Epilogue
Blake
Grayson catches my hand before I can straighten my cuff for the fourth time.
“You’re going to wrinkle it,” he murmurs, smoothing the midnight-blue fabric beneath his palm. His thumb lingers over my wrist for a moment before he leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth. “Leave it alone. You look beautiful.”
I turn my face enough to catch him for a second kiss.
Grayson’s smile softens against my lips, and the tension in my shoulders eases before he steps back to inspect the rest of me.
He chose the suit, adjusted the cut around the shoulder that still stiffens when I’ve used the cane too long, and argued with the tailor until every line sat exactly where he wanted it.
“You look better,” I tell him.
His charcoal suit carries a narrow silver thread through the vest, visible only when the sunlight reaches it.
He spent most of the morning moving through the ceremony space with his plans folded beneath one arm, checking the curved seating, the progression of the lights, and the wide aisle he refused to let me narrow around my own limits.
Grayson brushes his fingers over my cheek before resting his forehead against mine. “We’re all allowed to look good today.”
Beyond him, the garden is full.
The curved rows hold Ember House staff, residents, members of the survivor network, employees from Keller Industries, and the people who have carried us through every year it took to reach this day.
White peonies bend gently along the edge of the path, softened by smaller pink flowers Rosalie chose after deciding the ceremony needed more color.
Warm lights wait beneath the leaves for evening, placed exactly where Grayson and I left them after our last argument over the plans.
Luther stands near the center with Wilson, reviewing the final transportation schedule even though every guest has arrived and every car is already parked.
His suit is dark enough to make the silver at his temples more visible, and the tie beneath his vest matches the shade Rosalie selected for her crown.
She held three pieces of ribbon against him before announcing which one he was permitted to wear.
When Luther looks up and finds me watching, he closes the folder in Wilson’s hands and crosses the grass. His palm settles against the side of my neck as he bends to kiss me, slow enough that I feel the shape of his smile before he draws back.
“You’re ready,” he says as I slide my free hand beneath his jacket and press my fingers to his waist, keeping him close for another breath.
“I am now.” I kiss him once more before he returns to the center.
Luther kisses my forehead before turning toward Grayson.
He catches Grayson by the back of the neck, brings him in for a quiet kiss, and smooths one hand down his back as they separate.
Maceo waits near the entrance to the aisle, adjusting his cuffs while his attention returns to the hedge on the opposite side of the garden.
Luca waits beyond the hedge, still hidden from me, but the bond carries his nerves beneath my ribs as warm pressure threaded with anticipation and the exhaustion he has tried to hide all morning.
Quentin cleared him for the ceremony after all of us promised to keep water nearby, make him sit when he needed to, and call immediately if contractions began or Luca’s water broke. The hospital bag is already in the car, packed and ready in case our son decides not to wait.
Maceo stops in front of me and adjusts the edge of my collar. His knuckles brush my throat, then his hand settles briefly against my chest.
“He’s ready,” he tells me.
I cover his hand before he can remove it. “How is he?”
“Uncomfortable. Emotional. Determined to walk the full aisle without help.” Maceo’s mouth softens as he looks toward the hedge again. “He’s beautiful.”
The words roughen something in my throat. I lift Maceo’s hand and kiss his knuckles, then draw him closer until our foreheads meet.
“So are you.”
His eyes close for a moment. When he steps away, he squeezes the back of my neck and joins Luther and Grayson in the center of the garden.
Luther takes his place to one side of the central space, Grayson to the other, and Maceo between them. They wait together while the children enter.
The music starts softly beneath the movement of the leaves.
Rosalie appears first with a flower basket looped over one arm and a gold crown balanced over her wreath. She walks with complete confidence, scattering petals in careful handfuls before turning to check the boys behind her.
Samuel follows with his shoulders drawn back and the reinforced cushion balanced carefully in both hands.
He has practiced his walk every evening for two weeks, and he takes each step as though the entire ceremony depends on his pace.
James walks beside him, watching the narrow straps he designed, tested, and tightened around the commitment band.
