Epilogue Saoirse
Two weeks later…
An agitated Hope meows at me as I pace the floor waiting for Declan to get home from the family meeting.
When he finally strides through the door, I’m on him in seconds. His arms wrap around me so tightly he actually lifts me off my feet.
“Tell me everything,” I murmur against his chest. “What happened?”
He tenses, then relents. “Well, you already know the Sullivans were angling for full control of the docks.
" His thumb traces my spine. "Cillian gave the order two days ago. Ronan pulled strings with the political contacts. Lorcan ran ground operations, and…” He pauses for dramatic effect, and I want to smack him.
“And?!”
“The Sullivan leadership structure has been effectively dismantled."
"Dismantled."
"Destroyed." No apology in his voice. No softening. "Their operations are gutted. Their allies are scrambling. It'll take them a generation to rebuild, if they can at all."
I absorb this. The violence of it should repulse me. Maybe it does, in some theoretical way. But the man describing the destruction of a criminal empire is the same man who fed a stray cat, fixed an old woman's furnace, and pleaded on his knees in a doorway when he thought he'd lost me.
"Is it over?"
"It's over." His arm tightens around me. "You're safe."
I breathe a sigh of relief. But there’s one last thing that needs to be done for us to have a chance at a happy future together.
“Come on,” I tell him as I pick up my duffel bag from the corner where it’s been sitting for the past two weeks and pad toward the stairs.
He follows me as I carry it into the bedroom, then he takes a seat on the bed.
I unzip the bag and pull out my old clothes—the threadbare collection of everything I own. I'm not ready to get rid of them yet. I will someday, maybe even someday soon, but for now I carry them to the dresser and open the top drawer.
I refold each piece and lay it inside. Shirts, jeans, underwear, and socks, then close the drawer with a soft click.
I hang my jacket in the closet. Not the guest room closet. Our closet, next to his leather jackets and dark shirts.
When I turn, Declan is kicked back on the bed with his ankles crossed, watching me with eyes so full of love, I almost gasp.
"You unpacked," he says.
"I unpacked."
He reaches for me. I go to him, and he pulls me down onto him, his arms wrapping around me, his face pressed into my hair.
“Wife,” he says.
I press my palm flat against his chest—over his heart—and this time, he doesn't pat my hand absently. He covers it with his and holds it there, pressing it harder against his skin, as if he wants me to feel the organ beating underneath. As if he wants me to know it belongs to me.
"I love you," I tell him.
His arms tighten. His breath shudders against my temple.
Hope purrs at the foot of the bed, a steady, contented vibration that fills the silence.
For the first time in eighteen years, I don't care where the exits are.
I won't need them.