Epilogue One
Sierra
T he elevator doors slid open to a symphony of laughter and the clatter of cardboard, the penthouse floor buzzing with the energy of three dominant men who moved through the space.
Boxes were stacked in haphazard towers, their crisp edges softened by the midday light in the penthouse. I stood at the center of it all, watching as my new life took shape, piece by carefully chosen piece.
Toffee rested in my arms, his tiny claws pricking through my sweater as he stared excitedly at the new furniture.
I’d spent a week curating every piece. The white fluffy rug, the wooden dining, the blush-pink armchair shaped like a blooming peony, but seeing it all piled in the space we’d built together made me teary.
“Wow, bee,” Jax drawled, stepping through the front door with a crate labeled ‘FRAGILE—VINTAGE LAMP’ balanced on one shoulder.
His muscles flexed under his tight designer top, but his cocky smirk softened into something warmer as he took in my expression.
“Your taste is getting better. Almost as good as mine. ”
Adrian bounded in next, a box cutter already in hand, and his perpetually messy brown hair hidden under a backward baseball cap. “It’s a museum,” he declared, slashing through tape with theatrical flair. “Exhibit A: Toffee preserved in stone. Exhibit B: Jax Easton doing manual labor?—”
“Shut it, puppy,” Jax growled, but he was grinning. He set the crate down with exaggerated care, shooting me a wink. “Where’s His Highness? Shouldn’t he be here micromanaging our every move?”
As if summoned, the private elevator dinged again.
Connor emerged, his arms laden with a massive painting I’d splurged on.
It had swirls of a gold and crimson sunset that reminded me of the time he pleasured me bathed in its light.
His gaze locked onto me immediately, its intensity softening as he took in the scene.
He set down the painting against the wall and crossed to me.
“Sweet girl,” Connor’s voice rumbled, his arms encircling my waist before I could turn fully. His lips found my ear, the scrape of his stubble sending a shiver down my spine. “Where do you want this?” He nodded toward the vanity I’d fallen in love with.
I leaned back into his chest, savoring the solid warmth of him. “In the bedroom,” I said, pointing to the spot where the city skyline framed the bed.
Adrian cooed before tossing a cushion at us. “Save the poetry for the bedroom. We’ve got a chaise lounge to assemble.”
The next few hours passed in a blur of laughter and playful insults. Connor refused to let me lift anything heavier than a throw pillow, his hands always drifting back to me. He’d tame my hair, trace my spine as I directed the guys, and pull me into his lap whenever I tried to help.
Jax and Adrian leaned into their roles effortlessly: Jax the de facto foreman in his designer jeans as he debated the merits of modern vs. industrial aesthetics, while Adrian transformed assembly into performance art, clearly enjoying cutting the intricate packages open.
“Entertaining?” Connor murmured, his breath warm against my neck .
“Just… processing,” I admitted, tilting my head to watch Jax dramatically critique the placement of a floor lamp. “I’ve never had people do something like this for me.”
His arms tightened in a silent promise. “Get used to it.”
By late afternoon, the living room had transformed.
Sunlight danced across the blush armchair I’d splurged on, its curves inviting and bold.
Bookshelves, finally upright, lined the far wall, waiting to cradle my novels.
A rug the color of clouds tied it all together, soft underfoot and impossibly luxurious.
Adrian collapsed onto the sectional, flopping backward with a groan. “I’d rather defuse a bomb than read another manual.” His shirt rode up, revealing strong abs and tons of ink, all sharp and dark.
Jax tossed a throw pillow at his face. “You’re insufferable,” but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
Connor guided me to the armchair, his hands firm on my shoulders as he pressed me into the cushions. “Sit. You’ve done enough.”
“But I haven’t done anything,” I protested, even as my body sank into it.
His smirk was all sin. “You picked it. That’s enough.”
Jax reappeared with a tray of iced teas, the glasses sweating in the afternoon heat. “To the interior designer,” he said, handing me the first drink with a flourish. “May your throw pillows never clash with your books.”
I laughed, the sound light and unfettered. “I think that’s a good toast.”
He winked. “Stick around, bee. I’ve got a lot of nice?—”
Connor’s warning growl cut him off, and I swatted his arm. “Behave.”
Adrian sat up, stretching like a cat. “So, when are you two getting to the best part?”
“Best part?” I asked, sipping my iced tea .
He leaned forward, eyebrows waggling as he glanced at Connor and me. “Breaking in the new furniture.”
