Epilogue
Kinsley
Chef Bonfils stood at the far end of the counter in his pristine white jacket, black pants, and eternal scowl.
He made a sound halfway between a hiss and a sigh.
“I want it on record that I’m going to have to replace every staple in this kitchen after today.
Mon dieu, it will take me forever to reorganize. ”
“I’ll help,” I offered sweetly.
He muttered something dark and dramatic under his breath in French—but it was far better than his shooing me out, like he normally did.
Progress.
Of course, would he really attempt it with my beloved Kings in attendance? Not to mention, Mama King had my back. She was the one who suggested we use her kitchen in the first place.
“I do not know why this fiasco had to happen here,” he huffed, flinging his towel over his shoulder. “What is wrong with your kitchen?”
Sophia patted his arm with all the serenity of a woman used to his theatrics. “Hush, now. Let the boys play. It’s Christmas.”
Across the island, Mrs. Patterson snorted from behind her mountain of mixing bowls. “Perhaps if you’d taken them under your wing instead of kicking them out every time they were hungry, they would’ve learned a thing or two. Like how to clean as they go.”
Chef’s face went scarlet, his jaw locking. “Of all the assistants I’ve had in my career, toi, femme, tu es une catastrophe culinaire avec des opinions dangereuses!” You, woman, are a culinary disaster with dangerous opinions!
Mrs. Patterson’s eyes glittered like she’d been waiting for this moment for years. She adjusted her apron and fired back smoothly, “Et pourtant, votre employeur préfère mes tartes.” And yet, your employer prefers my pies.
A loud chuckle went up from the corner of the room—courtesy of Nik, who looked utterly delighted. “Oof, Bonfils, that’s rough,” he said, elbowing Alek. “She pulled the employer card. He’s not coming back from that one.”
Chef threw his hands in the air. “Sacrebleu! The woman burns garlic and calls it rustic!”
Mrs. P wagged her spoon at him. “And yet, your ‘rustic’ soufflé deflated faster than your ego last Easter, I was told!”
Sophia’s laughter filled the kitchen. Her shoulders shook, and her eyes crinkled. I leaned in toward her conspiratorially. “I don’t know Mama King, this feels a lot like foreplay. The Reaper and I use to argue like this too. And look at us now.”
Isabella, who was sitting nearby on a counter, nearly choked on her tea. “Oh for the love of—only you would romanticize verbal sparring,” she sputtered between coughs.
“Well, it’s true,” I said with a grin, shrugging one shoulder. “Sometimes chemistry sounds like combat.”
Before she could retort, the sound of boots and laughter echoed from the hallway. A second later, Marcel, Sebastian, and Pasha appeared in the doorway.
“The man with the world-renowned palate has arrived to judge this competition,” Bash announced grandly, clapping his hands.
“You?” Izzy huffed, eyebrows arching high. “Please. We all know you’ll throw your vote behind the Reaper even if his cookies taste like dog shi—”
“Language, young lady.” A chorus of manly voices rose, making Isabella nearly blow her top.
Bash leaned against the counter with a smirk. “Ride or die, Sissy. Ride or die,” he said. “Tell me you wouldn’t do the same for your new bestie?”
Heat climbed up Isabella’s neck immediately, and I melted under the moniker. She truly was my new bestie and one I loved more than life.
“You’ve become quite attached at the hip,” he teased.
“Are you complaining?” she shot. “Because I can move back home with Mama and Papa.”
I nearly dropped my mug, spinning toward her so fast I sloshed hot chocolate down my sleeve.
“What? You can’t,” I exclaimed, half scandalized, half ready to stage an intervention.
Isabella grinned like the menace she was. “It was a hell of a lot more peaceful there. You could come move in with me. Mama would love it, isn’t that right Sophia?”
Sophia winked at Isabella. A deep growl rolled from Ivan’s chest before I could even answer. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, gaze locked on Isabella.
“She’s not moving anywhere, malen’kiy krolik,” he said, voice low and dangerous enough to make Isabella’s chin lift in defiance.
“Is that a challenge?” She shot back, eyes narrowing in that way that promised trouble. “And I don’t speak Russian so whatever you called me—”
“He called you little bunny. Seems fitting with the way your nose is twitching right now,” Pasha spoke up. He had that sweet, crooked grin of his plastered on his face. “Although, I’d say you’re more a printsessa. Need help with that translation?”
His voice was teasing, but his eyes flicked to mine for a fraction of a second.
“No,” Isabella huffed. “I’m not stupid, with that one there is enough context clues.”
Sebastian bent to kiss Isabella’s forehead before snagging one of the pre-baked cookies I’d made from the counter.
