Epilogue
I’ve walked into active war zones with less resistance in my chest than this.
Saint stands beside me, shoulders loose but eyes sharp, popping two pieces of bubble gum into her mouth like she’s bracing for impact. She chews once. Twice. Fast.
That’s never a good sign.
“You don’t need to look like we’re about to breach a compound,” I tell her quietly, adjusting my grip on the stack of oversized, brightly wrapped boxes in my arms. “It’s a birthday party.”
She doesn’t look at me. Her jaw tightens just a fraction.
“I don’t do family.”
I glance over, softer now. She’s healed. Mostly. Scar lines pink against her dark skin, confidence back where it belongs, but this—this is different. There’s no blade for this kind of threat.
“You’ll do great,” I say. “You’ve survived worse.”
She snorts. “That’s not reassuring.”
We step out of the car together, all business. She carries the pasta salad like it might explode. I balance the gifts, shifting them higher against my chest as music thumps through the tall wooden gate ahead of us. Laughter. Too much laughter.
I stop her just before we reach it.
“Saint,” I say, lowering my voice. “You took on the Onryō Forty-Nine by yourself.”
She looks at me now, eyes wide and absolutely unimpressed.
“I would rather fight them again,” she says flatly. “Please.”
I chuckle and reach for the gate. “It’ll be a walk in the park.”
The gate swings open and it’s chaos.
Dozens of people. Fifty, maybe sixty. Kids running everywhere. A long table covered in food. Balloons. Music blasting. Spanish flying from every direction at once, loud, and fast and alive.
Saint freezes.
Her mouth actually drops open.
She looks at me like I’ve betrayed her.
“You said it would just be family,” she says slowly, chewing her gum like it personally offended her.
I look around, taking inventory of the faces. “Si. This is just the family.”
Saint looks like she wants to throw the pasta salad like a grenade and run but it’s too late.
My sister spots us instantly. Her face lights up, one hand already resting on her very round belly as she waves wildly and shouts my name. My mother appears beside her, eyes locking onto me like a missile system.
And then they’re moving.
Saint barely has time to react before she’s swallowed whole.
Hands on her arms. Cheek kisses from both sides. Rapid Spanish questions she is trying to catalog. Someone plucks the pasta salad from her hands. Someone else relieves me of the gifts. An aunt she’s never met hugs her like they’ve known each other for years.
She looks back at me over my mother’s shoulder, eyes narrowed, panic sharp and unmistakable.
“If I yell Skippy,” she says through clenched teeth, “I need an extraction. Immediately.”
I laugh, helpless and fond.
“I’m sure you can handle yourself.”
She disappears into the crowd, dragged toward the center of the madness, and I watch her go—this lethal, brilliant woman who has never belonged anywhere like this in her life.
And somehow, against all odds, she’s standing in the middle of it anyway.
My brother-in-law shows up at my side with a beer and a grin like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
“Brother.”
We hug, solid and familiar, the kind that says you made it back alive.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, and I mean far more than tonight.
The party blurs after that. Laughter. Music. Old faces I haven’t seen in years pulling me into conversations that feel like they never paused. Stories overlap. Someone presses food into my hands. Someone else claps me on the shoulder like they’re checking I’m real.
And through all of it, Saint.
I spot her eventually, still being dragged from group to group by my mother, introduced like a prized discovery.
She’s laughing now. Really laughing. Talking with my sisters like she belongs there, like she always has.
The purple sundress she chose moves when she does, light and dangerous, the color pulling her eyes sharp and bright.
She looks relaxed.
That hits harder than any punch ever has.
I rescue her with a beer and earn a look of mock gratitude that tightens something low in my chest. After that, the night settles into something easy.
Too easy.
I’m halfway through my third hot dog when she appears in front of me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in judgment.
Not just because it’s aggressively processed meat but because it’s land meat.
Saint’s mortal enemy.
She looks at the hot dog. Then at me.
“Hmm, eating your favorite shape again, I see.”
I groan. “I’m being attacked in my own family home.”
Before she can finish the execution, someone sets down a fresh platter beside the grill. More hot dogs. Raw hamburger patties stacked and ready.
