EPILOGUE
MADDOX
THREE MONTHS LATER
Forget the fucking lies we tell children. Most of those are fluffy and forgivable. The real sins are the ones we tell ourselves. Tessa and I were both guilty of that.
The last few months have been both grueling and blissful. It’s no secret that limitations and I don’t get along so well. And recovering from a gunshot wound and multiple lacerations came with a whole host of restrictions. But Tessa managed to reshape each one into a gift.
Every moment I couldn’t be somewhere else or do something I’d planned, she was there with compelling reasons to commemorate our time together, ranging from ranking music—putting her list making to phenomenal use—to binge-watching garbage TV shows, to taking long walks around the halls like senior citizens on a YMCA track.
None of those compared to my personal favorite—offering erotic incentives, which she did often—but the slower pace has had its benefits.
While I’ve been healing physically, she’s been making impressive emotional strides.
She tore the last bit of her guard down, letting me fully in, which is, without a doubt, the greatest honor of my life.
And she sketches more now—some for herself, some for her growing business.
She does all of it proudly though. No hiding.
Sauntering into the tattoo boutique amid a crowded hour, I acknowledge a few of the members getting inked and the employees etching their art on them.
Tessa is standing with her back to me, scrutinizing a design on a computer screen.
One of her coworkers, Callie, beams at me, her gaze trailing to my stunning fiancée.
That’s been a welcome change. The women aren’t really smiling at me anymore—be it respect for my beautiful Nightmare or the sheer terror of her wrath.
They’re rejoicing with Tessa, excited to see her happy. As it should be.
I’ve got Switchfoot in my ears, and she’s lost in her silence. So, I prowl behind her, my hand sleekly sliding over her abdomen to anchor her to me as I bury my face in the crook of her neck and sway my hips, forcing her to dance with me.
Forcing is a stretch. She breaks into that glorious cackle that could rival any platinum record, clutching my wrist and moving with me, before she spins in my arms, yanks an earbud out of my ear, and pops it into hers.
“ ‘Native Tongue.’ Good one. Does this mean …” She lets her question dangle, but the hope is there. The dreams she voices easily now.
I crowd her against the desk, guiding her arms up to my neck so she presses against me while we keep moving to the rhythm. “All clear. I can dance to my heart’s content. So, we’re getting married tomorrow.”
“What’s the holdup?” she asks in that dry bravado of hers. “Twenty-four hours? If you’ve got cold feet, just freaking say it.”
A laugh reserved for her flies out of me, but I weave my fingers into her hair and capture her lips, claiming her like I so often do in front of anyone around.
Her skin flushes, but she maintains the beat to the music only we can hear.
And she matches me stroke for ravenous stroke in an all-consuming tethering.
I even coax a few unbridled purrs out of her.
Halting our tango, I nibble her bottom lip.
“I’d marry you right here, in this tattoo parlor, with me conducting the ceremony since I’m licensed to wed.
” I pause there for effect, and she rolls her eyes, charmed by me as always.
“You made me promise we’d keep it simple, so we will.
But I’ve got someplace to take you today. ”
It’s the one stipulation she’s uttered repeatedly over the last three months—that we not let the wedding feel bigger than the marriage.
She doesn’t want any type of fuss. At first, it concerned me.
But she eventually explained that she’d say the vows if we were in rags and spent our last dime on a marriage license, so she refused to have the momentous occasion marked by extravagance.
I’ve never explicitly told her how much I struggled with people seeing La Lune Noire as a greater prize than me, but somehow, she just gets it.
That’s why we aren’t flying around the world, dining in Paris, or spending a night on a beach now that I’m on the mend. We’ll do those things. I’ll spoil her because I can, but she appreciates simplicity and quiet moments. Those take a lot more intention.
She narrows her eyes, skeptical and eerily perceptive. “You’re going to piss me off.”
“Fitting. Don’t you think?” I wink because our impromptu adventure will indeed infuriate her even though I’m aiming to work around that. “That was the primary emotion you felt while falling in love with me, so it’s not a bad one to guide us through our wedding-day eve.”
