Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
Mrs. Erin Bachman
The first thing I hear every morning is a delivery truck.
Not gunfire.
Not security.
Not Lucian barking orders.
A delivery truck.
It backs into the alleyway up the street at six fifteen every morning with a beep-beep-beep that makes my husband threaten murder from beneath our duvet.
This is my favorite part of our happily ever after.
“Make it stop,” Lucian mutters.
I open one eye. Sunlight pushes through the curtains of our townhome. Our townhome.
Not a penthouse. Not Iceland. Not a fortress hidden on a cliff.
Home.
Three floors of old brick and warm wood in the rebuilt Bachman Village. Across the narrow lane, on the public street, I’m sure the windows in Cass’s bakery are already glowing. Next door, I can picture the black-and-gold sign for Bachman Jewelers as it catches the morning light.
The delivery truck beeps again.
Lucian growls.
I smile into the pillow. “You could buy him a quieter truck.”
“I could buy the company and extinguish it.”
“Growth.”
“I am in bed. Growth begins after coffee.”
Coffee wouldn’t cure his reflex. I know the sound the truck makes is more about the trigger than the annoyance.
He’ll never stop protecting me.
I love being reminded of this fact.
I roll toward him. His hair is a mess.
I love that too.
No one else gets to see Lucian Bachman with bedhead like a child.
That might be my greatest luxury.
He opens one eye. “Why are you staring?”
“Obsessing,” I say.
He grins, closing his eyes. “That’s my thing.”
“I’ve adapted.”
His hand slides around my waist. My wedding ring presses between us.
Thin gold band. Four-carat princess-cut diamond.
Inside:
MINE
I still take it off sometimes just to read it.
Ridiculous. Perfect.
Mine.
Someone rings on a screen on the wall beside my side of the bed.
Lucian’s eyes close. “No.”
Another ring.
“Do not answer that.”
Then Ryan’s voice comes over the speaker. “Aunt Rin! Mom says you have to come taste something!”
I laugh. Lucian pulls the pillow over his face, mumbling a muffled, “No way, Ryan.”
“Be right there,” I say.
“He has a mother.” He grumbles. “Can she dissuade him from calling so early?”
“His mother let him call.”
“Then this is a coordinated attack.”
I climb out of bed.
Lucian catches the hem of my sleep shirt. “Where are you going?”
“Bakery.”
“No.”
I stare at him.
He looks at my bare legs. “Cover those sexy legs of yours before you leave this house.”
I grin. “There he is.”
I pull on the stretchy pants he likes to pull down so much.
He follows me downstairs because apparently marriage has not cured him of escorting me thirty feet away.
The Village is awake.
Security men nod as we pass. Children ride bikes between the townhomes.
An older Bachman couple sits at a cafe table, each with a coffee.
We leave the gates and head out to the street. Cass’s bakery smells like butter, sugar, cinnamon, and happiness. She is behind the counter, dusted with flour.
Ryan sits on a stool eating something he was definitely not supposed to touch yet.
“Tell him to stop,” Cass says.
“Stop.”
Ryan takes another bite.
“I tried.”
Cass rolls her eyes.
Gregory emerges from the back carrying a tray. He has flour on his black sweater. Two Cass-sized handprints. On the back of his shoulders.
Lucian notices. I notice Lucian noticing.
Interesting, we both think.
Very interesting.
But also natural.
He makes her laugh. She keeps him in check. And he cares for Ryan in that way that makes a woman’s womb ache just watching them together.
“Cinnamon rolls.” Cass points at the tray. “My new recipe.”
Gregory sets down the tray. “Technically, I suggested the temperature adjustment.”
Cass looks at me. “He has become unbearable.”
“You asked for help.” Gregory smiles. “You said the croissants were uneven.”
“They were rustic.”
“They were burnt.”
“They were artisanal.”
I have to ask. “So. Gregory. You’re enjoying your time here—”
Lucian leans toward me. “Do not meddle.”
“What?” I whisper back.
