Epilogue
Nicklas
I t’s Christmas Eve, and the house is quiet except for the slow hiss of logs collapsing in the fireplace. Our girls are asleep, one curled with a stuffed reindeer, the other still clutching Carolina’s hair ribbon like a talisman.
Though Willow usually sleeps in her own bed, tonight she’s sharing with Lily, our youngest. They’re both excited for tomorrow morning and wouldn’t shut up about when Santa would get here. Little do they know their dad is Santa.
I sit on the edge of our bed with my mom’s diary in my hands—the last relic that ever dared mention curses and superstitions. After all these years, the binding is worn smooth at the corners.
The bedroom door opens, and Carolina enters, wrapped in a sexy as fuck negligee, legs bare beneath it. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and the sight of her still catches in my chest, sharp and sweet.
“Is that the last one?” she asks, nodding at the diary in my hands.
I run my thumb along the edge of the book. “Yes.” The word feels heavier than it should, like a confession. “The final record of the Knight curse.”
My Kitten sits beside me, close enough that our thighs press together. She takes the diary, opening it to where my mother’s handwriting flows across the yellowed pages in elegant, troubled lines.
“It feels like ages ago I discovered this old thing,” she grins. Her expression somber. “Nick, are you sure—”
“Yes.” I think of Jack and Ruby—one died and came back, the other claimed by a family disease that ate her from the inside out. “ I’m done letting ghosts dictate how we live. I refuse to let it become Willow’s or Lily’s burden.”
The fire pulses in the hearth, shadows dancing against the wall. Carolina watches me with those eyes that see everythin g—the parts I try to hide, the parts only she gets to touch.
“Then burn it,” she says. “End it tonight.”
I take the diary back, its weight familiar in my palm. Then I walk over to the fireplace, Carolina following. The heat pushes against my skin as I stand before the flames. For a moment, I hesitate. Not because I believe, but because this was hers—my mother’s.
“It’s okay,” my Kitten murmurs, her hand at the small of my back. “She’d understand.”
I toss the diary into the heart of the fire. The leather blackens immediately, curling at the corners like dying flowers. Pages catch and glow, illuminating my mother’s handwriting one last time before ash claims it. The binding cracks, exposing more pages to the hungry flames.
“The curse died with Ruby, or with Jack’s name change,” I say, watching the last of the superstitions burn. “Not because it was real, but because we made it real by believing it.”
My wife’s arms wrap around my waist from behind, her cheek pressed between my shoulder blades. “And now?”
“Now we live,” I say, turning to face her. “No more ghosts. No more curses. Just us.”
The diary collapses in on itself, pages consumed, binding fractured beyond repair. The fire hisses as it devours the last record of the Knight family’s darkest beliefs.
Carolina’s hands slide up my chest, finding their way to the nape of my neck. Her touch grounds me, pulling me back to the present—to her, to us, to the life we built from wreckage.
“So,” she says, lips curving into the smile that still haunts my dreams, “does this mean you’re not dressing as Santa tonight?”
The question breaks through the heaviness, unexpected enough to pull a laugh from my throat. “Only if you’ve been very, very naughty,” I growl, hands finding her waist, tugging her closer.
“I’m always naughty,” she reminds me, pressing her body flush against mine. Her eyes darken with familiar heat. “That’s why you married me.”
I kiss her hard, one hand tangling in her hair, the other sliding beneath the hem of the negligee. She tastes of toothpa ste and promises kept, like every choice that led me here.
She tugs me toward the bed, but I pause, remembering something. “Check your email first.”
“Now?” Her brow furrows, confusion clear in the tilt of her head. “It’s Christmas Eve, Nick.”
“Trust me.”
She huffs but reaches for her phone on the nightstand. I watch her unlock it, navigate to her inbox, find the message I had our lawyers send this morning.
Her eyes widen as she reads, then lift to mine. “The breeding contract is complete?” The playfulness in her voice can’t quite mask the emotion beneath it.
“No more kids,” I murmur against her mouth. “Three would’ve been too many.”
Her smile turns feral as she drops the phone and pulls me down onto the bed. “Agreed,” she says, already working at my belt. “Though that doesn’t mean we can’t keep practicing.”
I lower myself over her, claiming her mouth as she claims my body, the last ash of the diary drifting up the chimney and out into the winter night, taking with it the final shadows of the Knight curse.
