Epilogue
Lettie
Months later in Montana...
The cemetery was beautiful in the way that only places built for grief could be.
Rolling hills. Ancient trees. Headstones weathered by decades of wind and snow. The kind of place where the dead rested under open sky instead of cramped city plots.
I stood at the edge of the gathering, Brock’s hand warm and possessive at the small of my back. Cerberus sat at my feet, massive and still, his dark eyes tracking every movement in the crowd.
There were so many of them.
Gods of Mayhem. Brotherhood of Bastards. Silver Shadows. Club names I recognized and many I didn’t. Patches from Florida, California, Oklahoma. Men in leather cuts standing shoulder to shoulder with men in expensive suits. Mafia. I recognized the type even if I didn’t know the families.
The underworld had come to pay its respects.
And the air was thick with something more than grief.
Vengeance.
It poured off every person standing in that cemetery like heat rising from asphalt. Collective. Unified. A promise written in the set of their shoulders, the clench of their jaws, the way their hands curled into fists.
Someone had taken one of their own.
And the underworld didn’t forget.
At the center of it all, two people stood broken.
The parents.
I watched them the way I’d learned to watch everything. Clinically, carefully cataloging details others missed.
The mother’s hands trembled as she clutched a single white rose. Her makeup was perfect, but her eyes were hollow. Empty. The kind of empty that came from losing a piece of yourself so fundamental that breathing felt like betrayal.
The father stood rigid. Military straight. His jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. He didn’t cry. Didn’t move. Just stared at the casket like he could will it open through sheer force of rage.
I knew that look.
Grief wrapped in fury. Loss dressed as violence.
The service began. Words I didn’t hear. Prayers I didn’t believe. The usual performance people gave when death came too soon and too violent.
I focused on the details instead.
Zeus stood apart from the others, jaw locked, hands clasped together in front of him. Something pressed down on him—not just grief, but guilt. The knowledge that his father’s legacy had written this story. That even dead, Kronos had reached across time and destroyed another life.
Apollo sat in his wheelchair beside Rykard, my father, though the word still felt foreign. Both of them were watching the casket with identical expressions of devastation.
Poseidon stood beside his sister Alex and her man. Still looking for threats even here. Even now. His jaw locked tight, refusing to let anything show. Complete. Unyielding. Stoic.
Indie pressed against Mimic’s side, her small frame dwarfed by his bulk. Fierce despite her size. Quiet beside him the way she always was, efficient with her emotions, economical with her words. Present because it mattered.
Kraken stood at the back, massive and silent, his eyes scanning the crowd like he was cataloging every face, every movement, every potential danger.
And Brock’s hand never left my body.
Possessive. Protective. Claiming me even in this sacred space.
I leaned into his touch, let him feel my weight, my presence, my choice to be here. With him. In this world of violence and grief and men who loved so hard they’d burn everything down to protect what was theirs.
The casket was lowered. Dirt was thrown.
The mother collapsed into the father’s arms. And through it all, that current of rage never stopped.
It built. It intensified. It became something alive and hungry and absolutely certain.
Justice would come. Blood would answer for blood. The underworld would collect its debt.
At the far edge of the cemetery, beyond the gathering of mourners and the clusters of dangerous men, a figure stood alone. He didn’t approach the grave or join the service. Just watched from the tree line as the casket was lowered, as the mother collapsed, as the father stood rigid with rage.
His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like bone might crack.
His hands were fisted at his sides. And his eyes, hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, never left that fresh grave.
Not when the service ended. Not when people began to disperse.
Not when the last car pulled away and the cemetery workers approached with shovels.
He just stood there, watching, waiting, burning.
Brock followed my gaze and asked, “What are you thinking about?”
I considered the question. “I’m thinking about what it means to die for something real,” I said. “Something that brings the entire underworld to Montana to stand in solidarity.”
His hand slid up my spine and fisted in my hair. Gentle but firm.
“He’ll walk into hell knowing he won’t walk out,” Brock murmured. “And he’ll do it to avenge the dead.”
“Would you?” I asked quietly. “Walk into hell for me?”
His hand tightened. “Baby,” he said, his voice rough and raw and absolutely certain, “I’m the God of the Underworld. I’d drag the whole fucking world down into hell for you.”
Something cracked open in my chest. Not love—I already had that. This was something darker. Deeper. Recognition.
And I knew he meant every word when he whispered, “And I’d rule it with you at my side.”
THE END