Epilogue Luna
Five weeks after my rescue, I stand in front of the mirror in what's now officially our bedroom at the clubhouse. I barely recognize myself. The bruises have faded, leaving no trace on my skin. My hair, washed and styled by Sophie, falls in soft waves down my back. The dress I'm wearing—a white dress with red embroidered flowers—is the same one my mother wore on her wedding day. The one that Abuela brought with us to America and kept preserved in our closet like a sacred relic.
"Are you ready, mija?" Abuela asks, appearing in the doorway looking healthier than she has in years. The treatment from Doc worked wonders, and she’s regained strength beyond expectation.
"I think so," I reply, smoothing down the front of my dress for the tenth time. Nervous energy makes my hands tremble slightly.
Abuela steps behind me, her reflection joining mine in the mirror. Her eyes are bright, her smile gentle as she places her hands on my shoulders. "He is a good man," she says, the words still sounding strange coming from her. "Not the man I would have chosen for you, but the right one nonetheless."
The transformation in my grandmother has been almost as remarkable as my own. From throwing shoes at Saint to grudging respect to genuine affection—it's been a journey none of us expected.
"What changed your mind about him?" I ask, curious about her dramatic reversal.
Abuela's expression grows serious. "When they brought you back that day—broken, bleeding—I saw something in his eyes I recognized." She pauses, lost in memory. "It was the same look your grandfather had when he pulled me from the river during the flood in '76. The look of a man who has found his other half.”
She cups my cheek with her weathered hand. "That man would burn down the world to keep you safe. There is no greater love."
Tears prick my eyes, threatening to ruin the makeup Sophie so carefully applied. "I love him too, Abuela."
"I know," she says simply. “You two have a strong love. The rest is just details."
A soft knock at the door interrupts us. Angel pokes her head in, grinning widely. "It's time. Everyone's waiting. And Saint is about to wear a hole in the clubhouse floor with his pacing."
I take a deep breath, one last glance in the mirror, and follow Angel into the hallway. The club has been transformed for the occasion—the main room cleared of its usual chaos, replaced with rows of chairs and an improvised altar. Flowers brighten every surface, their sweet scent mingling with leather and motor oil—a combination I've come to associate with home.
Through the windows, I see guests milling in the compound courtyard where tables have been set up for the reception. Club members and their families, a few trusted friends, even Doc and his wife. The Shadow Reapers have become my family.
Angel’s eyes rake over me appraisingly. “You look gorgeous.” She checks her watch. "Two minutes. I'll tell them you're ready."
As she disappears down the hallway, I turn to Abuela. "Will you walk with me?"
Her eyes widen in surprise. "Me? But traditionally, the father?—"
"I have no father," I interrupt gently. "You're all the family I had for so many years. You raised me, protected me, sacrificed for me. There's no one else I'd rather have by my side."
Abuela blinks rapidly, her own composure wavering. "It would be my honor," she says, her voice thick with emotion.
The music starts—not the traditional wedding march, but an acoustic guitar version of "Can't Help Falling in Love," played live by one of the clubs members.
Angel returns, gives me a reassuring smile, and a nod, signaling it’s time.
The clubhouse falls silent as we appear in the doorway. Every head turns, every eye finds me, but I see only one person—Saint, standing at the makeshift altar in his full cut, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath. Beside him stands Ghost, solemn and proud in his role as best man.
As Abuela and I walk slowly down the aisle, I take in the faces of those who've become so important to me—Sophie, beaming with happiness; Blade, his arm around her waist; Hawk, grinning like a fool; even Cipher, his usual stoic expression softened for the occasion. And in the back, standing slightly apart from the crowd, Rose. While the other women rescued from the container were all reunited with their families, Rose had nowhere to go and has been staying at the clubhouse. She gives me a shy smile as I pass.
When we reach the altar, Abuela places my hand in Saint's, then shocking us both, rises on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. "Take care of my treasure," she whispers loud enough for me to hear.
"With my life," he promises, his voice rough with emotion.
I barely register the details of the ceremony that follows—something about love and commitment, spoken by a club member who got ordained online. All I can focus on is Saint's hand holding mine, his eyes never leaving my face, the slight tremor I can feel in his fingers betraying his own emotion.
Then comes the moment I've been waiting for. Ghost steps forward, a leather cut draped over his arm—not Saint's well-worn one, but a smaller version, clearly made for me. With ceremonial solemnity, he hands it to Saint.
"An ol' lady's cut is sacred," Saint explains, his voice carrying through the silent room. "It marks you as mine, as part of this family, as protected by every member of this brotherhood." He holds up the leather vest, and I see the patches—the Shadow Reapers logo on the back, and below it, in bold lettering reads, “PRECIOSA” and below that, “PROPERTY OF SAINT."
