Epilogue
Five months later
Autumn
I keep running, clutching fistfuls of ivory lace to my thighs so I don’t trip. The wedding dress is ruined now, with mud on the hem and tiny tears where branches clawed at the silk, but I can’t stop.
Thorns and sharp stones bite the soles of my bare feet; each step sends fire up my calves. My lungs burn. My heart is a frantic bird beating against bone.
I slam against the rough trunk of an old oak, pressing my back to it, chest heaving. Silence. Too much silence. Only the wind in the leaves and my own ragged breathing.
Today was perfect. Today I married Flynn Brady under a rose arch in the Callaghans’ garden, sunlight catching on the gold band he slid onto my finger while he looked at me like I was the only thing that had ever existed.
My parents were there. My mother cried happy tears.
My father shook Flynn’s hand and muttered, “Hurt her and they’ll never find the body,” and Flynn, six-foot-six of tattooed menace, pretended to look terrified.
Viviana was radiant in emerald, bossing everyone with a camera in one hand and champagne in the other.
It was soft and golden and ours, but now I’m barefoot in the woods, wedding dress shredded, pulse hammering with delicious terror, because somewhere behind me, my husband is hunting.
I glance down at the thin gold ring glinting on my finger, simple, perfect, warm from my skin.
A twig snaps in the distance.
My breath catches.
Shit.
I bolt again, lungs on fire, dress shredded to ribbons around my thighs.
A roar splits the night behind me.
Then impact.
Two massive hands clamp my waist like iron shackles. I’m airborne for half a heartbeat before I’m slammed to the forest floor, leaves and dirt exploding under us. His palm cradles the back of my head a split second before it would’ve cracked against a root.
“Gotcha,” he snarls against my ear, voice gravel and smoke, pure predator.
My wedding dress is bunched at my waist in one violent yank. I hear the rasp of his zipper, feel the thick, ridged heat of him nudge my entrance—no warning, no mercy.
He buries it to the hilt.
One savage thrust and he’s buried so deep I see stars. My scream is half pain, half raw pleasure.
“Fuuuck,” he growls, teeth scraping my shoulder, hips already snapping like he’s trying to split me in two.
His hand collars my throat, not squeezing, owning. The other pins my hip to the dirt.
“So fucking tight and wet for me, wife.” His eyes are black in the moonlight, pupils blown wide, feral and starving.
Every thrust is punishing, animal. My body skids forward across leaves and earth with the force of it.
I shove my hips back to meet him, greedy for more.
He laughs, dark, filthy, victorious. “Who knew my sweet little virgin photographer loved being fucked raw on the forest floor?”
“Fuck you—” I choke out.
He slams deeper, cutting me off. “I’d rather fuck you, wife.”
His fingers find my clit, circle once, twice, then pinch hard.
I shatter.
Orgasm rips through me like wildfire, back bowing, walls clamping down on him so hard he curses through clenched teeth.
He doesn’t stop.
He fucks me through it, relentless, until I’m sobbing into the dirt; his grip bruises my hips, he drives in one last time so deep I feel him in my stomach. His roars vibrate through me. Hot, thick pulses flood me, marking me inside out.
He collapses over me, chest heaving against my back, sweat dripping from his jaw onto my skin.
Forehead pressed to mine, voice ragged.
“You off the pill?”
I nod, still trembling.
He grins, wicked, beautiful, terrifying.
“Imagine getting pregnant right here,” he rasps.
I laugh, breathless and wrecked. “For fuck’s sake, Flynn.”
He kisses me, slow now, deep, claiming every corner of my mouth.
When he pulls back, the feral edge is still there, but his eyes soften.
“I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you, trouble.”
And right there in the dirt, covered in leaves and cum and each other, I know:
This man, this beautiful, feral beast, only ever drops the mask for me.
Flynn Brady is mine.
And I am his.
Forever.
THE END