50 - Epilogue
Harlow
Six months later
Killian gazes down at me. Water cascades down his sculpted body as we stand under an outdoor shower.
The sand and salt wash from our bodies. It’s been a relaxing day at the beach.
I spent most of it under an umbrella, reading a book and stealing glances at Killian.
I’m especially vigilant today, and for good reason.
The water groups his dark eyelashes, making his eyes more expressive and haunting than they already were.
I reach up and tenderly stroke under his cheekbone, tracing the long scar.
It’s so much worse. He cut it deeper the second time.
The already existing scar tissue made reconstruction harder for the surgeon.
Yet, I absolutely love it.
“I fucked up,” he says calmly. “I shouldn’t have cut it twice.”
I don’t nod.
Instead, I drag my fingertips over his jaw and to his throat. “I’m just grateful this wasn’t cut.”
“You and me both,” he responds, his smile more crooked than before.
My heart skips a beat. I can’t get over how close I was to losing him.
I still have flashbacks. If Jagger drove too slow, if he and I waited for someone to open the front door instead of walking inside, if we spent one moment longer talking to the woman in the kitchen — All of those things could have delayed us and Killian wouldn’t be here today.
He survived.
Hell, I survived.
My fiancée had a psychotic break. Twice.
Once when Asher died, and another when he thought I died.
He was admitted to a psychiatric facility under court order.
It took a month to convince him I wasn’t a hallucination.
It took two months for Asher’s ghost to quit talking and three months for him to disappear.
At month four, doctors determined he was no longer an immediate danger to himself or others, and he was released.
“Are you scared of me now?” he asks.
“Yes!” I say and chuckle. “I’ve been cautious with you since the day we met.”
“I’m better now,” he says with indifference, like he’s a regular guy.
I will give him some credit. He’s stayed sober. He isn’t showing signs of psychosis.
But still—
“I found a camera in our bedroom,” I say.
He shrugs.
“Did you put a tracker on my car? Because you asked me how Keysha was, and I didn’t tell you I visited her.”
“My doctors said that isn’t a problem.”
I laugh mockingly. “You didn’t tell them about your stalking habits!”
He swipes a lock of hair behind my ear. “I can’t stop. Is it so bad?”
“That I don’t have privacy or freedom?”
“You mean, you have a caring man.”a
I snort at the absurdity.
He captures me in his arms and kisses my neck. “Don’t be a stupid girl. I keep you safe. You should pay me for my efforts.”
I laugh, genuine this time. “I see you’re still delusional.”
His energy darkens, causing me to tense.
“I wouldn’t be with you if I thought there was a chance I could hurt you. You’re safe with me.”
My stomach knots, but not as hard as it once did when a doubt clawed to the surface.
I check my watch. “We better get to the funeral.”
Killian swallows, but doesn’t seem anxious. It’s why I’ve been watching him more than usual. I just pray my Killian stays present. With me.
He takes my hand, and we head back to our new place, a cute bungalow on the beach.
It isn’t cheap, but it isn’t permanent. We’re renting it until we figure out a home we can call our own.
Maybe a trailer, a condo, or a cute bungalow.
Whatever it is, I told him I want to put some money toward it.
I want to earn a piece of it. He agreed, but I doubt he understands why.
We are still very different, but are adapting and taking it day-by-day.
We shower and dress in solid black. I stay mostly quiet. Watching.
The cemetery is calm and peaceful. In the distance, a small group has assembled under a beautiful weeping tree. The Florida sun is out, but the air carries the chill of February. His parents hug us, and we take our seats beside them.
Asher was buried five years ago, but the family never gathered beside his grave to say goodbye. Killian wasn’t capable of it then. Today, he is.
And so is his family.
The tombstone is old and the grass mature, but the words spoken from the preacher were never delivered until now.
“Asher Easton left us too soon. In his short life, he filled stages with movement and rooms with laughter. He danced beside famous singers, competed across the country, and never missed an opportunity to charm a pretty girl. He was a beloved son and brother. He is deeply missed.”
Killian holds my hand. He remains stoic throughout. Christine cries, Clark dabs his eyes with a tissue, and Jagger nods solemnly.