Saint helps me slip it on over my white dress, the weight of it settling on my shoulders like a mantle of belonging.
“By the authority vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife, brother and ol' lady, united in the eyes of this club and all who stand witness."
Saint's hands cup my face with exquisite gentleness as he leans down to kiss me. The room erupts in cheers and whistles, but I hear none of it—there's only Saint, his lips on mine, his heart beating in time with my own.
The reception that follows is a blur of congratulations, laughter, and celebration. The Shadow Reapers know how to throw a party, and they've pulled out all the stops for this one. Food and drinks flow freely, music pulses through speakers, and the courtyard becomes a sea of dancing, talking, celebrating people.
Through it all, Saint rarely lets go of my hand, as if he can't bear to break contact even for a moment. His eyes follow me with a heat that promises much for later, when we're finally alone.
As the evening progresses, I find myself at a table with Angel, Sophie, and Rose, watching the brothers engage in increasingly ridiculous toasts.
"How are you settling in?" I ask Rose, noticing how her eyes keep drifting to Cipher.
A blush colors her pale cheeks. "Everyone's been so kind. I've never had anything like this before—people who care what happens to me."
"You know you're welcome to stay as long as you need," Angel assures her. "The club takes care of its own."
Rose's smile is tentative but genuine. "Thank you. I'm still trying to figure out what comes next. Everything feels possible now, in a way it never did before."
I understand exactly what she means. Since Saint entered my life, doors have opened that I never knew existed. Abuela has moved into a small cottage on club property. She has proper medical care now, and Paco has a fenced yard to patrol with his best dog-buddy, Sophie’s German Shepard, Max. I'm working on obtaining my GED. And most surprising of all, Saint and I talking about opening a legitimate business—a shelter and resource center for victims of trafficking.
"Speaking of what comes next," Sophie says with a meaningful glance toward the clubhouse, "I think your husband is ready to start the honeymoon portion of the evening."
I follow her gaze to find Saint standing in the doorway, his eyes dark with hunger and promise as they meet mine across the courtyard. My body responds instantly to that look, my nipples hardening and my panties dampening.
"That's our cue to make ourselves scarce," Angel laughs, rising from her seat. "Come on, ladies. Let's give the newlyweds some privacy."
As they leave, Saint approaches, his long strides eating up the distance between us. He stops before me, extending his hand.
"Ready to leave your own party, preciosa?" The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey.
I place my hand in his, electricity sparking between us at the contact. "More than ready," I assure him.
We make no announcements, but knowing looks and good-natured whistles follow us as Saint leads me through the clubhouse to our room. Once the door closes behind us, the sounds of the party fade to a distant hum.
Saint's eyes devour me, moving from the pulse at my throat to the cut that marks me as his, to the soft fabric of my dress clinging to curves he knows intimately.
"Do you know how fucking beautiful you are?" he asks, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine. "Standing there in my property cut, wearing my ring."
"Your wife," I remind him, stepping closer to place my hands on his chest.
"My wife," he repeats, the word seeming to satisfy something primal in him. "My ol' lady." His fingers trace the edge of the leather cut. "Mine."
"Yours," I agree, rising on tiptoes to press my lips to his jaw. "Always yours."
His control snaps at my words. His mouth captures mine in a kiss that's all consuming hunger and barely restrained passion. His hands sweep down my sides, gathering the fabric of my dress, lifting it over my head to reveal the new white lace lingerie beneath.
"Christ, you're trying to kill me," he groans, taking in the sight of me.
I feel powerful. This dangerous man, feared by many, brought to his knees by me. It's heady, intoxicating.
"Touch me," I whisper, and it's all the invitation he needs.
He lifts me as if I weigh nothing, carrying me to our bed, his mouth never leaving mine.
Saint worships my body with his hands, his mouth, his words. Each touch, each kiss is a promise of protection, of devotion, of a future neither of us thought possible just weeks ago. When he finally enters me, our bodies joining as husband and wife for the first time, I feel complete in a way I never knew was possible.
"Te amo," he whispers against my lips as we move together, the Spanish flowing naturally between us. "I love you, Luna Santiago. My precious wife. My heart."
"I love you too," I breathe, holding him close as pleasure builds between us. "My husband."
Later, in my husband's arms, the sheets tangled around us, I think about the journey that brought us here. The path wasn't smooth or straight, but it led me exactly to where I was meant to be.
In the arms of my Saint, I've found my salvation.
***
Next book in this series: Cipher’s Baby Girl
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