Epilogue Rose
TEN YEARS LATER
Even now, I still get nervous while speaking in front of a crowd.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve defended a dissertation in front of people who wanted to tear my work apart sentence by sentence. I’ve stood my ground in rooms full of egos and credentials and questions meant to test whether I belonged there.
Still, when a student calls my name, I jump a little.
“Dr. Moretti?”
I turn to the student who raised her hand. "Yes?"
She looks nervous but determined. "In your dissertation," she says, "you talk about belladonna as a liminal plant—medicine and poison. Botanically speaking, what determines which it becomes?"
The question steadies me.
"Belladonna doesn’t change," I say. "It’s the same plant in both cases.
Same alkaloids. Same structure." I pause, letting that settle.
"What changes is the dosage, the preparation, and the intent of the person using it.
In controlled amounts, atropine can save lives.
In uncontrolled ones, it kills." I smile slightly.
"When in doubt, better not snack on it."
She nods, scribbling notes, and I feel something unclench in my chest.
After class, a familiar feeling prickles at the back of my neck.
Not a bad one, though.
I scan the room instead, instinctively, and find him with his arms crossed, dark suit immaculate, and cold gaze that turns warm as soon as our eyes meets.
"Interesting class," he teases, closing the distance between us. "Particularly that question at the end. Worth remembering, I think."
I roll my eyes, but I can feel the fondness washing over me. "Don't worry. I'm not craving seconds."
"Good. I'm at the age when a heart attack could prove fatal."
"Don't even joke about that!"
"Who's joking?"
I hit him lightly with a folder. "You're forty-five. Plenty of time to enjoy your good years yet." I stroke his beard, eyeing the silver peppered in it. "And I have to say, age suits you."
"Are you calling me a fine wine?"
"I mean, I wasn't, but I am now."
He kisses me on the lips. My heart goes fluttery like it always does. Ten years, and nothing has changed.
"Happy anniversary," he whispers against my lips.
"Happy anniversary," I whisper back. "Sorry we had to spend it in a classroom."
"Not at all." He leads me out. "Plenty of time to enjoy our good years yet."
"Hey!"
"And the night is young, and Amber has the kids." His voice goes husky. "Figured we could sneak away for a while."
My body goes liquid. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We weave through the emptying hallway, my hand tucked into Matteo's, his thumb stroking my knuckles in that absentminded way that still sends sparks up my arm.
The university corridors feel endless today, every echo of footsteps making me glance over my shoulder, half-expecting a colleague to pop out and ask why I'm flushed and grinning like an idiot.
But no one does. It's just us, slipping away like thieves in broad daylight.
My office is at the end of the botany wing, tucked away enough that interruptions are rare. I fumble with my keys at the door, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Matteo presses close behind me, his breath warm on my neck, one hand sliding possessively over my hip. “Hurry,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, and I nearly drop the ring of keys.
The lock clicks, and we tumble inside.
I barely have time to flip the deadbolt before his mouth crashes into mine.
His lips are firm, demanding, tasting of coffee and the finger of whiskey he likes to have after a day’s work.
I moan into the kiss, my back hitting the door as his body pins me there.
His hands roam everywhere—up my blouse, cupping my breasts through the lace of my bra, thumbs circling my nipples until they harden into tight peaks.
“Fuck, little flower,” he groans, breaking the kiss to nip at my jaw. “Ten years, and you’ve still got a chokehold on me.”
I laugh breathlessly, but it turns into a gasp when he yanks my blouse open, buttons scattering across the floor.
His mouth descends on my chest, sucking one nipple through the fabric before shoving the cup aside and latching on directly.
His tongue flicks and laps, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and heat pools between my thighs, my pussy already slick and aching.
“Bedroom would be better,” I manage, but my hands are in his hair, holding him there, urging him on.
“Fuck the bedroom. I’ll take you anywhere I want.”
That nearly makes me come on the spot.
He straightens, eyes dark with hunger as he backs me toward the desk. Papers rustle under my ass when he lifts me onto it, my skirt hiking up around my thighs.
He steps between my legs, his erection straining against his slacks, pressing insistently against my core. I rock against it, friction sending jolts through me, and he hisses, grabbing my thighs to spread them wider.
His fingers hook into my panties, ripping them down my legs in one swift tug. The cool air hits my bare pussy, and I shiver, exposed and dripping for him.
Matteo drops to his knees, no hesitation, his beard scraping my inner thighs as he buries his face between them.
His tongue drags flat and hot over my folds, lapping up my wetness before circling my clit with firm, deliberate strokes.
I cry out, gripping the edge of the desk, my hips bucking toward his mouth. He sucks my clit hard, two fingers plunging inside me without warning, curling to hit that spot that makes my vision blur.
“Matteo—please—” The words tumble out, incoherent as he pumps his fingers, his tongue relentless, beard rubbing raw against my sensitive skin.
He doesn't let up, not until I'm trembling, my orgasm crashing over me in waves that leave me gasping and clenching around his fingers.
He pulls back, lips shiny with my juices, and stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Taste so good, amore. Always do.”
I reach for him, desperate now, fumbling with his belt.