Halfway down the aisle, Rosalie notices Samuel moving too quickly. She turns, lowers one hand toward the ground, and whispers, “Slow down.”
Samuel obeys without breaking his serious expression. James keeps one hand beneath the edge of the cushion while his eyes move from the ring to the path and back again.
When they reach the center, Rosalie moves beside Luther.
He bends to kiss her crown before she straightens his tie with both hands.
Samuel takes his place near Grayson while James moves beside Maceo, keeping the cushion level between both hands with the commitment band still secured beneath its narrow straps.
The music changes.
At the far end of the garden, Luca steps onto the path in an ivory suit shaped around the full weight of his pregnancy.
The jacket falls open beneath his stomach instead of trying to contain it, revealing a soft gold shirt that warms his skin and leaves his throat open. Both rings already shine on his left hand: the engagement ring I gave him at the launch party and the wedding band I placed on him in the hospital.
One hand supports the underside of his stomach as he walks. The other presses briefly into his lower back before falling to his side again.
His hair has been brushed away from his face, though one soft strand already rests near his temple. Tears slide over his cheeks before he reaches the first row of chairs, and the sight of them nearly pulls me off the path we agreed to follow.
He looks radiant and exhausted, swollen at the ankles and flushed beneath the late-afternoon light. His pregnancy has widened his stance and slowed each step. He supports the underside of his stomach, lifts his gaze to mine, and continues down the aisle.
I start toward him without thinking.
Grayson’s fingers close gently around my forearm. “He’s coming to you.”
I stop because Luca sees the movement and smiles through his tears. He shifts the baby’s weight beneath both hands, then continues toward me.
Maceo takes one quiet step forward when Luca pauses near the final row. Luca meets his gaze and shakes his head. His scent carries no pain, and his stomach remains relaxed beneath his hands. After shifting our son’s weight, he walks the final stretch toward me.
When he reaches the center, I take his face between my hands and kiss him before the officiant can begin.
His mouth trembles against mine as he catches my wrist, and I kiss him again before pressing my lips beneath each wet eye. The guests disappear behind the scent of him, sweet and warm beneath the peonies and summer air.
“You’re here,” I whisper.
Luca’s fingers curl around the silver head of my cane beside mine. “I was always coming.”
I stroke the escaped strand of hair away from his temple and let myself look at him. The ivory suit fits him perfectly across the shoulders and falls open around the curve of his stomach. His rings flash when he lifts his hand to my cheek.
“You’re so beautiful,” I tell him.
His eyes close as another tear escapes. “So are you.”
I kiss the tear away before resting my forehead against his. His stomach presses lightly against my hip, and the baby shifts between us.
Grayson moves the waiting chair closer and takes Luca’s free hand. “Any contractions?”
“None. I’ll sit when I need to.” Luca squeezes his fingers, and Grayson kisses his knuckles before stepping back.
Luca offers Maceo his hand. Maceo kisses the center of his palm, then reaches toward the cushion James still holds beside him.
He frees the commitment band from the narrow straps and places it in Luca’s hand.
Luca slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket before lacing his fingers with Maceo’s as he shifts closer.
Luther comes up behind Luca and presses a slow kiss to his temple. His palm settles against the lower curve of Luca’s back, supporting without pulling him away from the space between us.
The officiant begins the legal recommitment while the five of us remain gathered in the center.
When the officiant gives me the cue, the prepared vows remain folded inside my jacket. Luca’s two rings shine on the hand held between mine, and instead of reaching for the pages, I remember the forms we filled out when neither of us possessed the kind of authority the world respected.
“We used to invent Alphas,” I say.
His mouth trembles again.
“We put false names on our paperwork because protection only counted when it came from someone the system recognized. We made up phone numbers and histories because we needed the people reading those forms to believe someone powerful would notice if we disappeared.”
Luca’s fingers close more tightly around mine.
“We couldn’t promise that we could fix what happened to each other. We could only promise that if the phone rang, we would answer.”
His tears fall faster, but he doesn’t look away.
“That was our first vow,” I tell him. “We made it before the rings, before the company, before Ember House, and before this family became large enough to fill a garden.”