Epilogue Part Two
Rylen
The cabin of the private jet is silent, save for the low, steady hum of the engines that I am currently convinced are about to fail. I’m gripping the leather armrests so tight my knuckles are white, my jaw locked in a permanent clench.
I hate being in the air. I hate that I’m not in control of the altitude, the speed, or the physics keeping this metal tube from plummeting into the Atlantic.
“Ry, breathe. You’re scaring the flight attendant,” Maddox’s voice cuts through my mental catastrophe.
I cut a sharp glare toward him. He’s lounging in the seat beside me, looking disgustingly comfortable with a glass of scotch in one hand and a relaxed smirk on his face.
“I’m not scared. I’m observant. There’s a vibration in the left wing that wasn’t there ten minutes ago,” I growl.
Maddox lets out a bright, genuine laugh that echoes through the cabin. “There is no vibration, you grizzly bear. You’ve been staring at that wing for the past ten hours like you’re trying to intimidate it into staying attached.”
“Well, it’s working, isn’t it?” I grumble, shifting my weight.
He just shakes his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners. I try to stay annoyed—I really do—but then the light from the cabin window catches the brushed black band on his ring finger.
Maddox Wilson—my husband .
The word ‘husband’ hits me like a weight to the chest every time I think it.
For thirteen years, I was a ghost watching him from the shadows, convinced that the best I could offer him was a clean trail and a silent protector.
Now, he’s taken my name. He’s bound to me by more than just history and blood; he’s mine by choice. I find myself staring at him in a way that feels dangerously close to worship, wondering how the hell a man like me ended up with a light like him.
“Stop it,” he murmurs, his smirk softening into something more tender.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like I’m a miracle! I’m just a guy who’s about to make you go through customs on your honeymoon,” he laughs again, and the sound makes my heart swell.
“You are a miracle,” I mutter, finally letting go of the armrests to reach for his hand. He tangles our fingers together, and the flight-induced panic finally begins to settle.
A few hours later, we’re deep in the heart of the English countryside, a place of rolling green hills that looks nothing like the rugged peaks of the San Bernardino’s or the neon sprawl of LA.
We’re walking along a crumbling stone wall near a small, quiet village when Maddox stops. He looks out over the landscape, his expression uncharacteristically guarded .
“My mum used to take me to a park not far from here,” he says quietly. The wind catches his hair, pulling at the strands, “before the cancer got too bad. It was the last place we lived together.”
I stay silent, letting the weight of his words settle. He always said that he didn’t remember much about her, just that she’d died when he was really little.
“I’ve never told anyone this,” Maddox continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not Felicia, not even Astrid, but I was born here , Rylen. I’m a dual citizen. My dad was American, but my mum was from here.” he says, solemnly.
I’ve known Maddox since we were kids sharing a cigarette behind a dumpster in juvie, yet I never knew he’d started his life in a place this soft; this quiet.
His throat catches on the admission, the truth finally breaking air. I start to speak, to offer some kind of anchor, but he waves me off—a silent, desperate plea to let the rest of it out before he loses his nerve.
“After she died… dad, he couldn’t stand the memories.
He packed up our entire life and moved us back to the States when I was five.
He tried to scrub the accent out of me, tried to make me forget.
But I still remember the way the rain felt when mum and I splashed in puddles.
I remember the feeling I got every time she called me ‘love’. ”
I step into his space, my chest aching for the five-year-old boy who lost his world and was forced to pretend it never existed.
I reach out, cupping his jaw, my thumb tracing the line of his cheek and his eyes fall closed like all the grief and love was resurfacing now that he’d opened the old wound .
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, not out of hurt, but out of a desperate need to know every single piece of him and to protect him from the hurt in any way I can.
“Because it was the only thing I had left of her that was just mine. And the only part left of me that hadn’t been touched by juvie, or the streets, or the club.
I think… I think I was saving it for someone I knew wouldn’t leave.
” He opens his eyes, looking at me with a vulnerability that floors me.
“I’m not going anywhere, Mads,” I promise, leaning forward to press my forehead against his. “I’ve spent half my life following you. I’m never letting you go again.”
“I know,” he smiles, and this time it reaches all the way to his eyes. “That’s why I brought you here. I wanted you to see where it all started.”
I pull him into a kiss that tastes like the damp English air and a decade of waiting. The silence of the countryside stretches between us, heavy with the weight of what he’s just handed me.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice rough. I pull him flush against my chest, my arms wrapping around his waist like I’m trying to shield him from the ghosts of his own past.
“For letting me be a part of this. For letting me see the part of you that you kept tucked away from the rest of the world.”
He turns in my grasp and I pull back just enough to look at him, my hands cupped around his face. The wind has turned his nose pink, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears, but he doesn’t look like a victim. He looks like a survivor.
“Your mum would be so fucking proud of you, Mads,” I murmur, and I mean it with every cell in my body. “The man you’ve grown into… the way you’ve carved out a life from nothing. She’d be lucky to know you.”
Maddox lets out a shaky breath, his hands coming up to cover mine, pressing my palms harder against his skin. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
He gives me a small, watery smile, and the vulnerability shifts. The air between us thickens, turning from heavy sentiment into something sharper, something electric. He’s looking at my mouth now, his pupils blowing wide until his eyes are almost entirely black.
“Take me back to the cottage, Ry,” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m done being sentimental. I just want you.”
The second the door to the stone cottage clicks shut, I don’t give him a chance to breathe. I pin him against the heavy oak wood, my mouth crashing into his with a hunger that’s only grown more ravenous since we said I do.