Carolina’s scream wakes me before dawn, sharp enough to splinter the dream I’m in. Instinct takes me first—I reach under my pillow for the gun and sprint down the hall, heart hammering with every step.
“Nick! The girls are gone!” she shrieks.
The cold metal of the Glock warms to my palm as I move, barefoot and silent, listening for whatever threat has made my wife cry out.
Every door, every window, every possible entry point flashes through my mind as I calculate how quickly I can eliminate whoever dared enter our home.
The Christmas tree lights cast uneven shadows down the staircase as I descend. I pause at the bottom, eyes scanning for movement, ears straining for sounds of struggle. Nothing but Carolina ’s voice, pitched high with what sounds less like fear now and more like—surprise?
I burst into the living room ready for war, weapon raised, only to find chaos of a different kind. Jack and Eve, uninvited and unapologetic, sitting at our dining table feeding the girls pancakes drowning in syrup.
My daughters giggle, their mouths sticky with sugar, while Eve winks at Carolina, who’s too stunned to speak. Relief floods me so fast it’s almost painful. My body’s still hunting for a target, adrenaline with nowhere to go.
I lower the gun, exhaling a string of curses under my breath that makes Jack smirk wider. “Merry Christmas, brother,” he says, casually as if he hasn’t broken into my home before dawn. “You’re out of maple syrup.”
Eve sits beside him, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her. She’s wearing an oversized Christmas sweater; her hair is completely green this year and hangs loose down her back.
“We brought presents,” she says, nodding toward a pile of packages under the tree that weren’t there when we went to bed.
Carolina recovers first, crossing the room to kiss Jack’s cheek, then Eve’s. “You could have called,” she scolds, but there’s no heat in it.
I second that sentiment with a grunt. If it wasn’t because we don’t get to spend a lot of time together, since my brother and sister-in-law travel with the different Sanctuaries all year long, I’d chew them out for this rude awakening.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Jack asks, sliding a plate of pancakes toward an empty chair. “Besides, Willow and Lily wanted to help make breakfast for their dad. So when they called and asked us to help, we couldn’t say no.”
My older daughter beams at me, face smeared with syrup, utterly delighted by her uncle’s presence. “We called them last week,” she giggles.
“Yes, Uncle Marco helps,” Lily adds.
I set the gun down on a high shelf, out of reach, then take the offered seat. “How did you get in?” I don’t know why I’m asking. If Marco’s in on this impromptu visit, he obviously let them in.
“It wasn’t easy,” Jack says, eyeing the girls . “We had to climb in through a window, and… nah, just kidding. Marco let us in. Giving him a key was clearly an amateur move.”
Looking at my brother now, seeing the ease in his shoulders, the clarity in his eyes, I can feel a knot loosening in my chest that I didn’t realize was there.
“We finished the Sanctuary of Secrets in San Francisco early,” Eve explains, wiping syrup from Willow’s chin. “We sold out every night.”
“And made enough to award three more Willow’s Foundation scholarships,” Jack adds, pride evident in his voice.
Carolina squeezes my shoulder as she moves past me to the coffeepot. Her touch says more than words—she’s glad they’re here, glad to see this piece of our family returned, even if just for a visit.
“Uncle Jack said you used to put tinfoil on your windows,” Willow announces, eyes wide as she looks at me. “To keep out the aliens.”
I arch an eyebrow at my brother, who shrugs innocently. “Just sharing family stories.”
“That never happened,” I sigh.
“Says you,” Eve adds, deadpan, and Jack laughs, the sound filling the kitchen with a warmth I didn’t realize I’d missed.
We eat together, laughter and stories filling the room. Eve describes the stray cat that’s adopted them, a one-eyed tabby they’ve named Cyclops.
“He sleeps on Jack’s chest every night,” she says, and the image of my brother—the man who once tortured information out of people without blinking—cuddling a cat is almost too much to process.
Willow climbs into Jack’s lap, sticky hands clinging to his shirt as she demands to know if they have Christmas trees in San Francisco. Or, as she called it, Sanny Franiso. He assures her they do.
“And Santa always stops by,” he tells her solemnly.