RED RIBBON PROVISION CO.
Quality Meats Since 1949
Same brand.
The thought hits me so fast my stomach drops out from under my ribs.
I freeze with the hot dog halfway to my mouth, jaw hanging open as memory slams into me like a physical blow. Saint’s eyes follow my stare to the packaging in the man’s hands. I see the exact second it clicks for her too.
That logo.
That red-and-white striping.
The same damned brand stamped across the crates in the hot dog factory that we turned into a war zone.
The one where bodies fell into the processing line, where meat grinders didn’t care about tailored suits or polished shoes or the fact that one of those men was already three days dead, bloated, leaking, and dragged halfway across the world before being fed into industrial blades.
Skippy.
Christ.
I look down at the hot dog in my hand like it’s suddenly breathing.
Then I look back at the packaging.
Then at Saint.
“I’ve had three,” I say quietly.
She stares at me for half a second before covering her mouth. “I may be sick.”
“You?” I gesture at myself, panic finally clawing up my throat. “I’m the one who ate the corpse-meat.”
I turn the hot dog over, inspecting it like I might find a button, a cufflink, some horrifying piece of recognition staring back at me.
“Ay, Dios mío,” I mutter. “What if I turn into Frank?”
I throw the plate into the trash like it might jump back out.
Saint laughs. Full, unrestrained, delighted laughter. The sound hits me straight in the chest.
She lifts a fork with a piece of pineapple and holds it up.
“See?” she says sweetly. “Pineapple would never betray me like that.”
She feeds it to me and walks over to the table, watching the dancing, hips swaying slightly to the music.
I grab another beer mostly to wash down the lingering horror and tell myself repeatedly that it was just hot dog.
Probably.
I come up behind her and slide a hand around her waist, grounding myself there. I offer her the beer. She takes a sip and smiles back at me, a faint sheen of it still on her lips.
I want to kiss it away.
I lean in.
She pulls back just enough.
“Do you have Skippy hot dog breath?”
I chuckle low and bend close to her ear, my hand drifting down her hip, slow and intentional.
“I’d much rather have the taste of you in my mouth,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her neck.
She pushes back into me, just slightly.
That’s all it takes.
I’m already hard.
She turns her head, teasing. “Not really sure that’s family-friendly. Might scare the children.”
She kisses me anyway.
My hand keeps moving, sliding along the curve of her hip, hovering dangerously close, my mouth finding that place on her neck I know by instinct now.
“I think,” I say softly, voice rough, “I should give you a tour of the house.”
Another kiss. Slower.
“A very, very good tour.”
I take another drink, then her hand, giving her a look that promises trouble.
“Come on.”
And she comes with me.
She slows as soon as she’s inside, like the house has weight. Frames line the walls. Birthdays. Holidays. A life documented in proof.
She stops in front of one and stares.
I don’t say anything. I can tell she’s cataloging something she never had. The way her fingers hover instead of touch, like she’s afraid the glass might break if she claims it.
“You were loved,” she says quietly.
It’s not an accusation. It’s not envy. Just fact.
“Still am,” I answer, softer than I mean to.
She turns, catches a different frame, and her mouth curves. “Oh my god.”
I groan before she even points. “Don’t.”
She holds it closer. “Please tell me you didn’t cut your own hair.”
“I was very handsome,” I say, dead serious.
She laughs, full and bright. “You look like a mushroom.”
“It was very stylish.”
She steps into me, still smiling, still holding the picture between us. “Liar.”
I take the frame from her, set it aside, and back her up until her shoulders hit my bedroom door. Her smile fades into something darker when I kiss her. Slow at first. Teasing. I want her to feel how badly I want this without rushing it.
The door shuts behind her.
Something about it feels dangerous in the best way. Like being young. Like doing something you’re not supposed to.
My hand slides into her hair, tilting her head back as my mouth claims hers again. She kisses me like she’s been waiting, like the teasing already lit her up.
“You like being in my room?” I murmur against her mouth.
Her breath hitches. “Feels… illicit.”
