Epilogue
. . .
One month later
Dagger
The ring burns a hole in my pocket, has been burning there for days while I waited for the perfect moment.
I bought it a week ago, knew the second I saw it that it was the one—a cushion-cut diamond surrounded by smaller stones, substantial without being gaudy, bright enough to catch every light but not so ostentatious that she'd be uncomfortable wearing it to wrangle kindergarteners.
Perfect, like her. It's been killing me to keep it secret, especially since I've never been able to hide anything from her.
She reads me too well, sees right through my defenses like they're made of glass.
A month since the fire. A month since I carried her from the flames and into my life. A month that's changed everything.
I was hollow before her. Didn't even know it, but I was. Going through the motions—work, eat, sleep, repeat. No connections that mattered. No one who saw past the surface. Just empty spaces I filled with routine and duty.
Now those spaces overflow with her—her laughter in the kitchen, her clothes in my closet, her scent on my sheets. Her heart beating alongside mine, steadier and truer than I deserve.
Tonight's the night. I've planned everything—dinner at home (she hates fancy restaurants, gets self-conscious about her size despite how many times I've told her, shown her how perfect her body is), her favorite wine, candles.
But the centerpiece of my plan sits on the bed, waiting for the right moment—a teddy bear, nearly identical to the one she clutched the night of the fire. The night everything changed.
It took three toy stores to find one similar enough, another day to work up the courage to take scissors to its belly, creating a small pocket where the ring now rests.
It's sentimental, maybe even cheesy, but I need her to understand how completely that night altered my universe.
How finding her in that burning room was like finding a piece of myself I never knew was missing.
My hands aren't steady as I light the candles, arrange the food I've spent all afternoon preparing.
My heart pounds with an unfamiliar rhythm—not fear, exactly, but something adjacent to it.
Not doubt—I've never been more certain of anything—but awareness of how much this matters. How much she matters.
She's working late, parent-teacher conferences. Said she'd be home by seven. My eyes check the clock for the twentieth time in as many minutes. 6:52. Soon.
The key turns in the lock right on time. She enters with a tired smile that blooms into something brighter when she sees the candlelit table, the food, the flowers.
"What's all this?" she asks, setting down her teacher's bag, kicking off her sensible shoes.
"Just wanted to do something special," I tell her, crossing the room to take her in my arms. She melts against me, fitting perfectly despite our size difference. "Rough day?"
She nods against my chest. "Long day. But better now."
I lead her to the table, pull out her chair, pour her wine. Watch her face as she takes in the spread—all her favorites, prepared exactly as she likes them. Her smile is worth every hour in the kitchen, every YouTube cooking tutorial, every burned attempt discarded in the trash.
"This is amazing," she says, taking a sip of wine, color returning to her cheeks. "What's the occasion?"
"Do I need an occasion to spoil my girl?"
She laughs, the sound filling the apartment, filling me. "No, but you're being suspiciously romantic. Should I be worried?"
"Never," I answer, reaching across the table to take her hand. "You never need to worry with me."
We eat, she tells me about her day, about five-year-olds with missing teeth and helicopter parents and the politics of the teachers' lounge.
I listen, entranced as always by the animation in her face, the kindness in her voice even when recounting frustrations.
She was meant to teach children—has the same patience, the same genuine interest, the same nurturing instinct with them that she shows with me.
When dinner's finished, when she's relaxed and smiling and no longer carrying the weight of her workday, I know it's time.
"Got something for you," I say, standing from the table, holding out my hand. "In the bedroom."
Her eyebrows rise suggestively. "Is that so?"
I laugh, genuine and easy—another thing she's given me, this ability to laugh without restraint. "Not that. Not yet, anyway. Come on."
She takes my hand, follows me to our bedroom. The teddy bear sits in the middle of the bed, looking ordinary and extraordinary all at once. Her eyes land on it, confusion evident in her expression.
"A teddy bear?"
"Not just any teddy bear," I tell her, picking it up, holding it out. "Look familiar?"
She takes it, studies it. Recognition dawns. "It's like the one I had during the fire. The one Jason gave me."
I nod, throat suddenly tight. "You were holding it when I found you. When our lives changed."
Her eyes fill with tears as she clutches the bear to her chest, exactly as she did that night. The sight punches me in the gut—her softness, her emotion, her immediate connection to the memory that binds us.
"Feel inside," I urge, my voice rougher than intended. "There's something in there for you."
She gives me a questioning look but obeys, her fingers finding the small opening I've created in the bear's seam. Her brow furrows as she feels something inside, pulls it out.
The ring catches the light as it emerges, diamond sparkling between her fingers. Her breath catches audibly, her eyes flying to mine.
"Dagger," she whispers, my name a question and an answer all at once.
I drop to one knee before her, taking the ring from her trembling fingers. Every word I've rehearsed evaporates, leaving only raw truth.
"I found you in the fire, but you saved me," I tell her, my voice steadier than it has any right to be.
"You brought light and warmth and meaning into a life that was cold and dark and empty.
I need you with me, beside me, mine in every way possible.
Marry me, Connie. Be my wife, my partner, my forever. "
Tears spill down her cheeks, but her smile is radiant through them. "Yes," she says without hesitation. "Yes, Dagger. Yes."