Pasha ambled over and pulled me into a long hug, his warmth grounding for a heartbeat before Bash shoved him aside with a muttered, “Move over, dancer boy.”
“You’d seriously leave me?” I turned to Isabella, doubt creeping in.
My voice was smaller than I meant it to be. Bash rocked me in his arms. The question came out raw, and anxiousness. My eyes darted toward Marcel’s.
His expression softened immediately. That man could read me better than anyone—the unspoken fears, the ghosts that lingered in the cracks of my smiles. He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the kitchen, pulled me from Bash’s embrace, and folded me into his chest.
“She’s teasing, Ms. Taylor,” he murmured against my hair before pressing a kiss to the top of my head. Then he drew back, palms cupping my cheeks, his eyes steady and sure. “She isn’t going anywhere. Trust me on this.”
The lump in my throat wobbled dangerously. He always said things with absolute conviction, like the universe would bend to his words. Isabella hopped down from her perch on the counter, earning a sharp inhale from Chef Bonfils somewhere behind her, and came over to me.
She slipped an arm around my waist and squeezed. “Hey,” she said, “don’t cry. You’re stuck with me, remember?”
“Oh, so she does have a nice bone in her body?” Pasha teased, voice low and smooth.
Isabella gasped and punched him square on the arm. “Why are you here again?”
That stubborn curl of his slipped over his brow as he ducked his head. He pressed a kiss onto her forehead. I don’t know who was more startled her or him.
“Because I’m in high demand around here. That’s why,” he said, covering it.
Isabella huffed and rolled her eyes. Mumbled words in Italian flowed, causing Bash to grin.
I fought back a giggle when Sophia muttered, “Verbal sparring, indeed.”
Pasha cleared his throat and spoke again. “And if you’d use those context clues you were boasting about earlier, you see, my boy the Crow needs a solid vote in his corner to make this whole thing fair,” he offered.
My freaking heart soared. He was becoming one of them, day by day. And there was something so sweet about him standing in the gap to even the playing field.
“Not to mention, you and I both know The Counselor’s gonna vote for the Blade.”
“He better bloody well vote for me,” Ivan called out from across the kitchen, voice low and edged with concentration.
His eyes flicked to mine, and one corner turned up in a half grin.
The air shifted. My chest loosened. That warmth between us was still there.
The memory of the woods lingered in the back of my mind like a whisper.
I knew, like I knew my own face in a mirror, that he hadn’t shared the details in full with the others.
It was a tiny, special secret woven into the fabric of something larger for him and me. My pulse softened as I glanced at him, at the quiet reverence in his eyes when he looked back. For all the chaos, for all the noise and teasing and clatter around us…we were still tethered.
“Okay all jokes aside, you were supposed to be the ONLY one judging the contest, kitten,” Reaper said from his corner of the kitchen.
“That’s because you thought she’d automatically choose you, Brother,” Crow tossed back.
“Yeah, well for changing things up last minute, she’s liable to get my hand across her as—”
“Not in my kitchen,” Chef practically yelled, causing the entire room to roar with laughter. Even Mama King couldn’t help joining in.
Bash leaned in to take in the contents of Alek’s bowl. “Hold on. If the Dancer votes for the Crow, the Counselor votes for the Blade, and I’m obviously voting for the Reaper, then it’s a three-way tie,” He continued. “Which means there is no clear winner.”
“Pretty much,” Marcel added.
Chef Bonfils looked personally offended by that. “Mon dieu! You mean this disaster of a mess, putting up with the sharp tongue of that woman…” He paused and pointed at Mrs. Patterson, who smacked her wooden spoon against her palm. “was for nothing?!”
Pasha leaned against the counter, grinning. “Well, Kinsley could judge the cottage dates. Especially since only she knows which was the best.”
“Fucking brilliant,” Alek beamed. “I knew I liked you.”
“Yeah, uh-huh. Pretty sure you wanted to put his name up for a vote at the beginning. Something about their dancing was entirely too intimate for your liking,” Bash exclaimed.
“I thought you were on my side. The betrayal stings, Brother and I won’t forget it,” Alek growled. “I still stand on what I said. Go on, kitten, let’s hear it.”
Every head turned to me. “Oh no. No, no, no. That is not even remotely fair.”
“Seems fair to me,” Isabella said, that evil sparkle in her eyes. “Best date wins. Simple, quick and none of us has to go round to hospital.” She peaked into Ivan’s bowl, and she blinked rapidly. “Is it supposed to look like that?”
I was about to go over and see if he needed any tips when Bash spoke.
“Yeah, I second that, Sissy. Judging the dates is far safer.”