Jax choked on his drink, but Connor merely arched a brow. “Keep dreaming.”
Later, I curled into the lounger by the windows Connor had insisted on building as I watched them work. Seeing these men, these three famous and godlike men, arguing over throw pillow placement, made everything feel more like home.
Jax’s rings glinted as he adjusted the angle of a floor lamp, his movements precise, while Adrian hung framed photos, asking Toffee if they looked good after every single one.
Connor settled beside me, his arm draping over my shoulders as he surveyed the room. “Happy?”
I finally felt big enough for the warmth expanding in my chest. “It’s perfect.”
He hummed, pressing his lips to my hair. “Not yet. Needs more you.”
“It’s all me,” I laughed, gesturing to the blush accents and artfully chosen bookshelves.
“Still.” His hand slid down to squeeze my hip. “I need my sweet girl sat on every surface while I take care of her. Then it’s home.” The promise in his words made me flush.
Adrian flopped onto the newly placed rug with Toffee, inked arms spread wide. “Our backs are broken, our souls crushed by particleboard, and you two are over there making heart eyes. Typical.”
Jax dropped into the blush chair, his long legs sprawling. “You decided to carry the rug. Blame yourself.”
“It’s Persian! I had to!”
“It’s fur.”
“It’s Persian fur, you?—”
Connor’s laugh vibrated against me, deep and warm. I’d heard him laugh before, soft huffs of amusement, dark chuckles laced with danger, but this was different. Unguarded. Free.
I turned to study the stubble shadowing his jaw, the way the sunlight caught his dark eyes. This man, who’d been alone for his childhood, surrounded by his, and now my, family.
Adrian caught me looking and winked. “Don’t worry, bee. We’ll be out of your hair soon. Just gotta make sure His Royal Broodiness doesn’t hang your self-portrait upside down.”
“Self-portrait?” Jax raised an eyebrow.
“The painting!” Adrian gestured wildly. “It’s obviously Sierra. Flowers and sunlight and… new feelings.”
Connor stilled, his grip tightening on me. “It’s not a self-portrait.”
“It’s metaphorical?—”
“It’s us,” I interrupted softly.
Three pairs of eyes snapped to me, but I didn’t feel scared. Connor looked at me curiously. “The painting,” I clarified, heat rising to my cheeks. “The lavender is me. The light is… well. The rest of us, I guess.” I shrugged, suddenly very self-conscious. “Or maybe it’s just pretty.”
The silence stretched thick with something I couldn’t name. Then Adrian launched himself off the floor, pulling me to my feet with surprising gentleness. “Up. You’re christening Toffee’s cat tree.”
“I—what?”
Jax rose, rolling his sleeves higher. “House rules. First person to sit on new furniture gets lifelong bragging rights.”
“That’s not a rule,” Connor growled, but he was already following behind us.
Adrian steered me toward the cat tree against the windows, his hands hovering like he was afraid to touch me. Definitely because of Connor. “In this house, it is. Prepare for glory.”
Connor lifted me onto the top perch, the buttery soft fuzz embracing my thighs. Toffee immediately claimed the lower perch, purring like he’d orchestrated the whole thing. I was starting to think Adrian and Toffee had a secret pact.
Connor hovered, his gaze scanning me like he was memorizing the moment. “Looks perfect,” he murmured. “You being here, whether it's in a cat tree or in my arms.”
Jax dropped onto the couch in front of us. “He’s right. The place was a mausoleum before you.”
Adrian sprawled at my feet, head propped on a perch. “Now it’s a… a… what’s the opposite of a mausoleum?”
“Home,” Connor answered, his voice rough. He tugged me against him, his body curving around mine like a shield.
The afternoon melted into evening, the city lights twinkling to life beyond the windows. The guys ordered enough takeout to feed a stadium, arguing over dumpling flavors and stealing food from each other’s containers.
Adrian told increasingly outrageous stories about their early fighting days, Jax interjecting with dry corrections that only made them funnier. Connor stayed quiet, his hand a steady weight on my thigh, but I felt his laughter in the rumble of his chest.
When the others finally left, Adrian with a dramatic bow and Jax with a warm yet cocky smile, the penthouse settled into a peaceful quiet that felt profoundly different from before.
This wasn't the hollow silence of Connor's old space, this was the contented hush of a home still warm with laughter.
It held the lingering scent of takeout, the newness of furniture, and the subtle candles I'd placed. Our home.