EPILOGUE
── ? ──
EVANDER
The penthouse is full.
Too full, really. Between the Princes, the scholarship girls, Liam running around with chocolate on his face from whatever gift Landon brought him this time, and the general chaos of what Aurora calls our "found family dinner nights," the space that usually feels palatial is suddenly cramped.
I'm sitting on the leather couch with Aurora curled in my lap, her back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her waist. She's wearing one of my shirts—casually stolen from my closet this morning—and nothing else except underwear and those ridiculous fuzzy socks she insists on wearing despite the penthouse being climate controlled to perfection.
She looks fucking perfect.
"This is a disaster," she murmurs, tilting her head back against my shoulder to look at me. Her lips curve in amusement. "Your brothers are about to start a war in your living room."
"They're always about to start a war." I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "This is just Tuesday."
"It's Friday."
"Semantics."
She laughs—that genuine, unguarded sound that still makes my chest tight—and settles deeper into my arms. "Watch. This is about to get good."
I follow her gaze across the room, and she's right. This is absolutely about to get good.
Lucius Whitcroft is leaning against the bar, a glass of expensive bourbon in one hand, his entire attention focused on the girl sitting on the opposite end of the sectional.
Skye Rowan.
She's one of the scholarship girls—Aurora's friend, though "friend" might be too generous a word for the complicated dynamic between them. Skye is all sharp edges and sharper tongue, with dark hair and darker eyes that currently look like they're plotting Lucius's murder.
"You're staring," she says without looking at him. Her voice is flat. Hostile.
"I'm observing." Lucius takes a slow sip of his bourbon. His eyes drag over her with absolutely zero subtlety—down her throat, across her collarbone exposed by the tank top she's wearing, lingering on the curve of her breasts before dropping lower. "There's a difference."
"The difference is consent, you entitled prick." Skye finally looks at him, and the hatred in her expression could melt steel. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?" His smile is predatory. Amused.
"Like you're mentally undressing me."
"I'm not mentally undressing you." He sets his glass down with deliberate care. "I already know exactly what you look like naked. I'm mentally fucking you."
The room goes silent.
Aurora makes a choking sound against my chest. "Did he just—"
"Yes," I confirm. "He absolutely just said that out loud."
Skye stands up slowly. Her hands are clenched into fists. "You arrogant, insufferable, piece of—"
"Careful." Lucius pushes off the bar, closing the distance between them with that particular stride that suggests he's enjoying this. "You're about to say something you can't take back."
"I hope you choke on your own ego."
"I'd rather choke on something else." His eyes drop to her mouth. "Want to volunteer?"
I expect her to throw her drink in his face. Or slap him. Or storm out.
Instead, Skye steps closer. Right into his space. Close enough that they're almost touching.
"You think you're so fucking clever," she says quietly. Dangerously. "You think you can just say whatever degrading shit comes into your head and I'll what? Fall at your feet? Beg for your attention?"
"No." Lucius's voice drops lower. "I think you're going to fight me every step of the way. And I think we're both going to love every second of it."
The tension between them is explosive. Electric. The kind of chemistry that's either going to end in murder or the most intense sex I've ever witnessed.
"Jesus," Aurora whispers. "Should we intervene?"
"Absolutely not." I tighten my arms around her. "This is the most entertainment I've had all week."
Across the room, near the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, another drama is unfolding.
Tristan Virelle has Iris Hale cornered.
Not physically—he's too smart for that. But psychologically, strategically, he's boxed her in. Standing just close enough that she can't leave without brushing against him, his posture relaxed and unthreatening despite the clear predatory intent in his eyes.
Iris is glaring at him with absolute, unfiltered hatred.
"You need to move," she says. Her voice is controlled. Icy. Everything Tristan finds fascinating.
"Do I?" He tilts his head slightly, studying her like she's a puzzle he's trying to solve. "I'm comfortable here."
"I'm not."
"I know." His smile is slight. Knowing. "That's the point."
"What do you want, Virelle?"
"Many things." He reaches out, his fingers brushing a strand of dark hair away from her face. She flinches back like he burned her. "But right now? I want to know what you're thinking. Behind that perfect mask of contempt."
"I'm thinking about all the ways I could kill you and make it look like an accident."
"Liar." His voice is soft. Almost gentle. "You're thinking about what would happen if you let yourself stop hating me for five minutes. If you let yourself feel anything other than anger."