One person isn’t here: River.
It’s hard to imagine I’m welcome at this private moment.
I didn’t shoot myself, yet I feel strangely responsible for River being behind bars.
It hasn’t gone to trial, but attorneys say he’s looking at least twenty-five years in prison for attempted murder.
Dr. Jannis says I have trauma-related guilt or something. I sniffle as I stare at the lush grass.
As if Killian knows exactly what I’m thinking, he leans close to my ear.
“River isn’t there because of you. I should’ve told him the truth, but he chose to pull the trigger.”
I let his words settle in. His parents don’t hold me responsible, either. In fact, once the service finishes, it’s Clark who gives me an extra hug.
“I am glad you are here.”
“For real?”
He does not laugh. “I never apologized, Harlow. I kept thinking I had time. That if I controlled the drugs, the house, and the people around him, I could keep him from becoming dangerous. I was wrong, and I blamed you.”
“Uh, gosh. Thanks,” I say with sincerity.
“This is a sad but needed day,” he continues. “However, I’m looking forward to new beginnings. I want to see you two at the altar soon.”
My cheeks burn and I grin, both touched and giddy.
Killian holds my hand tighter. “We want to get married at the mansion.”
“Oh?” says Clark.
“Mm-hm. It’s where we fell in love with each other. The backyard is big enough.”
“Absolutely!” Christine gushes. “Yes! I’ll help with the arrangements. I know a woman who owns a bridal shop. Very high-end. Only the best for you two.”
Okay, Christine is still an overbearing mother, but I can’t fault her. She lost one son, another is locked up, and Killian put her through hell. Family drama is not immune to wealth. I’ve learned that much since meeting the Eastons.
Then, she eyes Killian and rubs his arm tenderly. “Your children will be beautiful, and I cannot wait for them to arrive.”
He lifts his chin, his expression surprised, but then nods, smiling softly.
“Thank you,” I say, surprised myself that she is already talking about kids.
On the drive home, Killian murmurs, “Asher would’ve liked the service.”
I perk up. “It was good?”
“Mm-hm. Especially the part about him charming the pretty girls.”
“Maybe he got that skill from you. I thought you were charming the first day we met. Difficult, but charming.”
Killian chuckles, sounding and looking content.
I think the funeral helped. I don’t know about closure, but he made it through. He’s joking, and that laugh is real. I know my Killy.
The following night, I lounge in a hammock on the bungalow’s wooden porch, watching the gentle waves roll in. I snack on strawberries from a bowl cradled on my lap.
Killian appears in the doorway. He leans against the frame. His shirtless form is warmed by the glow of the sunset.
Fucking hot.
But not trustworthy. Not yet.
“Did you go to therapy today?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answers, his tone slightly annoyed. “I’m telling you, I’m fine about Asher. Did you see the flowers on the counter? I got them for you.”
My heart skips a beat. I purse my lips to stifle a smile. I did see them, and I love them, but I won’t let him change the subject.
“Yes, thank you. They’re so beautiful. But, Kill, I want to make sure you continue your treatment plan.”
“It’s dumb. I don’t need it. My psychotic break is over.”
My brow lifts as concern floods my chest and drowns my heart.
He raises his palm and smirks. “Relax, you pathetic thing. I’ll go for as long as you want me to.”
Warmth replaces the fear swirling in my chest. He really does a lot of things he’d rather not do to keep me happy.
I recognize that.
“How’s your therapy?” he says, his grin smug. “Does your bratty shrink still think I’m bad for you?”
“Dr. Jannis doesn’t think that!” I laugh softly, but honestly, I can tell she is not very supportive of us being a couple. “Dr. Jannis was just worried because of your history and sexual… habits.”
His grin turns wicked.
“If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”
“Oh, Lord,” I say and roll my eyes. “If rape—”
He holds up his finger to silence me. “Don’t say that word.”
“I mean, if taking me is love, I don’t know if I can survive you.”
He swaggers toward me, then retrieves his pocketknife, snapping it open.
I gasp and sit up in the hammock, placing the bowl of strawberries on the floor.
“Where did you get that?” I exclaim.
