Epilogue
AVERY
Eight years later
I’m in the entrance hall, wrangling one of our children into a coat when Kill returns from being on the phone.
I heard him instructing Brandon that he’ll be back in just over a week, and reiterating, again, that his second-in-command mustn’t agree to take on any commitments from the London Maths Club while we’re away.
The mafia aspects of our lives have continued, and where I once was nervous, Kill’s confidence and competence have long since settled me.
“Will Granny make her special baked potatoes?” Ciara, our eldest daughter asks, half-heartedly holding out her arms. “Did you ask?”
This is the important question. Will Granny Sue spoil them?
Is the London Maths Club terrible at maths? Of course Kill’s mother will spoil them rotten.
“If you’re really good, maybe,” I say with a smile as Kill silently takes over from me with putting on Ciara’s coat. I gather up the other jackets and boots we’re taking with us and drop them into a bag.
“If you get back to me without having had any of Granny’s potatoes, I’ll know you haven’t eaten anything,” he says dryly. “You’re not—”
“Really Irish unless you love potatoes,” Ciara finishes with me in a singsong voice. “I know that, Daddy, but what about her special baked potatoes, with the bacon and cheese? She might not make them if you didn’t ask. And I don’t like mashed—”
“I will not hear a word against mashed potatoes,” he cuts her off.
The kids are all going to visit their Irish grandparents—Kill’s parents—for a weeklong trip to Ireland. They see my parents regularly too, and my mum has turned out to be a much more understanding and indulgent grandmother than she was a mother. That’s true of both grandmothers, actually.
Kill and I are leaving the kids in Ireland and going somewhere hot and secluded for him to ravish me and hold me through the whole night without having to get up even once.
Bliss.
I love our children, but sometimes we both need time to spend focused on each other. I’m anticipating a week of sex and walks along the beach and laughter as we indulge ourselves.
“Will we go to our castle?” Ciara asks.
Kill shakes his head before I can answer. “That’s only for visiting with your mam. It’s her castle.”
Our castle. A ruined castle where we picnic, and the kids play, and where Kill has fucked me against the rough, cold stone more than once. It’s where he took me on our final date, and we returned soon afterwards. But he took me as the new owner.
My husband is absurdly indulgent of me. I don’t have to do legal work anymore, spending my time when I’m not being a mother researching my castle’s history.
I’ve started a children’s history club in Archway, too, helping keep all the traditions and understanding alive.
There are a lot of colouring pages involved, but I love it.
“Next time,” I assure Ciara, who looks very cross. “And we’ll play invaders and defenders.”
“Now, have you got your toys all packed?” Kill interrupts what could become tears that Ciara isn’t going to the castle. “Don’t want to forget Muffin, do we?”
Muffin is her plush rabbit with soft fur.
“I’ve got Muffin.” Ciara tosses her hair, castle disappointment forgotten. So confident my little girl. I’m proud of her. And I love that she is secure in her place in the world in a way I never was until I met Kill.
“Is that so? Did you pack her?” he asks.
“Yes.” Ciara’s brows pinch together, and her lips purse.
“I could never have found poor Muffin in the bathroom, then, could I?” Kill did the checks upstairs earlier, and I glance at him questioningly.
“I don’t think so?” Ciara sounds uncertain, then something in my expression must give Kill away, and she goes to take off the shoe I tied for her before putting on the coat. “Mummy, I need to go and check for Muffin!”
“This Muffin?” Kill pulls the plush rabbit from his pocket.
“Muffin!” Ciara exclaims and grabs the toy from him. “Thank you, Daddy!”
“Good save,” I say. Our gazes meet, and despite the very domestic situation, heat sizzles between us. There’s the promise of how we’re going to explode together as soon as we’re alone. Fully alone. That rare thing for parents.
Orla, our middle child, wanders in from the living room. “Can I take the piano?” She’s already in her coat and shoes, her bag packed and by the front door.
There are thumps from above us. Kill narrows his eyes.
“Have you seen Cormac?” I ask.
“He was running around upstairs in only a pair of pants!” Orla says gleefully and smooths down her little dress in an unconscious emphasis of how good she’s being. My sweet kid. I love them all for who they are. Even if that’s trouble.
“Just like his dad.” I grin at Kill.
He raises one eyebrow. “That would explain the noise.”
“Maybe he’s looking to be taught how to behave,” I say playfully.
Kill’s expression goes wolfish. We’ve had our fair share of little role-plays where he’s “punished” me.
There’s always time for us to have some fun together, and I confess, I like it when he takes charge.
I might have embraced being a bit of a brat sometimes.
Being naughty. Just to get a rise out of him.
“I know how to behave,” Orla says from by our knees.
“Do you? Well, then you can have a reward.” Kill scoops up Orla and bounces her in his arms, kissing her cheek with an audible smack, and she giggles, throwing herself at him in a childish excess of emotion.
He cuddles her to his chest, and seeing that makes my heart do a squeezing thing that’s so familiar now.
My family. The family I didn’t know I wanted and had no idea I needed.
“Wait here,” I say to Kill. “I’ll fetch our troublesome little boy.” Because that was definitely what the noise was.
“He is trouble, isn’t he?” Orla says innocently.
“He’s the best sort of trouble,” I say over my shoulder, smiling.
I take the stairs two at a time, and pace quickly down the corridor to our youngest’s bedroom. Cormac is a boy’s boy. Where our girls are into teddy bears, books, and studying, Cormac is mainly into charging in circles with a wooden sword, a ball, or toy cars.
I peek around the open door, and yes. True to form, this time he’s removed his T-shirt—I’m not sure where he gets his inner heat from, I guess it’s the Irish blood—and is toddling up and down the room with the shield and sword. He’s talking to himself.
“Here’s the dragon, rahhh! Dragon!” He makes stabbing motions with the sword. Then he swashes it from side to side.
“Do you need help, brave knight?” I take a step forwards.
“Mummy!” He looks up. “Help save us from the dragon!”
I get down to his level. Serious. There is critical dragon slaying to be done before we can go to Ireland. Thankfully, the plane will wait a few minutes while I play pretend with my boy.
“I have my trusty sword with me.” I mime holding a sword aloft. “Show me, and we will end the beast together!”
“Yes.” Cormac nods eagerly.
“On three. One, two, three!” We both rush forwards, both going “ahhgghh!”
And as we finish the dragon, I reflect that this might be my favourite part of having kids. They’re funny, and unafraid. And I want to help them be everything they can be.
“He’s finished! Gone forever! Well done, young knight.” I snatch up the T-shirt from where Cormac has left it and pick him up. “Your reward is a trip to your ancestors.”
“What are ancestors?” He mispronounces the word.
“Granny and Grandpa.”
His face brightens as we walk downstairs. “Grandpa!”
My heart warms. Kill’s dad might not remember much anymore, but he loves playing with his grandchildren as much as Sue loves cooking for them.
Kill’s eyes light up as we approach, and my heart melts. There’s something I really need to tell him, and this trip is the perfect time.
“Where are you and Mummy going?” Cormac asks Kill when he sees him.
Kill winks at me. “To the place we made you.”
And I wonder if he already knows my news…
Thank you for reading!