Epilogue
NOELLE
A YEAR LATER
Acrowded coffeehouse in Springfield might not be as intimate as a mountaintop chalet on a mid-December afternoon, but when I’m with my husband, it’s easy to pretend that no one but the two of us exists.
I drown out the rest of the world, my chin in my palm, watching Patrick as he watches everyone else.
He sits across from me, his favored peppermint tea untouched for now, his attention moving the way it always does.
On windows and their reflections and the snow drifting by outside, on exits, on people, and especially on the guy in his late twenties near the counter who had made the mistake of checking me out before he noticed the older man who is never too far from me when we’re together.
I’ve learned that Patrick North never pretends the world isn’t exactly what it is: really damn dangerous.
It doesn’t matter that he is probably the most dangerous man in this room.
I’m his Starling, and he’ll gun down anyone before they ever have the chance to try and clip my wings.
Once upon a time, that constant, unnerving vigilance frightened me. Now, it feels like shelter. Like safety.
Like home.
Even better, there’s no longer any handcuffs or fake police badges required.
Smiling to myself, I curl the fingers of my left hand around my coffee, enjoying the way the ring catches one of the overhead lights as I move.
It’s been on that all-important finger for almost a year now.
It used to be heavy, but I stopped thinking of it as a weight on me somewhere along the way, right around the time I realized I slept better knowing someone else was watching over me as I did.
I never removed it. Almost as though I knew it belonged there…
even when I fooled myself into thinking I might be able to leave Patrick behind…
I kept that ring on. It was my way to clear his Christmas wish list, and since last December, I’ve gone from being attracted yet terrified to being scared about just how much I fucking love this crazy, dangerous man.
After doing another survey of the bougie café, his eyes find mine.
They soften in a way that they don’t for anyone else, and I want to kick my feet and giggle every time that happens.
It’s a reminder that this brutal and ruthless killer decided that I was worthy of his protection.
His protection, and his love, too. He marked his skin with reminders of me, of the men he killed in my name, and while there was a time I would’ve run out into the snow to escape his relentless devotion when I had no fucking idea what I did to deserve it, I don’t fantasize about running anymore.
Not when a year with Patrick North has told me that he will follow me anywhere, and if he has to tie me down to keep me in one place, he will—and he’ll do it with a smile on his face and his hand inside my panties…
He leans forward in his seat, reaching out, brushing a stray lock of hair out of my eye. “How’s your drink? Do you need more milk?”
I made the mistake of mentioning once that I thought some of the baristas here skimped on the cream when I ordered my pumpkin spice latte.
It tasted burnt, I remarked on it, and Patrick insisted that they remake it until it was perfect.
Since then, he takes it as a personal insult if my drink isn’t just right.
It’s December. While he drinks peppermint tea year round because it helps with his occasional headaches and the stress he puts on himself to be the best at everything he does—and when you’re an assassin, stress at being the best is a lot higher than when you’re in HR like I am these days—I like to switch my coffees of choice as the seasons change.
October was pumpkin spice, November was maple bourbon, and now I’m enjoying my peppermint mocha.
“It’s yummy,” I tell Patrick. “Thanks, babe. Stopping in for a hot drink before we head out to get our tree is really putting me into the holiday spirit.”
We’re staying in Springfield for Christmas this year.
I’d spent the last two holidays at the chalet, and Patrick had offered to bring me back so we could celebrate it together in the same cabin where he first told me that I was his.
I liked the idea, but I pointed out that I’d only gone to the chalet because I was trying to escape the events of what happened that fateful night at the holiday party.
I don’t have to do that anymore. The five men involved in my assault are dead, and as a pièce de résistance, Patrick used his influence as a retired Dragonfly to shut down Evergreen & Co.
To be honest, I’m not quite sure how he accomplished it.
I’ve learned that he works best when he works alone and behind the scenes.
Regardless, one day, my old company had a firm holding in Springfield.
