Epilogue
Three months later.
It took a few months, but I’m now fully convinced that Cason was right about Malcolm. Leaving him alive was the right choice.
Malcolm’s broken whimpers follow me down the corridor as I leave the makeshift prison cell in the lowest level of the Institute, the heavy steel door sealing shut behind me with a sharp, metallic clang. The sound echoes, then silence settles again.
I roll my shoulders once as I head toward the elevator, shadows drifting lazily around my feet, satiated for now.
Visiting Malcolm has become something ugly and therapeutic all at once.
Some people meditate or go to therapy or the gym.
I torment the man who ruined my life for an hour every couple weeks.
Honestly, I think I’m coping remarkably well.
Not that I usually tell Cason when I go down there. He knows sometimes. Probably most times. He notices too much not to. But he’s stopped asking questions about where I disappear to during those lost hours, and I’ve stopped offering answers.
And while I fully believe Malcolm deserves it, I’ve never pretended to be the good guy.
The elevator hums quietly as it carries me upward through the Institute.
It’s been three months, and it barely feels like the same place that I remember during the time it owned me.
It’s been cleaned up from the battle, of course, and it’s still pristine and polished.
Still filled with terrifyingly intelligent people who say things I only half understand during meetings.
But the tension that used to live in these walls is gone now, replaced with something lighter. Hope, maybe.
Or at least the closest thing people like us get to it.
One of the first things Cason did was have the kinetic installation in the lobby rebuilt.
I know it’s because of how much it meant to his father.
The new version spins slower than the original, less impersonal somehow.
More art than statement. I still catch him staring at it sometimes when he thinks no one notices.
He’s changed the rest of the Institute too. Not drastically and not all at once. Just enough at a time that people stopped being afraid before they realized they were no longer being controlled.
Ascended aren’t prisoners here anymore. They’re just people. Funny how revolutionary that concept turned out to be.
Of course, there were still those Ascended who did follow Malcolm willingly, those who didn’t believe Cason was strong enough to lead, even with me by his side. Cason dismissed them.
Not that they got very far…
That’s just another thing Cason may or may not know. He hasn’t asked, and I don’t plan on telling him. But if he does know, he can rest easy knowing there aren’t any of his uncle’s loyal followers out there waiting for a time to strike. And if there are any accidentally left, I’ll get those too.
The partnership with CopeHart Labs has also helped. Lane and Harrison spend a lot of time here, helping lead research into Ascension and abilities without turning any of it into torture disguised as progress.
Admittedly, when I first met Harrison, I had to resist the very real urge to kill him where he stood.
I still remember the sound of that man’s name on Cason’s lips while he had his cock in his hand, and it was replaying behind a blood red veil during our first meeting.
Since I couldn’t kill Harrison like I wanted to because my menace has me wrapped around his fucking finger, I settled for punishing him that night instead.
Let’s just say he sure as fuck made it up to me.
And he’s lucky he did because Harrison still looks at most of us like we’re one stressful afternoon away from becoming supervillains.
I don’t think he realizes some of us are already there.
The elevator doors slide open onto the administrative floor. It’s quiet, most of the staff gone for the weekend. Which means today’s celebration is small like Cason requested. There are going to be just a few people here, including Sebastian, Mia, Rory, Lane, and Harrison.
And Cason’s mother.
That one still makes me vaguely nervous.
It’s the first time I’m meeting her, and some tiny, deep vulnerable part of me hopes she likes me.
Fortunately, she won’t know who I really am because no photographs of me were ever released after my legal death.
Malcolm made sure of that. Reese Morgan officially died before the world ever got a good look at him.
Which means to Cason’s mother, I’m just Reese. Not the man who kidnapped her son seven years ago. Or again a few months ago because she apparently doesn’t know about that one at all. I’m not the reason he disappeared. I’m not one of the monsters of Cason’s past.
The guilt of it still lives somewhere inside me.
But then Cason kisses me or laughs at something stupid or falls asleep wrapped around me like I’m the safest place in the world, and I feel forgiven.
I reach Cason’s office—Malcolm’s old one because it has the perfect view of the kinetic installation—and push open the door.