“You have the look.”
“I have many looks.”
“That one means matchmaker, and you know we don’t have a good past with those.”
Cass puts a pastry in my hand. “Eat.”
I bite. Butter, sugar, cinnamon, and gooeyness fill my mouth. “Oh, my God.”
She grins. “I know.”
“And so perfectly baked,” Gregory interjects.
“This is addicting.”
“Like you.” Lucian takes a bite from mine without asking.
“Get your own.”
“Partnership,” he counters, then takes another bite.
The bell above the bakery door rings.
Rafe walks in.
Lucian looks right at him. “No.”
Rafe stops. “I haven’t even said anything.”
“You never bring casual information before seven.”
He looks at Lucian. “Correct.”
Lucian puts down the pastry.
My stomach tightens automatically.
Old reflex.
Rafe sees it. His face softens. “Nothing bad. I hope.”
I breathe. Lucian does too. Barely.
“A note.” Rafe hands me a small package, a notecard attached. “For Erin.”
Lucian asks if Rafe ran the harmless white card through security. Twice. Rafe is insulted.
Twice.
But Lucian doesn’t stop Rafe from giving me said note.
Progress.
No return address. My name on the plain white cardstock.
Erin Bachman.
I immediately guess the owner of the precise penmanship.
Erin,
I hope the Village is whole again.
I hope he is too.
I think, because of you, he might be.
If not now, soon.
You are kind to him, and you’ve been kind to me.
Freya is helping me learn how to live with what I’ve done.
And what was done to me.
I hope you get your happy ending.
- Isobel
I read it twice. Then I hand it to Lucian.
He reads. No visible reaction. Then he snaps it closed.
“Do you want to keep it?” I ask, testing when I don’t mean to.
When I know I have no need to.
He gives it back. Not cruelly. Not dramatically.
He looks at me with a furrowed brow. “God no. Why?”
Just done.
Ready to move on.
I pretend I don’t need the sigh of relief his response brings me.
Maybe I’ll keep it as a reminder.
Women keep strange souvenirs from the wars they survive.
I fold the card and put it in my pocket.
I turn to Ryan, eyeing his sticky hands and face. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Thanks, sis. I’ve got another tray to get in the oven.” Cass rolls back into the kitchen, Gregory right behind her to assist.
Rafe breaks his ‘the body is a temple’ crap and steals a pastry. The morning continues.
No alarms. No emergency exits. No enemies.
Just family arguing over baked goods.
Lucian and I walk back to our house. He takes my hand. He always does when we walk together.
I look down at our joined fingers.
At my ring.
At the gold sword against my throat.
At the cobblestones beneath our feet.
“We did it,” I say.
He looks at me.
“What?”
I gesture around us. “This.”
“The Village?” he teases.
“No.” I squeeze his hand. “Us. Normalcy.”
His face softens.
The expression is still rare enough that I remember every one.
“We did.”
“Are you happy?”
He gives me a look. “You’re going to use that admission against me. Aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
He leans in, heat against my ear. “I thought what happens on the island stays on the island.”
“Some things do,” I say. “If you ever tell anyone about that little outdoor sexcapade, I will die of humiliation.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t want anyone picturing you doing anything other than praying in a convent. Covered head to toe robes.”
“You’re silly,” I laugh.
My laughter drops as he ends our walk, stopping in the middle of the lane. A cart delivering fresh bundles of flowers to the homes has to go around us.
He ignores it, staring at me. “Erin.”
“Yes, husband?”
Then he pulls me hard against him.
I wrap my arms around his neck.
He looks at me for a long time. Then, he says, “I am happy.”
Happy tingles come over me as I smile. “Good.”
Then he kisses me.
Right there in the middle of the Village.
Someone whistles.
Blaze, probably.
I don’t look.
He holds me tighter, binding us together. But the strongest bond I have ever known is the one I choose every morning.
Bought.
Betrayed.
Burned.
And finally, beautifully, willingly...
Bound.