"I feel plenty." Her hands are trembling slightly—fury or something else, I can't tell from here. "I feel disgust. Loathing. The overwhelming urge to knee you in the balls."
"All variations on the same theme." He steps closer. She presses back against the bookshelf. "You hate me because it's safer than the alternative."
"The alternative being what?"
"Admitting you want me." He says it so simply. So matter-of-factly. "That you've wanted me since the moment we met and it absolutely terrifies you."
Iris laughs. The sound is harsh. Broken. "You're delusional."
"I'm observant." His hand comes up to rest against the bookshelf beside her head, effectively caging her in. "I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching. The way your pupils dilate when I get close. The way your breath catches—"
"Stop." The word comes out desperate. Raw. "Just stop, Tristan. Whatever game you're playing—"
"This isn't a game." His voice drops to something rough. Honest. "This is me telling you that I'm done pretending. Done watching you build walls and acting like I don't notice every single crack in your armor."
"There are no cracks—"
"You're lying again." He leans in closer. "And you're terrible at it."
The silence between them is heavy. Loaded with everything they're not saying.
"They're going to kill each other," Aurora observes. "Or fuck. Possibly both."
"Definitely both." I press a kiss to the curve of her neck. "Tristan's been obsessed with her since she told him to fuck off in the library. He loves a challenge."
"And Iris?"
"Iris is going to fight him until she can't anymore. And then she's going to fall so hard it destroys them both." I say it with certainty because I know Tristan. Know how he operates. "It's going to be spectacular to watch."
Aurora shifts in my lap, turning slightly to look at me. "You sound way too pleased about your friends' upcoming disasters."
"I am pleased." I capture her mouth in a kiss that's probably too heated for public consumption. "Misery loves company. If I have to deal with being stupidly in love with you, they can suffer too."
"Stupidly in love?" She's grinning against my lips. "That's romantic."
"I'm not romantic." I bite her lower lip gently. "I'm honest."
She's about to respond—probably something sarcastic—when movement near the kitchen catches my attention.
Hazel Bloom.
The fourth scholarship girl. Aurora's friend. The one who's been here for weeks and I've barely noticed because she's so... quiet. Unobtrusive. Like she's trying to take up as little space as possible.
She's standing by the kitchen counter, arranging lilies in a crystal vase. Her movements are careful. Precise. But also slightly clumsy—she nearly knocks over the vase twice, catching it at the last second with a small gasp.
She doesn't fit here. Doesn't fit in this world of sharp edges and sharper people. Everything about her is soft. Gentle. The kind of genuine sweetness that gets devoured by predators.
I'm about to look away—she's not my concern, not my problem—when the penthouse door opens.
Landon Ashford walks in.
He's wearing a tailored suit despite it being a casual Friday dinner. His teal-blue eyes scan the room with practiced efficiency, landing on Liam first—who's currently building a LEGO spaceship on the floor with pieces scattered everywhere.
"There's my favorite architect," Landon says warmly. Genuinely. The mask of the Golden Prince firmly in place.
"Landon!" Liam scrambles up, running over to hug him. "Look what I built!"
"That's incredible." Landon crouches down, examining the LEGO construction with the kind of serious attention most people reserve for actual architecture. "Is that a hyperdrive module?"
"Yeah! And it has rotating laser cannons—"
They're off, discussing LEGO spaceships with an intensity that would be adorable if I didn't know exactly what Landon is beneath that warm exterior.
A psychopath. A genuine, diagnosed-by-every-metric psychopath who performs empathy the way actors perform roles.
But with Liam, it's different. With Liam, the performance becomes something closer to real.
Landon stands after a minute, ruffling Liam's hair. "Keep building. I want to see the finished product before I leave."
"Okay!" Liam drops back to the floor, already absorbed in his project again.
Landon straightens. Heads toward the kitchen—probably looking for the bourbon he knows I keep stocked specifically for these gatherings.
He's not looking where he's going. Too focused on the room, on cataloging everyone's positions, on maintaining that pleasant expression that makes people think he's safe.
Hazel takes a clumsy step backward.
Directly into his chest.
The collision isn't hard. Barely a bump. But Landon freezes.
Completely. Utterly. Like someone hit a pause button on his entire body.
Hazel turns around, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't see—"