“Good.”
I walk her backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she falls onto it with a soft gasp. I follow her down, kiss a path along her throat, her collarbone, lower. My hands slide under her skirt, thumbs hooking into lace.
“Already wet,” I say quietly. “You thinking about me doing this all night?”
She bites her lip, nods.
I peel her panties down slow, deliberately, letting my knuckles brush her skin just to make her squirm. When I finally sink between her thighs, she arches up, already needy.
My mouth takes her apart. Tongue slow, then ruthless. I want her breathing broken, hands tangled in my hair, hips lifting helplessly as I keep her right on the edge and then shove her over it.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “Alejandro—”
I don’t stop until she comes hard, trembling, breathless, wrecked.
She’s barely caught her breath before she’s pushing me back, crawling up my body with that look—starving, cocky, a little dangerous. She straddles my hips, palms flat on my chest.
I’m still wearing too much. She yanks my shirt up, nails dragging over my abs, smirking when I tense for her. “Still dressed?” she teases. “That’s not very accommodating.”
I grab her wrist, roll my hips up against her ass. “Take what you want, mi vida. We both know you love my cock.”
She peels my shirt off, impatient, biting her lip when she sees the mess of old scars, the cut lines of muscle. She pushes me back, eyes raking over me like she’s memorizing the view for later.
She goes for my belt next—fingers clumsy, desperate—finally frees me, and her hand closes around my dick. She hesitates, mouth parted, pupils blown wide. “Jesus. So fucking big?”
She sinks down, and I have to grit my teeth, grip her hips to keep from slamming up into her like an animal. She gasps, a strangled sound that’s all satisfaction and disbelief. I slide my hand up her side. Thumb gently caressing over the pink scar of her katana injury, still tender sometimes.
“Fuck,” she whimpers, eyes fluttering shut, head thrown back.
I press a hand to her lower back, guiding her. “That’s it, Picarita. Every inch is yours.”
She rides me slow, hips rolling, tight and so goddamn perfect I nearly see stars. Her nails rake down my chest, marking me as hers, and I let her have the illusion of control—for now.
“Look at you,” I growl, voice rough. “On top, thinking you’re in charge. You have no idea, baby.”
She leans in, lips at my ear. “Pretty sure I’ve got you exactly where I want you.”
I snap, flipping her in one brutal motion, pinning her wrists to the bed. “Not a fucking chance. This is where you belong—right here, under me.”
I drive into her hard, deep, every thrust drawing a broken sound from her throat. Our eyes lock, everything hot and desperate and too much to survive.
Her hand flies up, covering her mouth as I thrust deep—her moan caught in her palm. I grin, breath hot against her ear. “What, scared someone might hear you?”
She bites her lip, eyes wide. “You want to get us caught?”
I brush her hair off her neck, press my mouth to the spot just below her ear. “No, mi amor. I want you to try and keep quiet for once in your life.”
She laughs—a soft, trembling sound I swallow with a kiss. My hips move slow, relentless, dragging every breath out of her until she’s writhing, desperate, thighs trembling beneath my hands.
She tries to muffle another moan. I pin her wrists above her head, lips against hers, catching every gasp and whimper before it escapes. “That’s it,” I whisper, voice rough. “Let me have all of it. Give it to me, quiet, right here.”
She nods, eyes glassy, mouth opening beneath mine as I thrust harder, deeper. The bed creaks—too loud—so I pause, teeth gritted, forehead pressed to hers, both of us panting. I ease my hand between us, thumb circling her clit, mouth hovering over hers to steal the sound.
Her body tenses, legs tightening around my waist as she comes, every muscle straining to stay silent. I catch her cry with my mouth, swallowing it whole, fucking her through the aftershocks while her nails dig into my back.
I don’t last—can’t. I bury my face in her neck, breath shuddering, muffling my own groan in her skin as I spill inside her.
We collapse, tangled and breathless, heartbeats thundering in the hush of the house just beyond the door.
Perfect? Not even close. It’s messy, stolen, risk burning on our skin—but that’s what makes it real. And I’d risk it again, every time.
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