Epilogue
The winter sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, warming the side of my neck as I sat on the edge of the sofa. I held a ceramic mug of green tea between my hands, letting the steam rise toward my chin.
A year ago, I would have scanned the glass for reflections, mapping the blind spots in the room before taking a single sip.
Today, I simply watched the dust motes drift in the bright, golden beams. The sprawling, open space of Bastien’s living room offered no suffocating shadows.
There were no hidden corners where monsters could wait.
My daughter proved it with every step.
Petra stood near the edge of the thick Persian rug, her small hands balled into fists for balance.
She took a wobbly, uncertain step forward on her bare feet, her knees bending awkwardly before she steadied herself.
She let out a high-pitched string of nonsense syllables, focused on reaching the massive pile of colorful boxes stacked near the Christmas tree.
I took a slow sip of the hot tea, relaxing my spine against the couch. The frantic need to scan the perimeter and watch every door was finally gone. I let my weight sink fully into the cushions.
A shadow moved in the hallway.
I didn’t flinch. I set my mug down onto a cork coaster with a dull tap.
Marcus, one of Bastien’s imposing lieutenants, stepped through the arched doorway. He wore his usual tailored suit, though he lacked the rigid, tactical posture he maintained on the street. He carried a silver-wrapped box topped with a massive blue bow.
“She’s moving fast today,” Marcus noted, pausing near the edge of the rug to avoid interrupting the baby’s faltering march.
“If we blink, she makes it to the kitchen,” I said.
Petra lost her balance, dropping to her padded knees with a soft thud. She didn’t cry. She merely slapped her palms against the rug, babbled at the floor, and resumed crawling toward the shiny paper.
Marcus stepped closer, holding out the box.
“Happy birthday to the little one, Mrs. Vandeveer,” he said, offering a polite, respectful nod. “The boys on the perimeter sent this up for her.”
I accepted the gift, my fingers brushing the slick, metallic foil.
The box held a solid weight. It was a staggering contrast to the way people used to treat me.
I wasn’t just Bastien’s partner in this building.
I was the matriarch of the operation. The men who secured our doors treated me with a quiet, undeniable reverence.
“Thank you, Marcus,” I said, tracing the edge of the blue ribbon. “That is sweet of you all. She’s going to love it.”
From the open kitchen, Bastien pushed off the island. He walked around the marble counter, his dark eyes locked on the baby as she batted at a crinkled piece of tissue paper.
“Careful,” Bastien warned, a genuine smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Or she’s going to expect tribute from the crew every year.”
I laughed, setting the beautifully wrapped box onto the pile.
The afternoon gave way to evening. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the winter sun dipped below the skyline, revealing a sprawling grid of glittering city lights. The penthouse grew quiet.
The final syndicate guards retreated to the outer perimeter, leaving us in privacy. I walked down the dim, carpeted hallway, holding Petra against my chest.
Her bath was finished, and she wore fresh cotton pajamas. Her damp curls smelled of lavender and warm water. She shifted her weight, burying her face into the curve of my neck.
“Time for bed, little terror,” I whispered into the quiet hall.
She let out a tiny, exhausted yawn. Her small fist uncurled, resting flat against my collarbone. The quiet of the penthouse carried none of the oppressive weight of the old Stanton estate. The walls here didn’t hide secrets or cameras.
I pushed the nursery door open with my hip. A small amber nightlight cast a warm glow across the pale walls and the thick carpet. I crossed the room, cradling her carefully against my chest. I leaned over the wooden rail of the crib and lowered her onto the mattress.
I kept one hand flat against her chest. I waited in the dim light, watching her eyelashes flutter as she fought sleep for a few stubborn seconds. Finally, she let out a long sigh and settled into the sheets. I pulled a soft knitted blanket over her legs, tucking the edges beneath her feet.
Releasing the fabric, I gripped the smooth wood of the crib.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Bastien stepped into the room, moving with a quiet fluidity that easily carried his massive frame. His shadow stretched across the floor.
“She exhausted herself tearing through that wrapping paper,” Bastien noted, stopping right behind me.
I nodded, keeping my gaze on the crib. “She had such a big day. She was asleep before her head even hit the mattress.”
Bastien stepped closer. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me backward until I met the solid wall of his chest. He rested his chin on the top of my head.