I slide the ring onto her finger—a perfect fit, as I knew it would be. I've memorized every inch of her body, know the circumference of her finger as intimately as I know the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist.
She throws her arms around my neck, nearly toppling me backward with the force of her embrace. I stand, lifting her with me, her feet leaving the ground as I spin her in a circle of pure joy.
"Mine," I growl against her hair, the word punched out of me by the force of emotion. "Forever mine now."
"Yours," she agrees, pulling back enough to look at me, her eyes bright with tears and something else—something that looks like the same savage happiness tearing through my chest. "And you're mine."
I claim her mouth in a kiss that tries to express everything words can't—my devotion, my gratitude, my absolute certainty that she is everything I will ever need or want. She responds with equal fervor, her hands tangling in my hair, her body pressing against mine with urgent need.
We tumble onto the bed, the teddy bear forgotten as clothing falls away, as skin meets skin with familiar electricity. There's a frenzied quality to our movements, an urgency born of overwhelming emotion. I need to claim her, to mark her, to physically demonstrate the commitment we've just made.
"My fiancée," I murmur against her throat, tasting the salt of her skin. "Going to be my wife."
She moans as my hands find her breasts, my mouth trailing fire down her body. "Yes," she gasps. "Yes, yes, yes."
It becomes a litany between us—yes with each touch, each kiss, each movement that brings us closer to completion and to each other.
When I finally enter her, when our bodies join in the most intimate way possible, the pleasure is almost secondary to the emotional connection—the knowledge that this woman is mine, will always be mine, has agreed to wear my ring and take my name and share my life.
We move together with practiced synchronicity, every touch, every kiss bringing us closer to the edge.
When she comes, it's with my name on her lips, her body clenching around mine in pulses that draw my own release from me with stunning force.
I follow her over the edge, emptying myself inside her with a roar that's part pleasure, part primal claim.
In the aftermath, I gather her close, unwilling to break our connection just yet.
Her body is soft and yielding against mine, her breath warm against my chest. The ring sparkles on her finger where her hand rests over my heart—a visible symbol of what I've known since the moment I saw her huddled on that smoke-filled floor.
Mine. Forever.
I trace lazy patterns on her back as her breathing evens out, deepens into sleep. She trusts me enough to fall asleep in my arms, completely vulnerable, completely safe. The knowledge fills me with fierce protectiveness, with tenderness so acute it's almost painful.
Even in sleep, she's breathtaking—her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, her hair a tumble of soft waves across my pillow. My pillow. Our pillow now. The distinction matters. Everything is ours now—not mine, not hers, but shared. Two lives completely intertwined.
I never believed in fate before her. Never believed in soulmates or destiny or any of that romantic bullshit that people use to explain the inexplicable.
But I believe now. Because nothing else explains how completely this woman fits me, completes me.
How finding her that night altered every molecule of my being, rearranged my priorities, shifted my world on its axis.
Some might call it too fast. Too intense. Too much. But they haven't felt what I feel when I look at her—this bone-deep certainty that I was meant to walk into that burning building, meant to find her, meant to carry her to safety and keep her at my side forever.
I press a kiss to her forehead, breathe in the scent of her hair. She sighs in her sleep, nestles closer, one leg thrown possessively over mine. Even unconscious, she's claiming me, marking her territory. The thought makes me smile.
Tomorrow she'll go back to teaching her kids, back to shaping young minds with that infinite patience of hers.
And I'll go back to the firehouse, back to my team, back to the job that led me to her.
But everything will be different now, because she'll be wearing my ring.
Because the world will know what I've known since that first night—that this soft, perfect woman belongs to me.
The thought sends a fresh surge of possessiveness through me, makes me tighten my arms around her sleeping form.
She's mine to protect, to cherish, to love for the rest of our lives.
The ring is just confirmation of what was already true, what has been true since I first saw her—since I lifted her into my arms and felt the universe click into place.
Fiancée today. Wife soon. Mine forever.
As I drift toward sleep, her heartbeat steady against mine, I make silent promises—to cherish her, to protect her, to never take for granted the miracle of finding her in the flames. To love her with every breath, every heartbeat, every moment we're given together.
She was mine from the first moment I saw her. Now everyone will know it. Now it's official. Now it's forever.
And forever still won't be long enough.
Hey there, you gorgeous reading machine!
First of all, THANK YOU for spending your precious time with my characters and letting me take up space in your brain for a while. You could’ve been doing literally anything else—like scrolling social media or alphabetizing your spice rack—but instead, you chose this. And I love you for it.
Now, let me let you in on a little secret: I’m basically the romance writing equivalent of a shapeshifter. One author, multiple personalities. Here are the pen names I write under:
Emma Bray — steamy contemporary romance that’s all heart eyes and heat
Kenzie Skye — spicy romantasy and paranormal goodness—magic, monsters, and all the feels
DAHLIA — downright filthy, dirty, naughty erotic romance (It’s okay if you like it. I won’t tell. )
E.B. Fox — dark, broody, edge-of-your-seat romance for when you want to walk on the wild side
As a thank-you, you’ll get a free book you can’t find anywhere else. (Check out this preview to get a sample of it.)