections, warmth manufactured against the cold pressing in from outside.
Chandeliers throw prisms across marble floors, and the air hums with conversation softened by orchestral strings.
I stand near the edge of the room with a glass of champagne cradled loosely in my hand, my gaze drifting again toward the far side of the crowd.
I haven’t seen Makari for several minutes.
This is ridiculous. He’s not lost, Roxy. He can handle his own.
His men are everywhere, even if they blend seamlessly into the tuxedos and tailored dresses.
Dima lingers no more than ten feet away, pretending to study a sculpture he’s already deemed structurally unsound, and two others are stationed near the doors with the patience of men who have stood watch far longer than this.
Still, unease curls low in my stomach.
I don’t like that he orders them to stay close to me, not when he’s the one with enemies and a reputation that still ripples outward into dangerous places.
The Chicago syndicate left not long after Makari wiped out their team—but that doesn’t mean they won’t be back, or that others won’t grow curious.
I’ve argued with him about it more than once, about the absurdity of guarding me like a state secret while he moves through the world as if he’s carved out a permanent exemption from harm. He always listens, always considers, and then calmly ignores me.
“You are my home,” he said once, as if that explained everything.
I scan the room again, more out of habit than fear, and force myself to breathe.
Eight months have passed since blood and fear and secrets pressed in from all sides, since the world cracked open and revealed the fragile things worth protecting beneath it.
Eight months since I learned that love does not arrive quietly or neatly.
“Roxanne Adler?”
I turn at the sound of my name, startled out of my thoughts by a man who looks like he stepped out of a glossy magazine spread.
He’s young, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, dressed in a tuxedo that looks criminally good.
Once, I would have blushed at the sight of his lean body and lopsided smile, the extended hand.
“Elliot Warren,” he says. “I was hoping I’d run into you tonight.”
The name clicks immediately. Warren Dynamics.
Eco-tech. Renewable energy systems that have been quietly reshaping infrastructure across three continents.
I shake his hand, aware suddenly of how small my world once was compared to the one he occupies.
In my old life, I never would have come within one-hundred feet of a Warren.
“I’ve read your work,” he continues, his tone earnest rather than rehearsed. “Your assessments on land preservation and sustainable development were circulated through one of our advisory boards last year. I couldn’t believe someone with your background wasn’t already consulting at a higher level.”
I laugh softly, a reflex born of disbelief. “I only have a BA,” I say. “And most of my work has been practical.”
“That’s precisely why it stood out,” he replies. “You understand the land because you’ve lived with it, not because you ran projections from a distance.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard.
We talk for several minutes, the noise of the gala fading as he outlines a project his company is developing, one that would require careful navigation of protected areas and community interests.
When he asks if I would ever consider consulting, I demur automatically, the familiar instinct to shrink stepping in before I can stop it.
“I wouldn’t want to misrepresent my qualifications,” I say carefully.
Elliot smiles, unperturbed. “Then don’t,” he says. “Let us fund the rest.”
I blink. “The rest?”
“Your master’s,” he clarifies, as if this is the most natural suggestion in the world. “In full. Tuition, research grants, fieldwork. We invest in people who think the way you do.”
For a moment, the room tilts.
I manage to respond, though I have no idea what words I use—only that I thank him and promise to consider it, my head spinning with the sheer audacity of the offer. The idea that the life I once built in careful increments could suddenly expand like this feels unreal.
I’m still processing when the air around me shifts.
I feel Makari before I see him, the way I always do now, a subtle change in gravity that draws my attention without effort.
He moves through the crowd with quiet authority, dark and unmistakable in his tailored brown suit, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a familiar warmth spiraling through me.
For a moment I see him in that cruel bear mask again, and my heart sings.
There’s something predatory in the way he approaches, not threatening but unmistakably territorial.
I’m hit with a vivid memory of the first night we met, seven years ago, when he stood across a room from me and the world seemed to narrow around his presence.
Back then, I didn’t understand what I was sensing, only that it felt dangerous and inevitable all at once.
Now, I smile.
Makari stops at my side, his hand settling at my lower back with possessive ease, and turns his attention to Elliot with polite scrutiny.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he says smoothly, though his eyes flick briefly to the hand Elliot still has lifted mid-gesture.
“Not at all,” Elliot replies, unfazed but clearly aware of the shift. “I was just telling Roxanne how impressive her work is.”
Makari’s gaze softens as it returns to me, pride flickering there in a way that makes my chest ache. “She is,” he agrees simply.
There’s a beat of silence, thick with unspoken assessment, and then Makari leans closer, his lips brushing my ear.
“I need to steal you,” he murmurs. “Before I decide I dislike him more than is reasonable.”
I laugh under my breath and excuse myself, allowing him to guide me toward the center of the room. I expect him to pull me aside, to reclaim me with a dance or a kiss, but instead he slows, turning to face me as the orchestra shifts seamlessly into something softer, something expectant.
The murmur of the room fades.
Makari takes my hands in his, grounding and warm, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see something like nerves flicker beneath his composed exterior.
He draws a breath, steadying himself, and when he speaks his voice carries without effort, the room quieting as if it knows instinctively to listen.
“Roxanne. Eight months ago, I didn’t know how to imagine a future that wasn’t built on control and contingency. You changed that.”
A ripple of awareness moves through the crowd, heads turning, attention sharpening.
“You taught me that strength doesn’t come from isolation,” he continues, his gaze never leaving mine. “It comes from choosing something worth protecting, again and again.”
My heart pounds, each beat loud in my ears.
“I don’t know how to be a quiet man,” he says, a hint of wryness touching his expression. “But I know how to be a devoted one.”
He drops to one knee.
The gasp that ripples through the room barely registers compared to the way my breath catches painfully in my chest. Makari looks up at me and opens a small velvet box that catches the light like a captured star.
“Marry me,” he says simply. “You and Andrea are my greatest gifts.”
The world seems to hold its breath.
“Yes,” I say, the word tumbling out of me with a laugh and a sob all at once. “Yes, Mak.”
He rises in a smooth motion, slipping the ring onto my finger before pulling me into his arms as applause breaks out around us, warm and thunderous. He kisses me then, deep and sure, and the future we’ve been discussing, piecing together these months, feels real and solid between us.
Somewhere nearby, I hear Dima’s familiar voice, dry and pleased.
“Good,” he mutters. “Maybe now the little bear will stop asking me to be her stepdad.”
I laugh against Makari’s mouth, my joy bright and unguarded. The world feels wide open.
And this time, I’m not afraid of what comes next.