Epilogue Prudence
“Hold on, hold on—Saoirse, you’re frozen again.” I tap the screen, then realize tapping does nothing to fix a frozen image, but seconds later, Saoirse’s face unfreezes mid-laugh, her mouth stretched wide.
“—and Declan just stood there holding the cat like a hostage negotiator. Hope scratched him across both forearms and he didn’t even flinch.”
Nora’s square on the group FaceTime erupts with laughter.
I figured out group calls on my own last week and discovered the three of us could see one another at the same time.
I called Ronan immediately afterward to tell him, and he said, “You’re a tech genius, baby,” which I know is an exaggeration, but I appreciate his praise.
I wedge my phone against the sugar canister and pour coffee into two mugs.
I learned to operate the coffee machine too.
The first attempt produced something Ronan described as “interesting.” But the second attempt was almost drinkable.
Now I make it every morning, and Ronan drinks it without complaint, even though he teases me that mine has enough cream and sugar to horrify a barista.
“How’s the new therapist?” Nora asks.
I add cream to Ronan’s mug—a splash, no sugar. I know how he prefers his coffee. I know dozens of things about my husband that I did not know five weeks ago, and each one feels like a small, precious gem I carry in my pocket.
“Dr. Singh is good,” I say. “She asks me what I think, and then we talk about whether that thought belongs to me or to someone who put it there. I cry sometimes. But I leave feeling lighter.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to work,” Nora says.
Saoirse nods. “My therapist always says that hard things and good things aren’t opposites. They show up together.”
They do. I am learning this.
“I’m not sure if it’s okay to bring up, so if you’d rather not talk about it, tell me to shut up, but I’m super curious…” Saoirse pauses for a moment before continuing. “Have you heard anything about the cult or that cult leader?”
Since I left The Children of Light for good, Ronan has told me a few things.
Father’s real name is Clive Buford and he is a criminal.
Also, when he used the women and children of the Flock as protection in Wisconsin, he and a few of the Brothers of the Flock escaped somehow and they have not yet been located.
“He is still missing.” The words leave a cold residue on my tongue. “Ronan tells me his network is dismantled, his finances are frozen, and he’s running out of places to hide. As for the Flock, they are being aided by the motorcycle club.”
“Good,” Nora says.
Neither woman fills the silence that follows. They hold it with me, the way only people who understand can hold something like that.
I clear my throat. “Alright. I have to go. Ronan will be home soon, and I have something to show him.”
“Ooh. Cryptic.” Saoirse grins. “Call us later.”
“FaceTime us later,” Nora corrects, winking.
I blow them both a kiss—a gesture I learned from Nicholas—and end the call.
I carry my coffee to the kitchen island and settle into a barstool there.
On the counter, a stack of college brochures fans across the surface.
I’ve been collecting them for two weeks—picking them up at the public library Nora showed me, and requesting them online using the laptop Ronan bought me.
I don’t know what I want to study yet. The sheer number of options is staggering, and I’ve spent hours reading course descriptions the way I once read scripture—searching for meaning, for direction, for something that resonates.
I want to learn, though. I know that. Wanting something for myself still feels new—a muscle I am training, one flex at a time.
When Ronan strides into the kitchen dressed for work, my hands find the lapels of his shirt, and I pull him down and kiss him. Because I want his mouth on mine and I no longer need permission to take it.
He makes a low sound against my lips and his arms circle my waist.
“Morning,” I say when we separate.
“Good Morning.” His voice is thick. “I thought I heard voices in here.”
“I FaceTimed the girls.”
“Group call?”
“Group call.”
He grins and nods toward the mug of coffee I prepared for him. “Is that for me?”
“It’s for my husband. If you see him, let him know.”
He laughs—the full kind that creases the skin beside his eyes. He takes his mug, sips, and gives me a nod of approval.
His gaze drifts to the counter and the brochures. He picks one up. Sets it down. Picks up another.
“You’ve been busy,” he says.
“I want to learn things.”
“What things?”
“I do not—I mean, I don’t,” I am learning to speak less formally, but sometimes I forget. “I don’t know yet. Everything. Anything.” I wrap both hands around the ceramic mug. “I want to understand the world I’m living in. Not the version Father constructed. The real one.”
He sets down his coffee. His whole body turns toward me, and his amused expression falls away. His eyes hold mine with a directness that makes my pulse quicken.
“I need to ask you something,” he says.
“Alright.”
He takes both my hands. “Our marriage isn’t legal.” He holds my gaze. “The ceremony at the Enclave wasn’t real. There was no license, no paperwork, no government record. I told you that the day I drove you away from that place.”
“I remember.”
“I want to make it legal. Filed and recognized by the state of Illinois and every authority that matters.” He pauses. “But I’m not telling you. I’m asking.”
I search his face. “You’re asking me to marry you.”
“I am asking you to marry me. Not under any duress or obligation.” His voice drops.
“I’m asking because I love you. Because you are extraordinary.
Because having you in my life is the single best thing that has ever happened to me, and I want to start every morning for the rest of my life by seeing your face. ”
I do not cry. My eyes are dry and clear, and the word that comes from my mouth is not obedience or survival or conditioning.
The desire is pure and uncomplicated and mine.
“Yes. I want to marry you.”
His forehead drops to mine. His exhale is shaking, as though he’d been holding his breath.
“Yes, Ronan,” I say again, because once is not enough. “I choose you with my whole heart.”
He kisses me. Deep and unhurried, with his hands cupping my face. I grip his wrists and kiss him back, and there is no guilt in it, no shame, no whispered scripture drowning out the sound of my own heartbeat.
When we finally break the kiss and are both gasping for air, his arm tightens around me, drawing me closer, and I press my face into the crook of his neck and breathe him in. I hold on, not because I am afraid of falling, but because I can.
“For all of eternity?” he murmurs against my temple.
I smile against his skin. “For all of eternity.”
Next book in this series:
Pledged to the Irish Mobster
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Stranded on a storm-soaked highway with a dead car and no one left to call, Cami stumbles into the last place she should ever be—a biker clubhouse filled with dangerous men. But when the Hellbound Devils close in, one voice cuts through the chaos.
Wrath. Their violent, feared VP...and the only man who looks at her like she’s worth saving.
He offers shelter. Protection. Safety she’s never known. But safety from the storm is one thing—safety from her past is another.
When her abuser resurfaces and a rival club starts asking questions, Wrath snaps. Claiming Cami as his old lady isn’t just a choice—it’s a declaration.
She’s broken. He’s blood-stained. And together, they’re unstoppable.