EPILOGUE| The Next Game
Three months later.
The underworld war is over.
Not just over-obliterated. Nikolai made absolutely certain that the Corsican syndicate was erased so completely that even their name is whispered like a cautionary tale now. No survivors. No remnants. No loose ends that might come back for revenge.
Just absolute, total victory.
And somehow, in the aftermath of all that violence and chaos, I ended up back in his penthouse.
Not because he forced me.
Not because I had nowhere else to go.
Because I chose it.
Because despite everything-despite the manipulation and the psychological warfare and the months of twisted games-this is where I feel safe.
With him.
In his space.
Wrapped in his obsessive, possessive, completely psychotic version of love.
I probably need therapy.
We definitely need therapy.
But right now, standing in the obscenely large marble bathroom of his penthouse, steam still clinging to the mirrors from the very long, very explicit shower we just finished, I can't bring myself to care about the psychological implications.
"You're thinking too loudly," Nikolai says from behind me.
I glance at his reflection in the mirror.
He's wearing black lounge pants and nothing else, his dark hair still damp and pushed back from his face. The bathroom lighting catches the scars on his torso-evidence of a violent life that should terrify me but somehow doesn't.
"I'm allowed to think," I respond, wrapping my towel tighter.
"You're allowed to do whatever you want, papillon." He steps closer, his hands settling on my hips. "But when you think too loudly, I get paranoid that you're planning to leave again."
"I'm not leaving."
"Promets-le." Promise it.
I turn in his arms, looking up at him. "I promise. I'm staying."
Something in his expression relaxes.
He leans down and kisses me-soft and lingering and completely at odds with how rough he was in the shower twenty minutes ago.
"Good," he murmurs against my lips. "Because I would hunt you down anyway."
"I know."
"And bring you back."
"I know."
"And never let you go again."
"Nikolai." I press my hand against his chest. "I said I'm staying. You can stop with the possessive psychopath routine."
"It's not a routine, Butterfly. It's just who I am."
Unfortunately, he's right.
I grab his hand and pull him out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and into the massive living room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows display the New York City skyline at night-glittering lights and infinite darkness. The penthouse is exactly how I remember it: obscenely expensive, perfectly curated, cold in that way that screams money but no warmth.
Except it's different now.
There are books scattered on the coffee table-mine, not his. A blanket draped over the couch where I fell asleep reading last night. Little pieces of me infiltrating his perfect space.
Making it ours instead of his.
Nikolai settles into his large leather armchair-the one that probably costs more than a car-and immediately reaches for me.
"Come here."
I roll my eyes but comply, letting him pull me onto his lap.
He arranges me exactly how he wants: my back against his solid chest, his arms wrapped around my waist, my legs draped over the arm of the chair.
It's possessive and controlling and completely him.
And I'm comfortable.
So fucking comfortable it should probably concern me.
I grab the book I abandoned earlier from the side table and settle in.
Nikolai's chin rests on my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck as I flip to the page I marked.
We sit like this a lot now.
Just existing together.
Him holding me like I might disappear if he lets go. Me reading or studying while his presence surrounds me like armor.
It's toxic.
It's codependent.
It's absolutely perfect for two broken people who don't know how to love in normal, healthy ways.
I read in silence for maybe twenty minutes, the only sound the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat against my back and the occasional rustle as I turn a page.
Then curiosity gets the better of me.
I close the book and set it aside, turning my head to look at him.
"Can I ask you something?"
His dark eyes focus on me immediately. "Toujours." Always.
"Over the past three months, I've learned a lot about how your brain works. How you process people and emotions and social dynamics."
"Mmm." His fingers trace absent patterns on my stomach through my shirt basically his shirt. "And?"
"I'm curious." I shift in his lap so I can see his face better. "Has anyone ever actually impressed you? Like, genuinely impressed you? Any normal human earned the Reaper's respect?"
He considers this for a long moment.
"Define impressed."
"I don't know. Surprised you. Made you think twice. Earned your respect instead of your contempt."
His lips quirk up slightly. "Most people are disappointingly predictable."
"I know. But surely not everyone."
He's quiet for another moment, his hand still moving in those absent patterns.
"Landon Ashford," he finally says.
I blink. "Landon? The absolutely gentle guy who looks like he could like what host a dinner with such polite grace but looks like he is having some kind of hidden intensity when he is around his girlfriend?"
"Oui." Nikolai nods slowly. "Landon makes sense to me. He's a high-functioning psychopath who happens to be gentle when it comes to Hazel. He still possesses a few basic human emotions-not many, but enough to make him somewhat predictable. Enough to make him a logical ally."
I think about the few times I've interacted with Landon. The quiet intensity. The way he watches his girlfriend like she's the only thing in the world that matters.
"He's like you," I realize.
"Similaire." Nikolai's expression is thoughtful. "But not identical. He has more capacity for emotional connection than I do. It makes him slightly more... humain." Similar. Human.
