Epilogue
Seven Months Later
KATARINA
It’s growing dark by the time we return home, my feet weighed down by the heavy Hebridean mud clinging to my boots.
My hands are cold and I should have worn gloves, but I have one hand stuffed into my puffer jacket pocket and the other squeezed into Killian’s woolen jacket, his fingers wrapped around mine.
We head to the back of the cottage and Killian opens the door with his left hand so he can keep hold of mine. A year has passed since he was shot and while he’s made a full recovery physically, the need to keep me by his side is the last lingering wound to heal.
He only lets go once he’s pulled me inside the small boot room attached to the kitchen. We’re plunged into impenetrable darkness when I close the door behind us, but we’ve lived here long enough to do everything by touch.
Killian tugs off my boots while I unzip my coat and hang it on a hook. As I listen to the thud of two pairs of boots being dropped onto the flagstone floor, the only other sound is the soughing of the giant oak tree in our wild garden.
The sense of tranquility has been overwhelming at times, but I’m grateful for every day I get to wake up wrapped in the arms of the man I love. It’s a luxury I’ll never take for granted.
On the few occasions we’ve left our secluded Scottish isle to go on short expeditions, there’s never been any question of coming back here. This is home.
“I’m in the mood for a warm bath and an early night,” I say.
Killian shrugs out of his coat, and as he leans across to hang it up, he kisses my cold neck with his warm lips. “Are you now? And what else does my lady want?”
“You,” I say, but as I reach for the light switch, my hand stills. A sudden cold shudder runs down my spine, putting me on high alert. That shouldn’t happen. Not here.
I can’t hear anything to explain my reaction, and as I take a steadying breath, I’m met with the earthy smells from the mud we’ve trekked in, mixed with the warm aroma of the soup Killian made with the glut of produce harvested from our vegetable patch.
We’re so domesticated it’s frightening, but right now it’s a different kind of fear that has my heart pumping.
Killian must sense it too because he pulls my hand away from the light switch. Stepping in front of me, he slowly and quietly opens the door to the kitchen. The windows in our cottage are small, but there should be the grey light of dusk filtering in through the blinds. It’s pitch black.
As I come to stand alongside my husband, I make a quick inventory of all the weapons we have on hand.
Neither of us carry guns which, in hindsight, feels like a huge mistake.
Our firearms are locked away in a cabinet in the pantry, and the only weapons within reach are in the knife block to my right.
I hope I’m overreacting, but as I still my breathing, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The sound of breathing continues and it’s coming from the other side of the room. I spin fast, finding the edge of the counter and reaching for a paring knife.
But before I can prepare to throw it, strong arms bind around my chest, trapping me. Arms belonging to someone who should know better than to restrain me.
“Killian, what the fuck–?”
I fight against his grasp as he turns me so I’m facing forward. I don’t understand. The Killian I know would want to keep me behind him.
A switch is flipped and as light fills the kitchen, a chorus of voices cut through the charged atmosphere.
“Happy birthday!”
I’m too shocked to tell my brain to defuse the explosive fury I was ready to unleash on unknown attackers, and the snarl I’m trying to hold back tickles the back of my throat as I scan the familiar faces watching me with a mixture of anxiety and amusement.
The nervous looks are from the staff who share our isle now that Rory’s restoration project is nearing completion.
The king of the castle himself is grinning like a fool, as is Ash who’s standing next to Rory.
I’d be tempted to introduce them both to the sharp end of my knife if Killian wasn’t pinning my arms to my sides.
“Is it safe to let you go yet?” my husband asks, resting his chin on my shoulder. I can hear his fucking grin. He was in on this.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Ash says, the first to approach us. His beard scrapes my cheek as he gives me a quick peck. “Happy birthday, Inessa.”
It’s the name everyone who visits or lives on this isle knows me by and I’m getting used to it. Katarina Barkov only comes out to play when she’s hunting down the higher ranking Bratva soldiers with aspirations of resurrecting the Barkov empire.
“What are you doing here?”
Ash goes to pull the knife from my grasp, but I refuse to let it go. “I came all this way to give you your birthday gift.”
He tugs harder and with a sigh, I let him disarm me.
