Epilogue
Six months later
Sorcha
The morning sun streams through the massive windows of our new home, a sprawling, modern monstrosity of glass and steel, nestled near the campus, whose owner was made an offer he couldn’t refuse to move out.
It’s a far cry from Cillian’s minimalist shoebox.
Axl insisted on it, something about his ‘aesthetic sensibilities’ being offended by functional living. I just call it the fortress.
And a fortress it is. The security system alone could rival that of a government facility, with sleek cameras hidden in the architecture and motion sensors disguised as fucking modern art.
Ciar designed most of it himself, spending weeks mapping out blind spots that didn’t exist and entry points that would never be breached.
Paranoid bastard. But I love him for it.
We all do. In our world, paranoia isn’t a weakness. It’s a survival mechanism.
The house sprawls across two acres of meticulously landscaped grounds, all sharp hedges and precisely placed lighting that illuminates the property like a stage at night.
Axl hired some pretentious landscape architect from London who kept using words like “feng shui” and “spatial harmony.” I told him it looked like a golf course fucked a sculpture garden, but even I have to admit, it’s impressive.
The kind of impressive that says we’ve made it, that we’re untouchable.
The kind of impressive that makes our enemies think twice.
Inside, it’s an open-concept design with clean lines, with enough room that we’re not constantly crawling over each other.
There’s a library for Axl, where he keeps his collection of mason jars and first editions and pretends to read poetry when he’s actually planning his next business acquisition.
There’s a gym that Ciar practically lives in with weights, punching bags, and mirrors where he can admire his own violence.
There’s Cillian’s office, filled with computers, monitors, and technology that probably violates several international laws.
That’s his job. Watching. Always watching.
My space is the kitchen, ironically enough.
Not because I cook—fuck that domestic goddess shit—but because it’s got the best view of the grounds and the most exits.
Old habits die hard. I can see everything from here: the driveway, the gardens, the small clearing in the back where we’re gathered now for this ridiculous ceremony.
I stare at Ciar and Cillian and smile. “About fucking time,” I murmur as Cillian ties the rope around my wrist, binding us together in front of the Druid Priestess. Ciar does the same.
Cillian’s fingers are steady, methodical, the way they are with everything he does.
He loops the rope with the same precision he uses when he’s taking apart security systems or breaking into encrypted files.
His touch is gentle, though, gentler than I’ve ever felt it before.
There’s reverence in the way he handles the rope, like it’s something sacred instead of just hemp and fibre.
Ciar, on the other hand, is barely contained emotion.
His hands shake slightly as he winds the rope around my other wrist, binding me to him.
His jaw is tight, that muscle ticking the way it does when he’s fighting to keep himself in check.
He’s never been good with feelings, with vulnerability, but this matters to him.
I can see it in the way his eyes keep darting to mine, searching for confirmation that I want this, that I’m sure.
I am. I’ve never been more fucking sure of anything in my life.
“All good things come to those who wait,” Axl says from the sidelines.
He looks obscenely comfortable, like he’s watching a tennis match instead of a handfasting.
The champagne in his hand probably costs more than most people’s monthly rent, and his suit is tailored so perfectly it should be illegal.
He’s enjoying this, the smug prick. Enjoying watching me tie myself to his best mates, making our unconventional arrangement as official as it can get without actual legal documentation.
Not that we need legal documentation. What we have goes deeper than any piece of paper could ever acknowledge.
It’s in the blood we’ve spilt together, the secrets we keep, the bodies we’ve buried.
It’s in the way Cillian knows my coffee order without asking and the way Ciar leaves weapons in every room because he knows I like to be prepared.
It’s in the way Axl defends our choices to the nobility he pretends to care about, ensuring our family is protected on social and political fronts.
The rope is thick and coarse against my skin, a tangible link between the three of us. It’s not a chain, not a shackle. It’s a fucking anchor.
I can feel the weight of it, the significance.
This rope will be cut at the end of the ceremony, but the binding is permanent.
That’s what the Priestess told us when we met with her last week to plan this whole thing.
She’s been performing handfastings for forty years, she said, and she’s never seen three people so clearly meant to be bound together.
I’m not sure if that was a compliment or a warning.
The Priestess, a woman with eyes as old as the stones around us, begins to chant in Irish, her voice a low, melodic hum that vibrates through the ground. It’s all a bit theatrical for my taste, but I need the guys to know that this is as real for me as the marriage certificate I signed with Axl.
Her words wash over us, ancient and powerful, speaking of bonds that transcend time and flesh. I don’t understand half of what she’s saying, but I feel it.
Cillian’s thumb traces small circles on my palm, a tiny gesture of reassurance. He’s always been the steady one, the one who thinks things through. But even he looks affected, his usually impassive face softened with love.
This place, this life… it never ceases to amaze me how far I’ve come.
I’m the Warden of a secret society, reforged to make the Irish mafia families even more powerful in the criminal underworld.
The real power comes from here, and it’s all mine to dish out how I choose.
I’ve reshaped the structure, eliminated the dead weight, and brought in people who actually know what the fuck they’re doing.
The families are stronger, more unified, more dangerous.
I’m at the centre of it all, pulling the strings, making the calls that determine who lives and who disappears.
It’s intoxicating, this power. More than I ever imagined I’d have.
But it’s also exhausting, lonely sometimes, despite being surrounded by people constantly.
That’s why this matters so much. Ciar, Cillian, and Axl are the only ones who truly see me.
Not the Warden, not the mask I wear for the families.
They see Sorcha, the girl who clawed her way up from nothing, who’s still terrified of losing everything even as she holds the world in her hands.
Now, I’m being tied to two of the most dangerous men in Ireland. Axl, my noble, English husband, looks on with an amused smirk.
He winks at me, and I have to suppress a laugh. This is serious, sacred even, but leave it to Axl to make it feel like we’re getting away with something. In a way, we are. Handfasting isn’t recognised by the state, but it doesn’t need to be. This is for us, for our truth.
The Priestess finishes her chant, her ancient eyes meeting mine. “What is bound cannot be broken.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning.
Ciar’s hand tightens on mine. Cillian’s gaze is a brand of ownership. Axl raises his glass in a silent toast. They’re mine, and I’m theirs, and somehow, impossibly, it works.
Broken? Nah. We’re fucking forged. A family made of blood, bruises, and pure, unadulterated will.
We’ve been through hell together. We’ve bled on the same battlefields, faced down enemies who wanted us dead, made choices that would damn us in any moral court.
We’ve seen each other at our worst—broken, vulnerable, vicious—and chosen to stay anyway.
That’s commitment. That’s choosing each other every single day, even when it’s hard, even when it would be easier to walk away.
This isn’t a happily ever after. It’s a fucking beginning.
Because the wars aren’t over. The enemies haven’t been eliminated. The society I control has rivals who would love to see me fall.
The Priestess cuts the rope, severing the physical bond while the spiritual one remains. As the fibres fall away, I flex my wrists, feeling the imprints left behind. They’ll fade in an hour or two, but the marks on my soul are permanent.
“To us,” I say quietly.
“To us,” they echo, and for the first time in my life, I feel complete.
The future is uncertain, dangerous, and probably bloody. But we’ll face it together, this strange, violent, beautiful family we’ve built from ashes and ambition. I wouldn’t have it any other way.