Epilogue
ARTEMIS
Six months later, my life had settled into something unreal.
I lived with Arthur most of the time now at his home, among his people.
We still used my apartment when we went into the city, but it had started to feel more like a favorite hotel than a permanent address.
Every morning, he flew me to a field near the library, then walked me to the building.
It wasn’t a long-term solution, but it was working. For now, it was enough.
I had plans, though. Big plans. A library of rare antique books with my name on the door. A place where history and wonder could exist without being hidden or hoarded. Arthur listened to me talk about it with complete fascination.
That morning, the front desk called to say I had a package waiting.
It wasn’t the only package I’d received that week. Three days earlier, an oversized envelope had arrived at the house, cream paper thick enough to feel ceremonial. I had stood in Arthur’s kitchen staring at it for a full minute before opening it, convinced it contained another polite rejection.
It did not.
The university had formally accepted my dissertation revisions. Approved. Signed. Filed. No further edits required.
Doctoral candidate no longer.
Doctor.
I had read the letter twice. Then three times. Then handed it to Arthur because my hands had started shaking and I needed someone to tell me it was real.
He had read it once, then very calmly, said, “Of course they approved it.”
Like it had never been in doubt.
Which was deeply unfair, because it had been in doubt to me for years.
Somewhere between Iceland, near-death experiences, and being carried through the sky on the back of a dragon who refused to let me fall, something in me had stopped bracing for failure.
Arthur hadn’t fixed me, but he had stabilized the ground under me long enough for me to remember who I was.
And apparently, who I was… finished things.
My boss was still sulking about my disappearance. He had been livid when I returned, right up until Arthur quietly gifted the library, aka my boss, a handful of ancient gold coins from his personal treasury. After that, my boss became deeply invested in my well-being and professional happiness.
Funny how that worked.
I carried the package into the break room.
Two interns were already there, leaning against the counter, pretending not to watch me while very obviously watching me. One of them had their phone halfway raised, like this might turn into content.
“What is it?” the taller one asked. “Because if it’s cursed, I want to be here for that.”
“Statistically,” the other added, “it probably is.”
“Probably,” I agreed, setting the box down. “That’s the appeal.”
They scooted closer immediately.
I slit the tape and lifted the lid. For half a second, nothing registered. Then I saw it.
A book.
Not just any book. My book.
My name was on the cover. Clean. Real. Official. The weight of it in my hands was solid in a way my brain struggled to catch up with.
I made a sound I did not recognize. It might have been a laugh. It might have been a small emotional malfunction.
“Oh my god,” one intern whispered. “She’s crying.”
“I am not,” I said automatically, even as my eyes burned. “This is just… happening.”
The other one clapped once, then covered their mouth like they had forgotten where they were. “Wait. You wrote a book? Like. A real book?”
“I wrote the book,” I said, running my fingers along the spine. Every late night. Every deleted paragraph. Every moment I thought I was wasting my time lived inside these pages. “It’s mine.”
They stared at it like it might start glowing.
“That’s iconic,” one of them said reverently. “Do you know how many people manifest this and never get it?”
I smiled down at the cover, my chest tight in the best way. “Apparently, I got it.”
The taller intern crossed their arms and tilted their head. “You know,” they said casually, “it’s still wild that we work for a literal doctor.”
The other one perked up immediately. “Oh my god. That’s right.” They straightened theatrically. “Dr. Ripley.”
I narrowed my eyes. “We agreed you were not going to make it weird.”
“We did not agree,” the taller one corrected. “You requested.”
“It’s hot,” the other one said reverently. “Academically,” they added a beat later.
“Obviously,” I muttered.
They grinned at me like they had been waiting months to say it out loud.
“Dr. Ripley,” the taller one repeated, clearly enjoying the syllables.
And this time, I didn’t deflect. I didn’t qualify it. I didn’t say technically or almost or still pending.
“Yes,” I said.
The word felt solid. Not aspirational. Not fragile.
Earned.
I checked it into the system like any other volume, made the catalog entry with hands that shook just a little, then walked it out to the shelf. I slid it into place and stood there for a moment, just looking.
I had the life I always wanted. The work. The love. The belonging.
Even my boss stopped by and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Good work, Artemis,” he said. “Really. This is… impressive.”
I smiled, stunned.
By the time the sun dipped low enough to turn the library windows gold, my brain felt pleasantly wrung out. I shut down my computer, gathered my bag, and let myself linger for one quiet moment between the stacks.
Then I went outside to meet Arthur.
Arthur walked me up to my old apartment like it was still sacred ground. Like it mattered because I mattered. He didn’t rush me. He never rushed me. Even now.
We reached my apartment door still tangled together, his hand warm and familiar in mine. I was digging for my keys when Eloise’s door opened.
Caliban stepped out.
In a robe.
Not his robe.
Silk. White. Tied slightly wrong, like someone else had done it for him in a hurry. There was a faint smear of lipstick near the collar. In one hand, he held several crumpled dollar bills.
Time stopped.
