Epilogue Part One
Maddo x
ONE YEAR LATER
The air this high up in the San Bernardino peaks is thin enough to sting, tasting of crushed pine needles and the sharp, clean promise of a coming winter. It’s a world away from the heavy, oil-slicked heat of Los Angeles.
Down there, the sun is likely a hazy, smog-filled orange, but up here, it’s a pale silver, filtering through the dense canopy of ancient firs like light through a cathedral window.
I step out onto a trail of black wood planks that snakes through the damp ferns. I pause for a second, adjusting the cuffs of my suit, my heart doing a slow, heavy roll in my chest. A year ago, I didn’t think I’d be standing in a forest; I didn’t think I’d be standing anywhere at all.
After Rylen took Nathyn’s life in that basement, the world should have ended. It should have been sirens and bloodstains and life sentences. Instead, it was a new beginning.
Tristan had been the one to step up then. I’d always sensed he was a good man, but seeing the way he handled the aftermath for us—with a quiet, steady grace and the kind of high-level connections that only someone as genuinely respected as him could possess—was a revelation .
He didn’t do it out of a thirst for power; he did it because he cared about Felicia, and by extension, us.
Now, Tristan is a major shareholder in the club. He brought a softer, more sophisticated touch to the business, shifting the focus away from the gritty survival of the underground and toward something truly elegant.
We still have our secrets, but the atmosphere has changed. The club doesn’t feel like a cage anymore; it feels like a legacy worth having. The forest here has been transformed into a reflection of that new life—something beautiful, haunting, and entirely ours.
I walk deeper into the clearing, the silence only broken by the wind whistling through the high branches and a low, rhythmic hum coming from a structure up ahead.
As the trees part, a soft white glow cuts through the mountain shadows. It’s a neon sign, mounted onto an arch of blackened driftwood and twisted ivy that reads:
Til Death.
The words vibrate in the cool air, casting a sharp light over our small, strange inner circle.
Deep forest green velvet drapes over heavy wrought-iron benches that line the path, and black baccara roses are tucked into every crevice of the stone. It’s a gothic sanctuary, far from the neon glare of the city.
Astrid is there, looking sharp and elegant in black silk, her posture as professional as ever even as she clutches a bouquet of dark calla lilies. She reaches out and gives my hand a small squeeze as I walk past, her eyes shining with that motherly affection I’ve always cherished about her .
Across the aisle from her, Felicia is draped over Tristan’s arm. She looks like a queen in her element, but as I get closer, I see her head tilt, her eyes narrowing at Tristan’s face.
Tristan—usually the most composed and gentle soul I know—is a mess. His eyes are glassy, a single tear tracking down his cheek as he watches me approach.
“Are you actually weeping ?” Felicia whisper-yells, her voice a sharp, amused blade in the stillness.
Tristan doesn’t even look at her; he just dabs at his eyes with a dark handkerchief, his other hand tightening softly on her waist.
“I can’t help it, Flick,” he murmurs, his voice thick with genuine emotion. “Just look at him! Look at how far they’ve come.”
Felicia rolls her eyes, but she leans her head against his shoulder for a fleeting second, her hidden affection for his sweetness shining through.
I return my gaze to the end of the black planks, and the breath leaves my lungs in a rush; Rylen has emerged, standing under the white glow of the sign. He’s wearing a forest-green suit so dark it’s almost black, his hands clasped in front of him.
For the first time since I’ve known him, he isn’t scanning the perimeter.
He isn’t looking for threats, checking for exits, or calculating the distance to the nearest weapon.
He looks like he was carved from the mountain itself—solid, unmoving, and entirely at peace. And he’s looking directly at me .
The wall of glass he used to hide behind has shattered completely. There is no distance left, no shadows to retreat into. There is only the clarity of a man who has finally stopped running.
I stop under the arch, my legs feeling heavy and light all at once. He reaches out, his hand steady and warm as he takes mine.
When he touches me, the last of the city’s grit feels like it’s been washed away. His skin is rough against my palms, a familiar grounding force that has steered me through every storm of this past year.
The celebrant prompts us to begin our vows. I don’t need the paper tucked in my pocket. I’ve been rehearsing this since I was thirteen years old, even though I didn’t know it yet.
“Rylen, I’ve spent so long trying to find the words for what we are,” I say, my voice caught in the mountain breeze, sounding stronger than I feel.
“The truth is, meeting you was like listening to a song for the first time and knowing it would be my favourite. I didn’t have to learn the lyrics; I just knew the melody was written for me. I love you, Rylen James Wilson—in this life, and whatever ones follow.”
Rylen’s jaw works, a muscle leaping in his cheek as he fights for his own composure. He’s never been one for theatrics or long, flowery speeches. He doesn’t need them.
He leans in until our foreheads touch, his breath ghosting over my lips, hot and certain in the cold mountain air .
“You were the only home I’ve ever had, Maddox,” he murmurs, his voice thick with a decade of unspoken promises. “And I’m finally staying where I belong.”
We exchange our wedding bands—heavy, brushed black tungsten that feels like a permanent anchor.
As I slide his onto his finger, the silver mountain light catches the ‘Til Death’ engraved in the inner band, a secret promise pressed against his skin forever.
When we say our ‘I dos’, Ry pulls me in for the kiss —it isn’t the desperate survival of the basement or the frantic hunger of our first time. It’s slow and deliberate. It’s the sound of a door finally locking shut, keeping the world out, and us in.
A loud, choked sob breaks the silence behind us.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Felicia groans, though she’s smiling now, her own eyes suspiciously bright.
“Astrid, give Tristan your bouquet to cry into, before he causes a flash flood and sweeps us all off the mountain.”
Rylen pulls back just enough to smirk at me, his eyes full of a light I never thought I’d see in a man like him. He hooks his arm through mine, turning us toward our small, chosen family.
The ghosts are gone. The debts are paid. And we aren’t running anymore.