It clinks open, and I shove his pants down, his cock springing free—thick and hard, veins pulsing, the tip already leaking pre-cum.
I wrap my hand around it, stroking from base to head, feeling it twitch in my grip.
He groans, thrusting into my fist, but I want more.
“Inside me,” I beg, guiding him to my entrance.
He doesn't make me wait. One hand on my hip, the other bracing the desk, he lines up and thrusts in deep, filling me completely in one stroke.
I arch, my pussy stretching around his cock, the burn turning to pleasure as he starts to move.
He fucks me hard, desk creaking under us, papers sliding to the floor in a forgotten avalanche.
Each snap of his hips drives him deeper, his balls slapping against my ass, the wet sounds of my pussy taking him echoing in the small room.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
“So tight,” he grunts, leaning down to capture my mouth again, swallowing my moans.
His pace quickens, relentless, hitting that perfect angle that has me spiraling toward another climax.
Sweat beads on his forehead, his beard tickling my skin as he kisses my neck, my collarbone, marking me with bites that I'll feel tomorrow.
I drag his fingers into my mouth and bite down to keep quiet. They taste like me, I realize. All of him tastes like me.
Matteo groans. “Fuck, fiorellino. You’ll be the death of me.”
I come again, walls fluttering around his cock, milking him as I shudder and cry his name.
He follows seconds later, thrusting erratically before burying himself deep and spilling inside me, hot spurts of cum flooding my pussy.
We stay locked together, breathing ragged, his weight a comforting press against me.
Eventually, he pulls out, a trickle of his cum leaking from me onto the desk. He chuckles softly, kissing my forehead. “You know, I had plans for us tonight.”
“You did?” I grin. “Too bad.”
“We can still make it there.” He scoops up the cum from the desk and holds his finger up to me. “If we clean up fast.”
My eyes glaze over. I part my lips around his finger and suck, all restraint gone.
Which ends up making us even later, because Matteo flips me over and fucks me on the desk all over again, this time from behind. Safe to say, I’m glad winter break is coming up. If I had to show my face around here tomorrow morning, I’d spontaneously combust.
Once we’re decent again, we get into a car and drive.
Matteo won’t tell me where we’re going. That alone should have been my first warning. My husband doesn’t do surprises unless they matter.
When the car finally slows, I look up and my breath catches.
The gates open onto…
“A garden?” I whisper.
But it’s not just a garden. It’s a botanical garden, spanning several acres in every direction. It looks like the kind of place I’ve seen only in textbooks and documentaries. A place people write papers about. A living archive of greenery, pulsing and breathing and impossibly alive.
Which is impossible, because I’d have known if something like this existed in New York. Right?
“It’s yours,” Matteo says simply.
I turn to him, stunned. “What do you mean, mine?”
“I mean I had it built for you. Your name is on the deed. Your research program runs here. Your students will train here.” He watches my face carefully. “This is your legacy.”
It takes a full minute for my mind to catch up. Built for me? All of this? Impossible. It can’t be. Who would even do something like this?
But then I see it. The tag at the entrance.
Brooklyn’s Rose.
They’re my names. Both my names. The one Matteo made me like again and the one I chose for myself.
Happy tears burn the back of my eyes. Matteo had this garden built for me.
Who would do something like this?
My husband. He would. And he did.
Tears burn instantly. I press my hands to my mouth, overwhelmed by the weight of it.
“I wanted to give you something that couldn’t be taken,” he says quietly. “Something rooted.”
I throw my arms around him without thinking. He catches me easily, holding me close while I shake with it, laughter and tears tangled together.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you, Matteo. For everything. For not giving up on me.”
His arms go tight around me. “Never, little flower.”
I pull back just enough to look at him, my hands still fisted in the lapels of his jacket. My heart is pounding, but not from the tears this time. From the secret I’ve been holding onto all evening, tucked carefully beneath the joy and the shock and the overwhelming gratitude.
“I have something for you too,” I say softly.
He arches a brow, a familiar mix of curiosity and indulgence. “That so?”
I nod, suddenly nervous in a way I haven’t been in years. I take one of his hands and guide it to my stomach, pressing his palm there deliberately.
“For the last ten years,” I say, voice steady despite the tears threatening again, “you’ve given me roots. A future. A legacy.” I swallow. “Now I get to give you another piece of it.”
It takes him a second.
Then he stills.
His breath catches, sharp and unmistakable. His hand spreads against me like he’s afraid to move it, eyes snapping up to mine, searching.
“Rose,” he says quietly. “Are you—”
“Yes.” I smile, tears finally spilling over. “I’m pregnant again.”
For a man who has faced wars, guns, and empires without blinking, Matteo looks undone.
He pulls me into his arms with a sound that’s half laugh, half broken exhale, forehead pressing to mine like he needs the contact to stay upright.
“Our family,” he murmurs.
I nod against him. “Still growing.”
He kisses me then—slow, reverent, full of promise. Around us, the garden breathes, alive and enduring.
Once, I thought marriage would be the thing that destroyed me. Turns out, it’s the man and not the institution itself.
I’d give everything to build this life with Matteo again, even in another life.
Next book in this series: Don’s Gem