She slings a few excuses about having clients, but I had those rescheduled before I walked out of my appointment with Dr. Landry, so I flip off the eye in the sky as her proxy and fuse my lips to hers again, distracting her the entire route to the garage.
I will never tire of kissing this woman.
In my past life, kissing was a means to an end, but with Tessa, it’s an entire destination in itself.
When I plop her down in the passenger seat of the 1967 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 she loves, her cynicism grows.
“You’re postponing our nuptials for a date?” Her forehead crinkles as we each put on our sunglasses, and I back out of the spot. “We’ve spent every day since you were shot glued to each other.”
That’s true, especially since, once I was released from the medical facility, I moved into her suite, which is a floor below the penthouse.
“I thought we agreed to refer to that incident as the day in which I became a thing of legends, slaughtering the masses and harboring a souvenir bullet.”
“Oh, that’s right,” she jeers, rolling the window down so the warm air rushes in on us. “We should play ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ when we share that story.”
I snap my fingers and point at her as I veer onto the main road. “Now, that would’ve been a good fucking theme song. I got all philosophical about that battle being a wall to bust through, so I had Pink Floyd in my head.”
“Well,” she muses with a sardonic lilt, “if we had been better prepared for the ambush, I could’ve skipped the backup and simply stuck to DJing for you.”
“Next time.”
Heat wafts off her, far more oppressive than the balmy breeze, though her tone remains even. “Next time you leave me to stroll into a mob and conduct a knife fight, alone, I’ll run you over too.”
“That seems fair.” I chuckle, squeezing her thigh. “I would expect nothing less.”
It’s a beautiful fall day, and when we park downtown, we even catch a parade. Tessa’s face brightens in awe, still enamored by the exuberance of the Big Easy after all these years, which is precisely why we’re here.
I clutch her hand in mine and guide her into a restaurant she mentioned not long ago.
The downtime during my recovery enabled us to get to know each other even better.
We were already in love and had shared a lot.
But in the past three months, I’ve learned her, come to understand her in ways I’ve never understood anyone, and every piece she gives me feels like a treasure.
“I love this place,” she murmurs, studying the huge carousel in the middle.
It’s a bar fashioned after a merry-go-round from one of those vintage amusement parks, and it actually turns, so we snatch two empty stools, order some food, and relish the sights of the French Quarter from the setting in which she first embraced the city.
We eat and chat, but mostly, we people-watch because that’s what she enjoys.
As I’m paying the check, her gaze sears into me.
“You really just wanted to take me on a date?”
“Yes, and no,” I admit, entwining our fingers to lead her outside and down a few blocks. “I have a few more stops. One that might be kinda dry, so this is foreplay.”
After we cruise through Jackson Square, perusing the street artists’ work and marveling at a jazz band with a lead singer who showcases some impressive scat, we hop back in the car and head out of town.
The air grows fresher, marshy and floral, while my autumn-day playlist ushers our journey.
It doesn’t take Tessa long to catch on. Her hackles rise when I stop at a little market to grab some groceries, but she doesn’t utter a word until she’s certain.
You know what they say about good intentions paving the route to hell.
She hits the pause button on my phone to stop the music. “You’re not seriously driving us out to my parents’ house, are you?”
“I am.” I keep my reply laconic because she’s still processing her emotions.
A full minute passes, and when she finally speaks, there’s a quaver to it. “I told you I was done with them.”
“You did,” I agree, my attention directed at the road so she doesn’t mask herself.
She scoffs, “Okay, so …”
“You also told me that the mere idea of walking away from them left you feeling broken, that you wanted to fight—”
“That was before.” The hurt lacing her retort nearly has me turning around.
“Yeah, it was.” I careen onto her parents’ street, but pull off to the shoulder instead of the driveway, peering at her. “Before everything got flipped upside down and beat to a bloody pulp. But we’re past that.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, I’m not.”
“I don’t mean over what they did or what they said. I mean, we’re past that horrific incident.” I thread my fingers with hers. “But if you aren’t, that’s okay.”
Her chest inflates with a deep breath. “Yeah?”