While he’s returning it to the knife block, Killian repositions himself so I’m tucked at his side.
Presumably in case any other hot-blooded male tries to kiss me.
Ash is the closest Killian has to a brother now, and he’s the only one he’d ever let near me.
“Is my gift a new husband?” I ask Ash. “Because I might just kill my current one for scaring the shit out of me.” My heart is still beating loudly in my chest and I know my cheeks are flushed. “In case you’ve forgotten, I had enough surprises for my last birthday.”
“All the more reason to appreciate how far we’ve come,” Killian reminds me, and despite myself, I soften as I press into him. He has a point.
“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you…” Rory starts singing loud enough to have the crockery rattling, and soon everyone’s joining in.
I don’t notice the new arrival until I catch the flicker of candlelight from behind the castle’s groundsman who’s been advising me on what produce will grow in our harsh climate.
There’s a glimpse of honey blond hair and then…
“Sasha!” I cry out as she appears with a birthday cake complete with twenty-two candles.
This is one surprise I don’t need time to adjust to, and I pull from Killian’s hold. The flames of the candles dance between us, adding fire to her violet eyes but no warmth.
“Time to make a wish,” she says, lifting the cake higher.
Only now do I notice the cake is in the shape of a boat wreck disappearing into a blue-almost-black ocean. The half-destroyed wheelhouse is scorched and there are dead fish scattered across the deck.
“Can I wish for a different cake?” I ask drolly.
While our rivalry was all an act, we both freely admit we enjoyed some of the tricks we played on each other. Merciless teasing is our love language.
“Blow the fucking candles out,” she orders.
When I do, it feels greedy to ask for more when I already have so much. Instead, I wish for Sasha to find the kind of love and friendship I’ve been blessed with.
“How long can you stay?” I ask when everyone else is busy pouring drinks and setting out the party food my unexpected guests have brought with them.
“Things are quiet right now,” she says. “I don’t think we’ve rooted out all of the Bratva rats, but the ones that remain loyal to a dead cause have gone underground.”
“And Peterson?” Killian asks, handing us both glasses of champagne.
“Eric is slowly lowering his guard,” she replies. “It won’t be long before he exposes his network of friends.”
It’s the only reason Eric has remained off my hit list for now.
Sasha spent enough time at Blackwater Rock to familiarize herself with his security systems. He’s the bait that we’ll use to pick off his fellow deviants one by one.
It’s going to be my life’s work, and it’s what Killian says he wants too.
Rick and Inessa will enjoy a quiet life on the edges of society while Killian and Katarina become specters that appear now and again, hellbent on obliterating the network of human traffickers my uncle enabled.
“If you want to stay on our island, you’re very welcome,” Killian tells Sasha.
“I think you mean my island,” Rory reminds him as he comes to join us.
Killian winks at him. “Sure. You keep telling yourself that.”
“I sometimes wonder why we’re even friends.”
My husband smirks. “Friends is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? We’re more like acquaintances with a mutual friend,” he says, tipping his head towards Ash.
“An acquaintance who lets you live on his island,” Rory retorts.
I roll my eyes and turn back to Sasha, who’s following the conversation with her trademark cold indifference. The Bratva wasn’t known for banter and it’s going to take a while for her to acclimatize, as it did me.
“Whoever this place belongs to, we’d love to have you here,” I tell my sestra. “We only have one bedroom, but my husband won’t mind sleeping on the couch.”
“Whoa,” says Killian. “I was thinking Sasha would stay at the castle.”
“Whose castle would that be?” Rory asks.
I spear Rory with one look. “Rory Moncrief, titan of a hospitality empire, are you saying you’re not going to offer shelter to a friend of your friend’s friend’s wife?” My brain hurts a little from the word soup that’s just come out of my mouth. Killian is most definitely rubbing off on me.
“Let the women do what they want, would be my advice,” Ash says handing out whiskeys to his friends.
“She can stay at the castle,” Rory and Killian say at the same time.
Sasha’s expression remains deadpan. “I’m not sure it’s big enough to meet my needs.” She’s looking at Rory when she adds, “I prefer my own company and you’re very loud.”
Ash snorts a laugh. “That’s telling you.”