The next? The offices were emptied, most of my old coworkers had their resumés up on LinkedIn, and Patrick just gave me that knowing look of his when I asked if he had anything to do with it.
He did, and I loved him for it. Even more because he agreed that he might be retired, but I didn’t want to be, and he—and Cody—helped me find a position at another branding agency with a much better reputation than my old one ever had.
Instead of being a brand strategy coordinator, though, I applied to work in human resources on his advice—and I actually got the job.
So many of these agencies forget the ‘human’ part of human resources. I won’t. If there’s ever someone who ends up in a situation similar to what I went through, I want to be there to support them instead of throwing them away as if they don’t matter.
I mattered. I needed someone to help me, and I ended up getting that in a man known as Saint who wears a poinsettia on his back for me, and a delicate starling tattooed on his inner thigh.
A man who loved me before I knew his name, who killed for me, and who will stop at nothing to keep me, even when all I wanted was to fly away and be free of him.
My husband nicknamed me well. He called me his ‘Starling’, and though he gave me his reasons why, the fact that starlings have amazing spatial awareness, returning to the same place again and again…
I will always return to him, and maybe it took me a minute to realize that he’s right, the truth is that he doesn’t have to worry about where I’ll go because I’m right fucking here.
So why not host our first holiday together as a committed couple here in Springfield?
After he slipped that ring on my finger, I’d waited for the moment to take it off again.
It never came. We stayed in the chalet together through the new year, long after I could reasonably use the excuse of the snow keeping us trapped together.
I took my car, he drove right behind me in his, and he followed me all the way from the mountains back to the city only to wait until I parked so that he could join me in my apartment with my permission for the first time.
It was the last before I knew it. Patrick rubbed the underside of the ring, reminded me that that meant forever, and I was watching him walk away, heading to my closet where I kept my larger pieces of luggage, packing enough clothes and toiletries to keep me dressed for another week before he whisked me away to his place.
I don’t know why he bothered. Once Patrick had me in his domain, clothes became optional for both of us, and maybe I went into this relationship drunk on lust and the high that such a man wanted me… that he killed for me… but I stayed.
Well, no. I didn’t just stay. I moved in, and forever became final when he brought me in front of a white-haired judge and had him marry us a month later.
I gave up the apartment that held such trauma and shitty memories for me. I have a new job that I enjoy going to. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to taste anything cranberry without wanting to hurl, but Christmas… after last year, I have a new fondness for the holiday.
I want it all. The tree, the lights, and the ornaments that my husband and I have been picking out to begin our own family traditions.
I want eggnog and stockings hung up over his—our—fireplace, cheesy claymation movies from two generations ago, and a Grinch inflatable on the perfectly manicured lawn.
I got him to wear matching buffalo plaid pajamas with me the first Saturday in December.
Sure, he had more fun peeling me out of them so that he could bend me over the kitchen table, but after we curled up on the couch, snuggling in our rumpled flannel, watching Die Hard.
Because, yes, it’s a Christmas movie, and one of Patrick’s favorites. That, plus an old cartoon movie he had a DVD of that told the story of a cow named Annabelle who made her own wish for Christmas.
I don’t know why I was so surprised that he had a soft spot for an emotional Christmas movie from his childhood. After all, he has this need to see justice served in a way that makes sense to his brain, but he also proved that he will grant wishes, too.
No. That’s not quite right, either.
Patrick doesn’t just grant wishes. He executes them.
Just like he executed the men who hurt me…
And that’s why I stayed. It’s why I fell in love with him.
It’s why I’m sitting here now, taking a breather with my husband before we continue on with our Christmas preparations…
because he won’t hurt me. He also won’t let anyone else hurt me, and he has the poinsettia with the five leaves on his back to prove it.
Lifting my chin from my palm, I sit up, bringing my cup to my lips. I take a swallow, the peppermint mocha as good as it can be, and smile at him. There’s life in my eyes again, no sign of the countless tears I shed in the wake of my assault, and I have this man to thank for so much of that.