The first thing I notice is the sulking. The second thing I notice is the shirt. It’s bright orange, the Reese’s candy logo printed across the front in bold yellow lettering.
I freeze in the doorway because I’m not quite sure what to think about the sight.
He’s sprawled dramatically in one of the armchairs in the corner of the room, legs hanging over one of the armrests and arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s kept the green hair despite running one of the largest research centers on the west coast, and I kind of love him even more for it.
His glasses are sliding slightly down his nose while he glares at absolutely nothing.
He looks up as I enter, and his eyes narrow on me immediately. “What?”
I close the door behind me and lean my back against it. “You’re sitting there wearing a shirt that better be claiming you as my property instead of advertising peanut butter cups, and you’re pouting while you’re doing it. I don’t like it.”
His frown only deepens. “I’m mourning.”
“You’re turning thirty. Not entering hospice care.”
“Easy for you to say,” he grumbles. “You’re emotionally frozen at like thirty-six forever.”
“I don’t think that’s how dying works.”
He huffs, but I ignore it to stare at his shirt instead. He notices, and a smug little grin threatens to break through the sulking.
“You like it?” he asks with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“I like it if it means you’re mine.”
“Duh.”
I let out a breathy laugh and shake my head. “That is simultaneously the most ridiculous and adorable thing you’ve ever worn.”
“Thank you,” he says proudly.
Then his face falls again as he slumps deeper into the chair.
“Thirty,” he mumbles like it’s a terminal illness. “Do you know how horrifying that sounds?”
“You died already. I feel like birthdays should bother you less now.”
When that doesn’t seem to make anything better, I cross the room and crouch in front of the chair. His hair is draped over his glasses a little, so I reach out and push some of the green strands back.
“Is this really about turning thirty?” I ask.
“It means we’re both getting older.”
Ah.
We haven’t really talked about the fourteen years between us. However, I’m only turning forty-four this year, and I just have a little bit of salt in my hair. But he’s turning thirty, so I guess I can give him a pass for thinking we’re both old already.
I’ll give him a good birthday spanking for it later.
“Hey,” I say, brushing my thumb across his jaw. “I won’t lie to you. Your thirties might be a bit rough. Mine certainly were.”
That finally gets a hint of a smile out of him.
“But your forties?” I stand and extend my hand down for his. “Might just be some of the best years of your life.”
He takes my hand, and I help him to his feet. He immediately latches onto me, throwing his arms around my waist and staring up at me with those beautiful green eyes.
“The best years of my life have already started.”
A warmth fills my chest and curves my mouth into a smile.
Three months ago, I might’ve thought he was being dramatic. Now I know better. Cason only says things like that when he means them.
I lean down and kiss him once, slow and lingering. When I pull back, he tries to follow, but I stop him with a hand pressed to his chest, right over that ridiculous shirt that’s claiming him as mine.
“We need to get downstairs.”
He groans and throws his head back. “But if I go downstairs, then I’m admitting I’m a victim of time.”
I grab him by the jaw and force him to face me again, sharpening my gaze and growling, “Better that than a victim of me.”
It doesn’t scare him, of course, because he’s a fucking menace.
He hums, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Maybe later?”
“Birthday spankings are definitely in order.”
“Okay, let’s go,” he says happily like he’s ready to get it over with so we can get to the fun part.
He escapes my hold and starts skipping around me. He moves a little too close to the wall of glass, so I grab him by his upper arm and pull him back, spinning him around so he’s walking on the other side of me from the window overlooking the atrium as we head to the door.
“What are you—” He gasps. “You decorated!”
No, I let Baz do it while I tortured your uncle.
“I promise you I did not.”
He squirms and tries to peer around me at the window. I grab him by the shoulders, turn him back to the door, and give him a slight shove.
“Walk.”
He scoffs as he opens the door. “This is kidnapping.”
“You would know.”
He stops, freezes for a second, and looks back at me as his jaw slowly goes slack. He blinks several times before saying, “Rude. Fair. But rude.”
The entire walk to the elevator and the ride down is like that. Complaining, speculating. Trying to peek around corners. At one point, he actually attempts to use the reflection in a framed photograph to see into the lobby.
I cover his eyes.
He bites my hand.
I don’t know why I’m surprised.