Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
KNOX
The demon twink I call my boyfriend is trying to ruin my life.
He’s standing in my room with an armful of plastic bags wearing a look that’s nothing but the bright-eyed optimism that usually precedes disaster.
“Okay, hear me out,” he says.
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard it yet.”
“I don’t need to.”
He pulls out an oversized arrow and a bottle of fake blood. “You’ll be a victim.”
“Of what?”
“Love.”
I stare at him. “What will you be?”
He chuckles. “Cupid.”
I blink once. “You want to wear a couple’s costume to a frat Halloween party.”
He nods, proud of himself. “It’s poetic.”
“It’s codependent,” I say.
He grins, all teeth. “It’s honest.”
I could tell him he’s out of his mind, but he’s already slathering fake blood onto the arrow, humming some off-key love song under his breath.
This is how it’s been for almost a year. He decides what he wants, argues his case, and somehow still gets his way. I tell myself I’m holding my ground, but the truth is I start giving in before he even finishes talking.
He’s relentless like that.
Normally it’s annoying, but tonight it’s worse because we’re only hours away from the annual Día de los MΛN blowout. Tyler needs it to be perfect. Not just because it’s the biggest party of the year, but because it’s our anniversary.
It’s easier this time. My tenure as president is up, so I get to just show up and exist like everyone else. No risk management, no damage control. Just the noise, the lights, and him.
Still, I know myself. My idea of enjoyment only goes as far as making sure he’s happy. He lights up a room, and I hover in the shadows, making sure nothing burns down. That’s the balance we’ve found. He’s the spark, me the watchful hand keeping the fire from taking the whole house with it.
It’s a strange world I live in now. The one where that tornado of a boy tore through my life and leveled everything I thought was solid. I used to think I liked control. Turns out, I just liked predictability, and he blew that to hell.
Now there’s noise where silence used to be. Laughter where there used to be routine. I can’t be upset about that, no matter how much I pretend to be.
I was raised to keep my guard up. Raised to be the wall and not the man behind it. To act like nothing touches me, but Tyler showed me that strength isn’t the same thing as control. I guess being tough is just another performance.
He calls it “emotional strategy.” I call it bullshit.
But he’s right… Delicate can be a weapon too and soft can get you what brute force never will. Somewhere along the line, he taught me how to use both.
I sigh. “You’re gonna stain the floor.”
Droplets of fake blood trail down the arrow and across his hands as he decorates it, the mess already drying in little tacky streaks between his fingers.
“Nah, it’s my own mixture. Non-toxic.”
“What do you mean, your own mixture?”
He looks up at me with that infuriating glint in his eye. “I followed some instructions from the internet. It’s all edible.” He drags a finger through the blood and puts it in his mouth. “See? Didn’t kill me.”
“Not yet,” I mutter.
He smiles as if I’ve just complimented him, and it’s so bright it’s blinding.
I cross the room, shove a few things off the bed, and fall onto it. The mattress creaks under the weight of all my bad decisions. “I swore I’d never do fake blood again after last year.”
He doesn’t look up. “You said that about tequila too.”
“Yeah, well,” I mumble, “at least tequila doesn’t ruin sheets.”
Last year had been worse. The fake blood. The glow-in-the-dark paint. The way he’d chased me down with every intention of invading my life and then actually did it. I let him, too.
Told myself it was a temporary lapse and repeat of something that should only be a one-night thing, another chemical mistake I’d correct in the morning. But morning came, and there he was… still ruining everything in the best possible way.
It took days to wash the stains out, and I don’t just mean the sheets.
He finally sets the arrow down and walks over, blood still slick on his hands. “Relax,” he says, pressing a finger to my knee, leaving a red print on my jeans. “This year, I’ll do the cleaning.”
I glance at the mark. “You said that last year too.”
He leans in, close enough that I can smell the sugar and corn syrup on his skin. “Yeah, but this time I mean it.”
God help me, I almost believe him.
“You think the brothers are gonna handle this much gay right to the face?”
He snorts. “They’ll have to. Surely they’re used to it by now.”
“If not?” I ask.
He grins. “Fuck ’em.”
It’s so casual when he says it. I know he must think being unapologetic is the easiest thing in the world and I envy that about him. I spent years learning how to fold myself small enough to fit inside other people’s comfort zones.
Be strong. Be quiet. Be tough.
Control everything.
