Epilogue
One year later.
I ’m planting strawberries today.
Officially, I know way more about strawberries than I ever thought possible.
Firstly, there are four kinds—alpine, June-bearing, everbearing and day-neutral. After much research and consideration, I’ve decided on Quinault strawberries, which are an everbearing variety (this also means they consistently produce fruit throughout the spring and summer instead of just one harvest, but let’s not get too deeply into the weeds).
I like Quinault strawberries because of their deep red color and heart shape, which truly embodies my intention with this whole project.
It’s early morning. The sky is charcoal gray and heavy with rain. It beats against the glass ceiling of my greenhouse and whispers amongst the leaves of the trees in the surrounding forest, like the swishing sound of a drum brush in a luscious jazz melody. Nature serenading me with its opulent soundtrack.
My greenhouse.
Because I own it. On paper. And the modest cottage beside it.
The Royal Order approved that part of Alexander’s proposal surprisingly fast. I’m not sure if he pushed that particular legal addendum because it had special meaning to me, but I’m grateful.
I chose a parcel of real estate that’s about forty minutes outside of Central by car. The nearest local village, Nantshire, is another thirty minutes west. This patch of forest is a kind of no-man’s land and I really like it that way because it feels private . We’re nestled amongst the trees, down a narrow road and overlooking the low-rolling hills synonymous with Eden’s countryside. Roland and Kathryn and the safe house are only fifteen-minutes away.
The door to the greenhouse clicks and swings open behind me. A warm gust of citrusy, earthy wind mixed with rain sweeps across my senses. Alexander is there, dressed handsomely in a button-down, slacks and cute loafers because he has a meeting in Central this morning.
He shakes out the oversized black umbrella dripping with rain water and sets it against the doorframe as it swings shut. “Hi.”
“Hey.”
He stalks toward me and past the elevated beds of vegetables and herbs lining the walkway. “I’m heading out soon. I left the coffee pot on for you. Did you come straight out here this morning?”
“I did.”
“Without tea or coffee?” he muses. “You are very excited about this mysterious project that you refuse to let me in on.”
“I am.” He steps up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder, peeking at the garden compost full of neatly arranged popsicle sticks. I’m measuring and spacing. As of this morning, I have everything that I need to start planting. I got the strawberry plants from a reputable vendor in Bruck first thing. I snuck out of bed before Alexander so I could meet my vendor downstairs and take the plants into the greenhouse to hide them.
Strawberries are Alexander’s favorite fruit. He hasn’t said as much directly, but the context clues are there. I remember how he practically devoured an entire bowl of them the first time we ate at Kat and Roland’s together. He brought them to the vineyard cottage when I was sick, and now, any time we visit a village weekend market, he buys them if they’re in season.
He likes all fruit, really—except for oranges, which I find painfully ironic. I told him that his essence reminds me of oranges and summer. He said that was weird because he almost never eats oranges. Apparently, he doesn’t mind the taste, but dislikes the sticky mess that they make on his fingers.
I told him I make a sticky mess on his fingers all the time, but he still likes me. He told me that was completely different and to stop making weird comparisons. We laughed.
Anyway, I want to surprise him with the strawberries. So I’m keeping it a secret until I know I can harvest them successfully.
“The union meeting tonight is at six, right?” he asks.
“It is. Leoni and Raphael are coming to get me and we’re all going together. Will you be back in time for us to have dinner?”
He sighs. “I hope so. I’ll text you. You know how it goes when I have to stop by the estate.”
I grin. “Yeah, I know.” Lady Victoria Kendrick is on an awkward crusade to re-build her relationship with her son. Alexander isn’t super into it, but he’s polite, of course. He needs more time to heal and that’s okay. I’ve gone with him a handful of times and his mother actually makes an effort to have conversations with me. I think that counts as progress. Although, Alexander did have to tell her immediately that I do, in fact, understand Spanish fluently. Even if I don’t speak it.
After Alexander and I had our Coming Out party, so to speak, a lot happened.
On a positive note, The Summer Fête was a huge success. Instead of the ostentatious show of purebred wealth and privilege that was last year’s celebration, this year showcased local Eden vendors, only. Similar to our party, the streets of Hollywick were filled with purebreds and ranked vamps alike, all peaceably intermingling and buying up the diverse array of goods .
We sold a ton of wine from the vineyard at the event, and we’re on track to have a full harvest season this year with an ample, well-paid staff. I’m still not officially a business owner, but we’re working on it. One fix at a time.
On a shitty note, once he was removed from the Royal Order, Cherrington fled Eden. The bastard packed up his estate house in the night and left. It sits empty now. According to Eden law, if the house sits vacant for five years, the land and property will revert to the Royal Order. Alexander and I are already pushing for the property to be used as another safe house for ranked vampires. The clock is ticking.
On a neutral note, Leoni and Mayor Hart asked if I’d take on a leadership position for the developing union board. I get why they’d want that. Me, partner to the allegorical King of Eden, working with the union in an official capacity. It sends a distinct message. That we’re not abiding by the old-school rules anymore and this new era of Royal Order leadership will be different.
I get it, but I don’t think it’s necessary. Alexander and his peers send that message by themselves with the laws they’re continuously working very hard to change. Plus, I hate politics. I agreed to sit in the union meetings and give my opinion when asked, but having a leadership position sounds like a pain in the ass. No thanks. I’d rather be planting strawberries.
Or playing the piano. Which I do now, two nights a week at the Royal Opera House to a sold-out crowd (for the past two months, mind you).
Alexander never misses a show. If he has time, he even comes to my rehearsals.
He deserves his own personal supply of strawberries.
He deserves the world.