Arthur made a strangled sound. “Caliban.”
Caliban froze. Then straightened. Then sighed the long, resigned sigh of a man who had served the same dragon for centuries and could not believe this was how it was going.
“Alpha,” he said. “Good evening.”
I stared. “Why are you dressed like you robbed a very expensive widow?”
Caliban cleared his throat and adjusted the robe with what could only be described as professional dignity. “Eloise required sustenance.”
Arthur blinked. “You were leaving her apartment. To get snacks?” He eyed the bills. “From the vending machine?”
“Yes.”
“In that?”
“The machine does not accept ancient coinage,” Caliban said, holding up the dollar bills. “I was forced to borrow.”
There was a beat.
Arthur rubbed a hand over his face. “You have managed my household. My security. My finances. My life. For three hundred years.”
“Yes.”
“And this,” Arthur said carefully, gesturing at the robe, the snacks, the lipstick, “is what finally broke you.”
Caliban hesitated. “She is… formidable."
From inside Eloise’s apartment, her voice drifted out, cheerful and unapologetic. “Did you get the pretzels or not?”
Caliban turned his head. “On my way, sweetums,” he called back, then looked at Arthur again, something almost smug slipping through his composure. “She has opinions.”
Arthur stared at him for a long moment, then a loud laugh burst out of him.
I covered my mouth, shoulders shaking.
Caliban stepped past us toward the vending machine, pausing just long enough to add, “I will return the robe.”
“Please don’t,” Arthur said weakly.
Caliban disappeared around the corner.
Arthur leaned toward me, voice low. “I have never seen him flustered.”
“I feel like I just unlocked a bonus level,” I said.
He laughed again, breath warm against my hair. “Our friends are dangerous.”
“I know,” I said fondly. “They’re perfect.”
When I unlocked the door, the music reached me first. It was familiar, and I realized it was a song I loved but had never admitted it was a favorite.
I stepped inside and stopped cold.
Roses. Everywhere. On the table. Along the counter.
Framed around the windows. Candles lit the space in warm pools, flickering like someone had taken their time.
My favorite foods from all over the city were spread out on the counter.
The good noodles. The bread I liked too much.
A bottle of wine already open and chilling.
My heart did something alarming.
Arthur stood just inside the doorway, hands clasped behind his back like he was bracing for judgment.
“I hope this is acceptable,” he said. “I wanted to celebrate you.”
“You broke into my apartment,” I said faintly.
“I used the key you gave me,” he said. “With reverence.”
I laughed, a sound that surprised me with how close it was to tears. “Arthur.”
He stepped in front of me and brushed his thumb over my cheek, eyes bright and soft and so full of pride it almost knocked me over.
“There is more,” he added carefully, like he was negotiating treaty terms instead of my heart.
He reached into his coat pocket and handed me a thick, cream envelope.
I opened it.
Two tickets to Edinburgh. Departure in two weeks.
My vision blurred. “Arthur.”
“You asked to explore with me there once, and I was only able to give you a few hours,” he continued. “This time, we go without crisis. Without pursuit. Without interruption. Just to walk ancient streets and allow you to be admired appropriately, Dr. Ripley.”
I made a broken, overwhelmed sound that was not dignified and did not care.
“You booked a celebration trip to Scotland?”
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“You absolute overachiever,” I whispered.
“I love you.” His thumb brushed just under my jaw. “Dr. Ripley.”
The low, reverent, and slightly possessive way he said that should have been illegal.
Not as a title.
As a fact.
My knees nearly betrayed me.
“You don’t get to say it like that,” I whispered.
“I believe I do,” he replied.
“I still can’t believe it’s real.”
He smiled. “I can.”
We ate on the couch with our knees pressed together, sharing plates and stealing bites from each other’s forks.
The wine tasted better than it had any right to, probably because everything did.
The music drifted through the apartment, filling corners that used to hold my doubt and turning them into something warm and gentle instead.
He listened while I talked. About the interns and their dramatic reactions. About the catalog entry. About how my hands had shaken when I slid my book onto the shelf. He listened like every word mattered, like this small, ordinary day was just as important as any grand adventure we had ever had.
Later, when the city had quieted into that low, steady hum that only New York makes after dark, he pulled me into his arms. We stood there in the middle of my living room, the city lights casting a faint glow over the apartment.
“This,” he said, resting his forehead against mine, “is part of your life too. I didn’t want it to disappear.”
My throat tightened. “Thank you.”
He kissed me then, full of promise, like he was telling me without words that he was here to stay. When we broke apart, he looked at me with that familiar, devoted smile and bent down slightly.
“Come here,” he said, then swept me into his arms, carrying me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I laughed, looping my arms around his neck, my heart light and full.
“This feels very much like a honeymoon,” I told him.
“I’m aiming for that,” he said, heading toward the bedroom.
The world outside faded away as he carried me down the hall, into warmth and quiet and the life we were building together.
I had everything I ever wanted.
And for the first time in my life, I believed I deserved it.