Tyler doesn’t do any of that. He walks in, laughs too loud, loves too hard, and tears the world apart just by existing. I used to think strength meant never letting anyone see the cracks. Turns out, he’s stronger for never pretending he doesn’t have any.
The frat took news of our relationship worse than we expected. One gay guy was fine. Easier to tolerate when he was already treated like some golden boy.
But two? Including the house president? And they’re in a relationship?
Suddenly it’s the end of the goddamn brotherhood.
I didn’t want to take this path. I don’t do complicated. Especially not in my position. But Tyler Finley doesn’t exactly leave room for negotiation. You don’t argue with him. You just follow the current and pretend it’s your choice.
That’s the Finley way.
For all the shit I give him about control, I know he never really had any. How do you exist as the oldest son of a family everyone in town worships and watches in equal measure? Every move he makes gets narrated back to him before he’s even done it.
Around here, privacy’s a myth and gossip’s a sport.
The rest of us get to make mistakes. He gets headlines.
I talk like I’m the one protecting him, but half the time, I think he’s the only one who ever learned how to survive.
That’s why when he said the brotherhood would get over it, I trusted his judgment.
He was right. Eventually, they came around. Or maybe they just got tired of pretending it mattered. That tends to happen when the season changes and people need new things to whisper about.
Still, I doubt it was pure acceptance. I’d wager his father making a donation large enough to fund an entire spring party had something to do with it. The kind of gesture that smooths egos and buys forgiveness faster than any apology.
The check probably hit the account before the gossip had time to cool.
That’s the other thing about Tyler. He knows the world runs on performance, and he’s good at giving people a show. A little charm, a little money, and everyone starts calling it progress instead of tolerance.
Maybe that is progress, in its own twisted way.
“Take your shirt off,” he demands.
I look up at him hovering over me, hands stained red, eyes shining like he’s about to perform open-heart surgery.
“I don’t want to stain it,” he adds quickly, like that makes the order more reasonable.
“It’s supposed to actually be cold tonight,” I say.
“The low sixties is not cold.”
“It’s too chilly for me to be shirtless and covered in wet, sticky fake blood.”
He scoffs. “For such a big, tough, tattoo-covered man, you’re so fucking dramatic. Take your shirt off.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re really leaning into the bossy thing tonight.”
He smirks, grabbing the edge of my shirt anyway. “And you’re really leaning into the defiant thing.”
His fingers brush my stomach, sticky and cool. I want to roll my eyes, but the truth is, it’s easier to let him win. It always is.
I sigh. “You’re insufferable.”
He grins, unbothered. “And you love it.”
I don’t answer, but I don’t stop him, either.
I do, however, tug at the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head anyway.
“See?” he says, sing-songy. “Was that so hard?”
“No,” I say, “but if you keep touching me like that, it will be very quickly.”
He pauses, then his lips slowly curl upward. “Noted.”
“Christ,” I mutter, because there’s no winning with him. He knows exactly what he’s doing standing there half-covered in fake blood, all smug satisfaction and bad ideas.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I should tell him to back off. Instead, I breathe him in. Sweet, ridiculous, and completely mine.
“I was thinking about how I wanted to show you off tonight,” he says, almost thoughtful. “Parade you around and remind everyone what’s mine.”
“Yours?”
“Mine,” he confirms without hesitation. “I worked hard for it.”
I nod. He did.
His gaze drifts lower and he tips his head toward my jeans. “Pants too.”
I follow his eyes, already knowing what he sees. The fabric’s pulled tight, my body betraying me before I can hide it. His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips, and there’s a hunger there that makes my pulse stumble.
I unbutton my jeans and push them down, more irritated than shy. The denim catches at my ankles, and I kick them off one leg at a time.
Laying on the bed in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, cock tenting the fabric, the air feels colder than it should. The room suddenly seems too small, the light too direct. Tyler’s gaze drags over me like a spotlight.
I hate how exposed I feel. How easily he gets me like this. For years, I treated vulnerability like a weakness, something to avoid at all costs, but he looks at me like it’s the point. Like the whole reason we’re here is to strip away what’s left of the armor and see if I’ll flinch.
He grins. “Perfect.”
I don’t say anything. Mostly because I can’t decide if I agree with him or if I’m just too far gone to care.
“What do you think about blood play, Knox?”
“Blood play?” I spit out, eyes wide. “I’m not fucking with blood, Tyler.”
“What if it tastes like chocolate?”