Epilogue
Khai
A year later.
The weeks after I woke in the hospital have blurred into something indistinct, like a dream dissolving the moment you try to hold onto it. Days folded into nights. Conversations slipped through my fingers. There was too much to process, too much truth delivered in careful, clinical fragments.
The conclusion, they told me, was simple.
It was a dream.
The nightclub was real. The job before it. The gunfire. Seeing Emmy.
My Little Heaven.
Her hands pressed against my chest, slick with blood, trying desperately to keep me tethered to this world, that was real.
But the rest… the rest was my mind fracturing under trauma. A coma dream. Vivid. Immersive. Cruel. They said it was common, the brain building entire lives from fear and regret.
That was the part that hurt the most.
Because I lived it. I felt her. Heard her breathe. Loved her in a way that branded itself into my bones. Then I woke up and was told she had never been mine at all.
Emmy talked to me, every day whilst I was in a coma, she visited and talked to me. Telling me about her days. About my recovery. About everything. Somehow I heard her, processed the details. My name, Jaxons, Liams. Bed number 9.
Some nights, I wished I’d never opened my eyes.
Part of me wanted to slip back under, to return to that place where she existed, where I could make different choices, where the ending didn’t taste like ash. Where maybe we could have had a life after the blood and the fire.
But it wasn’t real.
Or so I was told.
In the days that followed, the truth unravelled slowly. Liam hadn’t died. His death had been staged, a necessary deception. He’d learned our father was planning to kill me, not him. So, he disappeared instead, convincing our father that the wrong son was buried.
For nine years, he lived in the shadows.
Waiting.
Watching.
Preparing.
Jaxon helped him. Protected him. Covered the cracks. It made sense now, why Liam’s name was never spoken aloud, why grief around him always felt unfinished. Some part of me must have known too.
Because I dreamed of him coming back.
Even now, twelve months later, the weight of it still hasn’t settled. Some truths don’t land all at once. They seep in slowly, reshaping everything they touch.
My body healed slower than my mind. Weeks in hospital after waking. Endless tests. Physiotherapy. Learning how to move again without pain dragging me under.
And then there was Emmy.
She came to see me.
Again, and again.
She became my anchor, the reason I pushed through the pain, the reason I refused to let my body fail me. I never told her about the dream. Not at first. Some things felt too fragile to touch.
But once I was discharged, once I was standing on my own two feet again, I didn’t hesitate.
I went after her.
I fought for her.
It wasn’t easy, reality never is, but it was worth every scar, every moment of doubt. I told her the truth about who I am. About the world I come from. About the choices I’ve made.
Things are different now. I don’t kill men who don’t deserve it. Do I still make questionable decisions? Absolutely, especially when it comes to keeping Emmy safe.
My past can’t be erased. It follows me like a shadow, not because of what I do now, but because of what I once did. Because of what my father built.
Emmy lives with me now.
I fall asleep with her in my arms. I wake up to her warmth, her breath against my skin. She accepted my darkness and chose me anyway.
My father is dead.
The nightclub shooting was his design, but his men failed. And Liam, waiting patiently in the wings, finally had his opening.
He ended it when our father least expected it.
Liam.
Nine stolen years. Nine years lost to a man who never saw us as sons, only weapons to be sharpened and controlled.
But Liam is back now.
The life he lived in the shadows is his to carry. He keeps it close, guarded. Only Jaxon and I know the truth of it.
Some stories aren’t meant to be told.
They’re meant to be survived.
It’s Saturday morning.
Emmy is still asleep, curled into my side like she belongs there, like she always has. I lie awake, breathing her in, the quiet of the morning settling over us. For once, the world feels distant. Still. No shadows reaching for us.
Sunlight slips through the curtains, brushing over her skin, turning her warm and gold. She glows like something unreal. I lower my mouth to her temple and press a soft kiss there, a promise disguised as affection.
She stirs, lashes fluttering as she slowly opens her eyes.
And the world stills.
My breath catches, every time, because no matter how many mornings I wake like this, I still can’t quite believe she’s here. That she chose me.
“Morning, Little Heaven,” I murmur into her hair.
“Morning,” she whispers around a yawn, stretching before settling again, her hands finding my chest like they know exactly where they belong. Her fingers trace familiar lines, muscle, skin, until they pause.
Right over the scar.
She looks at it for a heartbeat, something tender and fierce flickering across her face, then leans in and presses a kiss there. Slow. Intentional. Like she’s sealing a vow into my skin.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” she murmurs softly.
Something tightens in my chest, not pain, not fear, but the weight of everything I survived to have this moment.
I tighten my arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “So am I.”
She lifts her gaze to mine, knowing. Always knowing. “You’re thinking again,” she says.
I chuckle quietly, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “Maybe.”
“Well,” she murmurs, closing the space between us, her lips brushing mine, slow and certain, “let me see if I can help with that.”
Her kiss is slow. Intentional. Familiar in the way only something earned can be.
I meet it without hesitation, my hand sliding into the curve of her waist as if it’s always known the way. There’s no urgency between us, no need for it. We’ve already crossed every line that matters. This is something else entirely.
Her hands lift, threading into my hair, fingers tangling there as she deepens the kiss with quiet confidence. The contact sends a low heat through me, steady and grounding, like she’s reminding me exactly where I am. Exactly who I belong to.
I pull her closer, and then, smoothly, effortlessly, I shift us.
The world tilts as I roll us over, the mattress dipping beneath her as she settles beneath me without surprise, without fear. Just acceptance. Her hands stay in my hair, holding me there, guiding me closer as her breath mingles with mine.
I hover above her, close enough to feel her warmth, far enough to watch her eyes darken as she looks up at me. Time stretches, unhurried, heavy with intention.
I lower my mouth to hers again, slower this time, the kiss deepening in layers, not hunger, but possession wrapped in care. My hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek as if I’m memorising her all over again.
“Mine,” I murmur softly against her lips, not a claim, not a command.
A truth.
She answers without breaking the rhythm, her fingers tightening slightly in my hair. “Yours.”
The certainty in her voice settles something deep inside my chest.
I kiss her again, unhurried, letting the moment build, letting her feel the full weight of my attention, my devotion. This isn’t about taking.
It’s about choosing.
Only when the world has narrowed to just us do I finally pull back, resting my forehead against hers, breathing her in.
Then I reach beneath the pillow.
I bring the small black box into view.
Her breath catches.
I lean down, press one more kiss to her lips, slow, reverent, and whisper the only words that have ever mattered.
“Marry me.”
Her eyes shine as she smiles, emotion flickering openly across her face.
“Yes,” she says.
And in that moment, with her hands still in my hair and the future opening quietly before us, I know,
The shadows didn’t disappear.
They just learned to live with us.
I was forged in darkness. She chose me anyway.