I watch them, this strange, cobbled-together family of ours. Carolina leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand, her smile soft as she observes Eve helping Lily with tiny bites of pancake. The tension that’s lived in my shoulders since Jack left New York finally eases.
The morning light strengthens, filtering through the windows and catching on the ornaments of our Christmas tree. Willo w giggles at something Eve whispers in her ear, and Jack’s smile—genuine, unguarded—makes him look younger than I’ve seen him in years.
It feels like family again. Not perfect, not unmarked by the scars we all carry, but real. Present. Alive.
Later, when the girls are sated and Carolina has Eve trapped in conversation about the Sanctuary’s expansion plans, I drive Jack out to Ruby’s grave. The cemetery is empty on Christmas Day, paths barely cleared of snow, silence deeper than any church I’ve ever entered.
Ruby’s headstone stands apart from the family plot—Jack bought it for her. I used to feel guilty I hadn’t thought of it, but it doesn’t matter. Here, in death, she finally got to be only herself.
The snow is thin here, clinging to the stones, melting where the winter sun touches it. Jack carries a small bundle of red roses. He kneels to brush snow from the base of the headstone before laying them down, his movements careful, almost reverent.
I stand beside him, hands in my pockets, watching my breath cloud in the cold air. We don’t speak at first. Don’t need to. The quiet between us has always said more than words.
“Hey, Rubes,” Jack finally says, his voice low but steady. Not like the first time we visited, when his words broke apart before they left his mouth. “Merry Christmas.”
I smile at the greeting, so normal, as if she might answer back. “The girls are getting big,” I add, continuing our tradition of talking to her like she’s listening. “Willow’s into dinosaurs now. Carries this little T-Rex everywhere. Carolina says she gets her obsessiveness from me.”
Jack laughs softly. “Definitely not from me.” He adjusts the roses, making sure they won’t blow away.
The wind picks up, carrying the scent of pine from nearby trees. I study my brother’s profile, the steadiness in him that wasn’t there even a year ago. Not just the absence of rage, but the presence of something else—purpose, maybe. Peace.
“Will you ever come back?” I ask the question I’ve been holding since he left. “To New York, I mean. For good.”
Jack stands, brushing snow from his knees. He meets my gaze directly, no evasion, no calculated response. “We cl osed on a house last week,” he says. “Here in New York.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s an old Victorian,” he continues. “Needs work, but Eve loves it. Apparently our fortune teller told her it has good bones.” His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “Considering our professions, that’s probably not the best way to describe it.”
The joke lands between us, unexpectedly light. I find myself laughing, the sound strange in the solemn quiet of the cemetery.
“You’re happy,” I say. Not a question but an observation.
He considers this, his gaze drifting back to Ruby’s grave. “I’m… at peace,” he says finally. “With what happened. With what I did.” His shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “Eve helps. She understands the dark parts without trying to fix them.”
I think of Carolina, how she sees my shadows but never flinches from them. How she accepts the violence in my blood without letting it define me.
“I get that,” I tell him.
Jack nods, knowing I do. We stand in companionable silence, two brothers bound by blood and memory, by the sister we mistakenly thought needed safety. But that’s not what Ruby needed. She wanted to be free, and now she is.
“So, Mr. Mortis,” I tease. “Does your house have spare rooms?”
He rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Of course it does. But they’re for Willow and Lily. We don’t want kids.”
“Good,” I reply. “That means you have time to babysit mine.”
He shudders theatrically. “Eve’s already planning to convert the sunroom into a playroom for them.”
I burst out laughing. “Fair warning, Willow will bring her entire dinosaur collection.”
“Eve will help her name them all,” he grins.
I laugh again, the sound less jarring this time against the quiet of the cemetery. We turn back toward the car, but Jack pauses for one more look at Ruby’s grave.
“She’d be glad,” he says softly. “That we’re both okay. That we found our way.”
I think of our sister—her fi erce independence. “Yeah,” I agree. “She would.”
When we reach the car, I smirk at my brother. “I wasn’t joking about babysitting, by the way.”
“Oh?” He narrows his eyes, probably guessing I have something planned from the tone I’m using.
“The next Sanctuary of Secrets starts December twenty-seventh, and I have plans for my Kitten.”
This is officially the end of the Knight siblings. Unofficially… who knows if they'll ever pop up at the Sanctuary of Secrets.