I released the wooden rail. I lifted my hands, laying my palms against him and tracing the lapels of his suit jacket.
I rested my back flush against his chest, letting him take my weight.
There was no need for a defensive posture in this room.
He was no longer the unyielding stranger who had once stood guard outside my hospital door.
He was my partner.
“She’s a terror when she’s tired,” Bastien said, his voice a low rumble. “Takes after her mother.”
I smiled in the amber light. I looked down at the steady rhythm of our daughter’s breathing.
Tobias and Lavinia were locked away forever, stripped of their names and their power.
The Vandeveer fortune was entirely safe, secured for the tiny girl sleeping in front of us.
We stood wrapped together in the quiet room, completely untouchable. The nightmare was over.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said. I ran my thumb over Bastien’s knuckles. “We survived the year, Bastien. We actually did it.”
He shifted his hold on my waist, turning me away from the crib.
“We did,” he murmured, his breath warm against my hair. “Come here. Let her sleep.”
He guided me out of the nursery. He reached back and pulled the door shut behind us.
The brass latch engaged with a quiet click.
“The staff is gone,” he murmured.
His palm rested against the small of my back, radiating a steady, solid heat through the silk of my dress. He nudged me forward, guiding me down the shadowed hallway.
“We have the entire floor to ourselves.”
“Good,” I whispered.
We walked past the empty guest rooms. I leaned into his steady touch, perfectly at ease as we moved through the dim space. The only sound was the muffled tread of Bastien’s boots and the quiet rustle of my skirt against my calves.
We reached the master bedroom. The space was awash in the glittering glow of the city skyline pouring through the expansive glass.
“Turn around,” Bastien instructed.
I stopped near the foot of the king-sized mattress and pivoted to face him. He stepped in close. He reached out, his large hands sliding down the length of my arms. He stopped at my wrists and lifted my hands.
He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to my knuckles.
The hot, firm pressure of his lips against my skin sent a sudden, startling shiver up my arm. For months, the mere thought of a man touching my hands had triggered physical revulsion. Whenever Tobias had reached for me, I had to fight the sickening urge to pull away.
With Bastien, I only wanted him closer.
I stared at Bastien’s broad shoulders and the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow. I did not want to pull away. My skin pebbled under his touch, and I found myself desperate for more.
Bastien released my hands. He reached behind me, his fingers brushing the nape of my neck. He located the metal tab of my zipper.
The tiny metal teeth parted with a long, continuous hiss.
The cool air of the bedroom retreated from the sudden, intense heat of his palms as the silk dress parted down my spine. Bastien hooked his thumbs beneath the fabric and pushed it down. The garment pooled around my ankles, leaving me bare in the shadows of the room.
I stepped out of the discarded silk.
Bastien lifted his hands to my chest. He traced the outer curves of my breasts, his rough, calloused thumbs brushing against my nipples. They hardened under the sudden friction. The cool temperature of the room vanished, eclipsed by the overwhelming heat of his skin.
He stepped closer, his dark suit brushing against my bare stomach.
“You’re so beautiful, Cecilia,” Bastien said, his voice dropping into a low rumble. “I think I wanted you the moment you walked into this penthouse.”
I arched my back, pressing myself deeper into his hands.
“You hid it well,” I said.
Bastien stopped moving his thumbs. He looked down into my eyes, the hardened edge he wore on the street completely gone.
“I couldn’t claim you then. But things are different now. And I’m never letting you go.”
Bastien stepped forward, his thighs pressing against mine. He guided me backward in a slow, deliberate march until my calves bumped the wooden frame of the bed. He pressed his hands against my shoulders, pushing me down. I let my weight fall back against the high-thread-count sheets.
He shrugged off his suit jacket, letting it drop to the floor.
He followed me down onto the mattress. The springs creaked under his weight. He leaned over my chest, hovering just above me. He lowered his head and took my nipple into his mouth.
I gasped, my hands instinctively curling into the sheets.
The wet, hot suction was immediate and demanding.
He swirled his tongue over the sensitive peak, pulling at the skin with a steady, rhythmic pressure.
The intense physical sensation demanded all my attention, leaving no room for the ghosts of my past. There was no revulsion, no instinct to retreat into myself.
Every touch kept me anchored in the room with him.