“It’s new. I’ll always have one.” He pushes on my legs, bending them so they’re close to my chest. Then he swings his legs over the hammock, sitting on it while facing me. He holds out the open blade.
“Take it.”
“Huh?”
“Take it,” he insists.
Cautiously, I reach out.
“Grip it with both hands like you did before.”
I obey. Then he guides the blade tip under his chin as before. He holds up his hands in surrender.
“Push up until it starts to cut.”
“Killian, no.”
“Do it.”
I hesitate, then start to apply pressure. In a split second, the knife is gone.
He holds it up, looking bored. In a dark tone, he says, “I let you.”
“You let me?” I echo.
“Yeah. I could’ve taken you if I wanted. I let you have your victory. It’s what you needed, right?”
My eyes widen. Part of me wondered if I was truly in control that night.
“Harlow. I will always give you what you need. You needed me to back down for you to feel safe, so I did. I meant what I said. You are safe around me. I want to be your sanctuary, not a loaded gun waiting to go off. I know what that’s like.”
His words are the type of medicine he needed from me. Now he’s in a place he can reciprocate. I won’t let him get off easy though.
I count with my fingers. “So no stalking, no drugs, no skipping therapy.”
“It’s not stalking. It’s love.”
Even he smiles at his statement.
I hold out my hand, palm flat. “The pocketknife.”
He pauses, curious, but places it on my hand. I toss it in the nearby trash bin.
“I don’t want you to ever carry a knife again.”
His head tilts in that way it does when the monster thinks too long, but then, he nods.
“Very well.”
“Really?”
“I’ll have to fidget with something else, like a lighter.”
We both burst into laughter.
Then, I shake my head forcefully. “Hell no!”
“Relax, relax. No knives or fire.”
This time, I squint and stare, showing him this is extremely important to me. He takes my hands in his, pressing his lips to my knuckles with such tenderness.
“I promise, Harlow. I won’t.”
My muscles lose their tension. I whisper, “Thank you,” truly meaning it.
I reach over and unbutton his pants. Slowly, I lower the zipper, teasing him until his eyes brighten.
“There was something else we did that night,” I murmur.
I slip my hand inside and curl my fingers around his cock. He’s already hardening for me. I stroke him lazily, dragging my thumb beneath the head each time I reach the top.
“Mm,” he grunts, sinking deeper into the hammock.
I lean over his lap and take him into my mouth. At first, I only suck the tip, keeping everything sensual and slow. Then I take him deeper, stroking whatever my lips don’t reach.
His fingers wind through my hair. He doesn’t force me down. He lets me torment him until his thighs tense and his breathing turns ragged.
“Enough.”
He stands and repositions me on the hammock as though it’s a sex swing, spreading my legs and settling between them. The ropes sway beneath me, leaving me exposed to the beach.
I glance toward the empty stretch of sand. “People could see if they walk by.”
“We’ll wave,” he jokes.
I laugh and don’t fight him. I’ve learned with Killian, most of the time, my monster is fun. For the little times he isn’t, he listens and gives me what I need — even if he doesn’t like it.
That’s more than enough for me. I know who I chose. I thought a normal man was a perfect man, but it was only the one with scars that my heart could love so deeply.
Tonight, I don’t need gentle.
Killian drives into me, and the hammock swings from the force. I clutch the ropes as he finds his rhythm, every thrust rocking me toward him again. Warm sunset light spills across his scarred face while his hands dig possessively into my hips.
“I love you, my future nurse,” he says.
“Oh, I’m already turned on,” I tease, but the next thrust steals the rest of my breath and turns it into a raw moan.
His palm cracks against my hip before he grips the stinging flesh. “Good, because I’d rather watch you break while I tell you what a pathetic thing you are. My sweet, pathetic thing.”
The words strike exactly where he knows they will. My body clenches around him as pleasure snaps through me, sharp enough to empty my mind. My eyes roll back and I shudder. He falls over me, one hand twisting into the ropes and the other gripping my breast as he comes undone, too.
“I love you,” I whisper between pants.
He says it back, then nips my earlobe, his words and breathing one with the ocean’s waves, calm but with an undercurrent that always sweeps me away.