“I really want to know what you’re planting, but I’m trying not to pester you about it.”
“Then don’t. All will reveal itself in due course.”
He wraps his arms tighter around my waist and the wind picks up, sweeping the rain sideways and creating green, blurry waterfalls on the glass surrounding us. He shifts his head to kiss my neck. Helpless to his warmth and scent and sweetness, I close my eyes and raise my chin.
“I also really wish that we could just stay in bed today,” he says, brushing his lips against my skin so that the warmth of his breath makes me shiver. “Rainy days in bed with you are my favorite.”
“Rabbit, don’t do this to me when you need to leave.” I’m protesting, but simultaneously, I arch my lower back into his groin to feel him already hard against my ass. My lips part because the delicious verve and power of his aura makes me lose my breath.
“I would have done this in bed, like usual, but my king got up too early,” he counters, then licks the length of my neck in a sensual and slow stroke. “Why would he do that?”
“ God ,” I groan, writhing against him and painfully aroused. Tasting the warm air and the rain and his essence on my tongue as I inhale.
With his fingers, he pinches and plays with the waist of my sweatpants, driving me even further out of my mind. “Should I touch you?” he asks. The words drifting over me as I tilt my head back in anticipation of what’s to come.
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes…”
He slips his fingers into my underwear and the moment he grips my shaft, I rock my hips because I want more. I want everything and he knows it, but he also knows that I like to be teased. To be driven to the point of madness before he sinks his beautiful fangs into my flesh and takes from me. And yet, he fills me with the unknowable depths of his love and passion. His devotion and truth.
Alexander touches me, but I don’t touch him because my hands are dirty and I kind of like this. Being at his mercy and knowing I can trust him with my whole being. A safety that I never would have thought possible, until him .
When I’m whimpering and squirming like a desperate thing, he whispers again. “Should I feed?”
“Yes,” I exhale. “ Please .”
And he does. Alexander bites down hard because he knows I love the intensity and pressure of it—the feel of his intoxicating power and confidence as he takes me. His fangs plunge into my neck and I relax into him, indulging in his beautiful mind and ferocious energy.
Skillfully, he drives me to the height of pleasure and the orgasm sweeps over me like this tumultuous spring wind. Like this tempest pouring from the sky, giving life and energy to everything it touches.
I cry out, shivering as he feeds and holds me tightly. His body is strong and capable, keeping me upright as he makes a mess of me.
When the intense pleasure softens and turns into a warm glow, Alexander pulls his fangs from my neck and licks the wound clean. I heal faster now, but it still takes a couple seconds. My eye color hasn’t changed at all, but I don’t mind.
We stand together in the rain-soaked silence and the sensation is meditative. As if we’re attuning our shared energy—always entwining ourselves a little more. Our love always shifting deeper.
He touches his forehead to my temple. “Thank you for letting me stay the night.”
I scoff in a laugh. He lives here, without question. But he throws this at me occasionally as a joke because only my name is on the deed to the land. He didn’t care about that at all.
As we untangle ourselves, he pulls his hand from my pants and casually sticks a finger in his mouth, like he was making a cake and got batter on his hand…
Which, he does pretty well, by the way. Bake. His cooking is just okay (this has been the hardest adjustment for him—not having a full-kitchen staff to prepare his every perfect vegan meal), but he’s successfully made blueberry muffins, oatmeal cookies and a whole vegan lemon pound cake. He says it’s because baking is more meticulous and he’s good at following precise instructions, thanks to his mother.
“Where are we going for dinner?” he asks, unabashedly licking his fingers.
I shake my head. This man. “We haven’t discussed it yet.”
“If I’m running late tonight and you all don’t mind waiting, I can bring food back from Central?”
I take hold of his wrist, lean in and kiss his lips, indulging a bit before I step past him on the path, pulling him along with me. “I’ll ask Raph and Leoni, but yes, that sounds nice.” At the door, I pull it open, then take hold of the large umbrella. With Alexander huddled beside me, I raise the umbrella. We link arms, then rush out into the rain and back toward the cottage.
When we step through the side door to the kitchen, the rich aroma of coffee consumes my senses. We slip out of our shoes, as is our custom, then both head over to the sink. We wash our hands together, playfully bumping our hips and grinning like naughty teenagers as the rain taps the glass of the windows.
I need to change my pants and underwear, but I head over to the cabinets to get a mug. Coffee first. This is the beauty of privacy and being comfortable in our home. Being lazy about cleaning up after impromptu sex.
Hearing our movement, Buffy saunters into the kitchen, followed by Willow, a white, long-haired cat that we adopted shortly after we moved into the cottage.
“Hello, ladies, are we doing okay this morning? Did we enjoy our breakfast?” Alexander crouches down, stroking them each in turn. I lean against the counter with my mug of black coffee, marveling at his warmth and goodness. Amazed by the love that radiates from him.
And that he’s mine. Despite everything, we’re here, in a place that neither of us could have ever imagined.
“Did you see that Roland texted us?” Alexander asks, still crouched and petting the cats. “He said the clinic extension is almost finished and that we should come by this weekend to check it out.”
“That’s exciting,” I say, then casually take a sip of my coffee. A thought suddenly pops into my mind. “Question, why did you decide to start volunteering at the safe house? What prompted that?” I think I asked him why forever ago and when he first showed up—back when I was being a rude bitch. Rightfully, he didn’t answer me.
He shrugs. “Oliver said I should help out there, and I needed a change of pace.”
“Interesting.” I take another sip of my coffee.
Thank you, Oliver.
Life. Plans and expectations… you just never know. I have hope, though—which is new for me. Hope, trust and love.
The End