"Is that why you respect him? Because you understand him?"
"Partly." He pauses. "Also because he's genuinely dangerous. Not performatively dangerous like most of the American princes. Actually capable of extreme violence without hesitation or remorse. It's refreshing."
Only Nikolai would find sociopathy refreshing.
"Anyone else?"
A dark, fascinated smirk crosses his face.
The kind of smile that usually means he's thinking about something that would disturb normal people.
"Tristan Virelle."
I straighten slightly. "The artist? The one who looks like he walked out of a Renaissance painting?"
"That's the one." The smirk deepens. "He's the only person who truly makes me wonder."
"Wonder about what?"
Nikolai shifts me in his lap, adjusting so he can see my face better while he talks.
"Tristan is a master manipulator," he explains. "An illusionist. A chaotic liar who breathes deception the way normal people breathe oxygen. His entire existence is built on smoke and mirrors and carefully constructed facades."
I nod slowly. I've seen Tristan around campus-beautiful, cold and charming and somehow slightly unsettling in a way I could never quite define.
"And his girlfriend-fiancée now, I believe-is Iris Hale."
"I don't know her."
"She's brilliant." Nikolai's eyes light up with genuine fascination.
"Colder than I am or pretends to be, which is saying something.
A walking lie detector with an intellect that operates on pure, unbroken logic.
She can dissect anyone's psychology in seconds.
She sees through deception the way other people see through windows. "
I'm starting to understand why this intrigues him.
"So you have a master liar," I say slowly, "and a human lie detector."
"Exactement." Exactly. Nikolai's smirk turns into something almost excited. "Complete opposites. A man who lives in carefully constructed illusions and a woman who can only exist in absolute truth."
"How the hell did they end up together?"
"That," he breathes, "is exactly what fascinates me."
He leans back in the chair, pulling me more firmly against his chest.
"They were already dating when I first transferred to Ardencrest," he continues. "Already established. Already whatever the fuck they are to each other. And I've spent months trying to understand the dynamic."
"And?"
"And I have no fucking idea." He laughs, and there's genuine delight in the sound. "I can't figure it out. Can't map the psychology. Can't identify the manipulation patterns or the power balance or the reason they work."
I've never heard him sound so fascinated by another person.
"Maybe she's the one playing the game," I offer.
His arms tighten around me. "What do you mean?"
"You're assuming Tristan trapped her with his illusions. But what if she's the one who trapped him? What if the master manipulator finally met someone who could manipulate him back?"
Nikolai goes very still.
Then slowly-very slowly-his smirk returns.
"Intéressant." Interesting.
I can practically feel his brain working, re-analyzing the situation from this new angle.
"You think the cold, logical genius is playing the chaotic artist?"
"I think if anyone could out-manipulate a master manipulator, it would be someone who sees through every lie he tells."
"But why would she want to?"
"The same reason you wanted me." I turn in his arms, straddling his lap so I can look him directly in the eyes. "Because he's the one person who makes her feel something other than whatever she is."
Understanding flashes across his face.
Then something darker.
Something hungry.
"I want to know their story," he breathes. "I want to know how a chaotic liar trapped the absolute truth. Or how the absolute truth trapped him. I want to understand the game they're playing."
He leans forward, his forehead almost touching mine.
"Leur histoire doit être un sacré jeu dangereux." Their story must be one hell of a dangerous game.
I smile, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
"Maybe she's just smarter than you think. Maybe she saw the monster behind the illusions and decided to keep him anyway."
"Like you did with me."
"Exactly like I did with you."
His hands slide up my back, pulling me closer.
"Je t'aime, papillon." I love you, butterfly.
"I love you too, you psychotic asshole."
He laughs-genuine and unfiltered-and kisses me.
Outside the penthouse windows, snow starts to fall.
Soft and quiet and beautiful.
Inside, wrapped in the arms of a monster who learned how to worship instead of destroy, I'm exactly where I belong.
The Reaper finally claimed his Queen.
But somewhere in Ardencrest, the master of illusions is still hiding the greatest secret of all.
And knowing Nikolai, he won't rest until he figures it out.
But that's a game for another day.
Right now, I have everything I need.
Yup... he was serious.
And the insane part? He actually fucking did it.
The boy really went and wrote a whole book because of this conversation. I genuinely don't even know what is happening in my life anymore.
He kept his word, so I guess I have to keep mine too. I read the prologue and chapter one and I'm not even joking when I say it was GOOD. Like... actually good. The kind that makes you stop and go "wait hold on???"
I made the cover for him, but everything else - the story, description, characters, chaos - is completely his, so I'm not gonna share all that myself. I'll tag his profile instead because honestly??? Y'all should check it out.
This boy is actually crazy. Jesus.
And yes... this is the screenshot that started it all
Here is his profile.. Aiden_2003 You are fucking insane Aiden!