Maddox groans into my throat, his hands frantic as they tear at my jacket, pushing it off my shoulders. I’m just as desperate, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt until the fabric gives way. I need to feel him. All of him.
I lift him up, his legs instantly wrapping around my waist, and carry him toward the bed. We fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothes. The air in the room is cold, but where our skin meets, it’s a goddamn furnace.
I’m over him in seconds, my hands roaming over every inch of him like I’m trying to memorise him all over again. I trail my mouth down his chest, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin of his stomach until he’s arching off the sheets, his fingers buried deep in my hair.
“Ry, please,” he gasps, his head tossing back.
I don’t make him wait. I reach for the drawer of the nightstand, grabbing what we need. My movements are fast, practised, but fuelled by a heat that feels brand new every time I touch him.
I slick my fingers, working him open with a deliberate, agonising slowness that has him whimpering my name like a prayer.
“I’ve got you,” I mutter against his skin, my voice a low growl. He moans in response, fingernails biting into the flesh on my shoulders in a desperate attempt to drag me closer.
I line myself up, my heart thundering against my ribs, and push inside. He’s tight, hot, and perfect, stretching to take me as he lets out a long, broken moan as I bottom out inside him.
I stay still for a heartbeat, buried deep, just watching the way his eyes flutter and his chest heaves.
Then I start to move—driving into him, my pace relentless, targeting that spot that makes him cry out. Every thrust is a promise; every gasp is an admission.
“Harder, Rylen. Fuck… right there.” Maddox begs while reaching back up, his hands clutching my shoulders, his nails digging red welts into my back.
I lose it then, picking up the pace, my vision blurring as the friction builds into a white-hot coil in my gut. I watch the way his body reacts to mine—the flush on his skin, the way he bites his lip to keep from screaming.
He’s mine. He’s my husband, my life, my home.
“Eyes on me,” I command, my voice straining. He opens his eyes, focused entirely on me, and I see the reflection of my own undoing in them. We’re both right on the edge, teetering over the cliff.
The bed isn’t enough. I need him upright, pinned against the heavy mahogany dresser that sits against the far wall.
I haul him up, turning him around and forcing his chest down against the cold wood. He groans as the impact rattles the surface, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the polished edge.
“What are you—“ Maddox’s words die on a moan; the dresser rattling as I thrust back deep inside him, the heavy wood thudding rhythmically against the stone wall.
Our naked, lean bodies are covered in a slick layer of sweat, the heat between us a sharp contrast to the damp English air outside.
I reach forward, my hand gripping onto his shoulder blade while my other holds onto his hip, keeping us pressed together as I work into him with a relentless, punishing pace.
“Look at us, Mads,” I growl, my voice thick and vibrating through my chest. I grab his chin, forcing his head up toward the massive, ornate floor mirror leaning against the wall just a few feet away. In the silvered glass, the image is raw and undeniable.
“Keep your eyes on the mirror,” I rasp, my breath hot against the back of his neck as I watch the way his body arches under mine. “I want you to watch how pretty you look when you take my cock.”
Maddox’s breath hitches, a broken, high-pitched sound escaping him as he looks.
“That’s so fucking hot,” he gasps, seeing the flush of his own skin, the way his muscles bunch and pull with every heavy drive, and the sheer, possessive intensity in my expression as I stare him down through the reflection.
Seeing it—actually seeing the way I’m opening him up—shatters the last of his control.
His fingers dig into the mahogany, his knuckles white, as he watches himself being undone in the glass. He doesn’t look away, even when the pleasure peaks and his vision starts to blur.
“Fuck, Ry… harder,” he whimpers, his gaze locked on our reflection, mesmerised by the sight of his own undoing.
The friction is a white-hot spark, building in the base of my spine until I can’t breathe. I watch his expression crumble in the mirror—the moment the pleasure turns to something too intense to bear—and I know we’re almost done.
He stays locked on our reflection until his back goes rigid, a choked cry tearing from his throat as he finally spills over.
I follow him a second later, a guttural groan echoing off the rafters as I bury myself as deep as our bodies will allow, anchoring us both to the spot, and feel the thick ropes of cum empty inside him.
I collapse onto him, my breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches.
“Fuck, love, that was—” Maddox swallows, trying to catch his breath .
“Incredible,” I whisper, lifting his spent body up off the dresser and carrying him over to the bed with me.
The stone cottage eventually grows quiet. The only sound is the crackle of the dying embers in the hearth and the steady, synchronised rhythm of our breathing.
I pull Maddox back against me, his skin still radiating heat, my arm draped over his chest as if to anchor him there forever.
This is the end of the road we’ve been walking for thirteen years. The blood, the juvie bunks, the cold nights in LA, and the ghosts of people who tried to tear us apart—it all feels like a different life now. As if it was a story written about someone else.
Maddox shifts, turning in my arms to look at me.
His eyes are soft, the sharp edges of his survival instincts finally blunted by the peace we’ve fought for.
He doesn’t say anything; he just takes my hand, tracing where the “Til Death” is engraved inside my ring with his thumb, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.
We’re miles from home, in a country I barely know, but as I hold him against me, I realise I’m right where I need to be.
Maddox shifts, his hand coming up to stroke the back of my neck. “Still a nervous flyer, love?” he whispers, his voice sleep-heavy and satisfied.
I let out a soft huff of a laugh, kissing the side of his head. “As long as you’re the one landing with me, Mads… I’ll follow you anywhere.”