Epilogue #2
But once they’re gone, I don’t like the eerie blanket of dread that falls over us. We should get out of here, too, before the walls close around us. The irrational feeling that the secret chamber will close and seal us down here forever whispers in the background of my mind.
Ryan shivers.
But I need one last look at Mom. Whoever crafted her statue created an incredible likeness. I can almost see her beneath the moonlight, cutting her long black hair on the full moon.
“You look like her,” Ryan says.
“Many people told me I looked like my uncle.”
“Because they only knew him. You have some of his features, sure, but there’s something very her about you.”
Something stirs in my belly. Feeling. Is it for my mother, or is it just Ryan again? Ryan’s my bridge to humanity. A current that brings me emotions my body can understand. Whatever it is, I’m glad I can feel something for her.
“C’mon, let’s get the fuck out of here, babe,” Ryan says. “I have something for you.”
I raise a brow. “Oh?”
“Not telling. Come.”
We run out of there, grateful for the rain to wash away anything that might have latched onto us in that creepy-ass place. We head into the house, and I immediately press him against a wall, kissing the life out of him.
“Tate,” he pants. “I wanna give you … mmm.”
He moans into my mouth, his hardness pressing against my thigh. Do I want to fuck him in my old bedroom? Yes. Will it be weird as fuck? Also yes. Is that going to stop me? Nope.
I grab his thigh, getting ready to lift him.
“Wait.”
“Ryan,” I growl.
“You’ll like it. I promise.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded paper. It’s thicker paper like the kind used for official documents. “I got Ethan to help me with this because I had to use our marriage certificate.”
I’m only annoyed at Ethan for abusing his access to my office for a brief second.
Ryan Henry VanCourt
“My middle name’s shitty, but it was different paperwork. I’ll probably change it at some point, but I need to think on it. Or maybe I’ll go with no middle name. I dunno. Are you going to let me keep rambling, or are you gonna say something?”
I haven’t said anything because I’m still staring at the paper. Ryan VanCourt. He’s Ryan VanCourt now.
“This is fucking awesome, dollface.” My eyes sparkle.
“No. I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is fuck no. I’m not changing my middle name to dollface.”
“We’ll see,” I purr, backing him into the wall again, taking us into a deep kiss.
I love this man so much. Every day he does something else, and I love him more.
There’s no limit to how much I can love Ryan.
Maybe that’s what really happened to me.
Not a birth defect or a result of conditioning, but my soul’s wisdom, knowing that I’d want to save every ounce of my love for him.
None wasted on anyone else. All of it poured into him where it belongs, and where I belong.
“I love you, Ryan VanCourt.”
Ryan
Tate’s yelling. Not at me. He’s tightening security. No one’s been able to figure out how Clarence got his intel about our wedding. The man is dead, but I know my husband wishes he could bring him back to life to torture it out of him and get to kill him again.
“Yes, sir,” the man, who I’m pretty sure is Tyler, says. Voice shaky. Tate makes even the largest and scariest of men quake. He’s already had several meetings with Jane, his head of security, but he’s pulled aside a few of his higher-ranking guards to yell at them personally.
I think he just wanted to vent and instill the fear of God in them.
“Now get the fuck out of my face.”
Tyler’s gaze lands on me. Is he looking for help?
He’s not going to find it here. He’s fucking lucky everything worked out, and that Griff wasn’t harmed, or I’d help Tate fuck up that pretty face of his.
Also, is he suicidal? He shouldn’t be looking at me.
Tate’s made it clear that unless they have permission—like with Jane or Ethan—staff should look at the floor when speaking to me.
He made that rule when he caught two guards checking out my ass.
They, uh, they no longer work for us. I’ll leave it at that.
Tyler gets the fuck out, not even bothering to close the door behind him. I turn to face my husband. He’s massaging his head.
“I should feed him to the wolves,” he growls.
I squint. “Do we have wolves?”
“No, but I can get some.”
Holding a hand out for him, I tilt my head toward the door. “C’mon, baby. Let’s go watch the game. The blood and violence will make you feel better.”
My friends are playing tonight. There’s no off-season in murder hockey.
Tate stands. The size of him, the sheer magnitude of his presence, those things might always take my breath away. I recognize the look in his eyes, and I understand the head massaging now. Dealing with his security crew has brought his concerns to the forefront.
Or, well, Tate only really ever has one concern. Me.
He moves slow, like the predator he is, the intensity pouring off him, clinging to my skin.
Fury burns in his gray eyes juxtaposed with his frosty exterior, his muscles carrying the kind of stillness that comes before violence.
Dark hair falls over his left eye, shrouding it in shadows, making him look like a reaper come to life.
A large hand shoots out, grabbing the collar of my hockey jersey, twisting until his breath breezes across my face. “Why are you wearing this?”
I wore one of the Voiceless jerseys, the one that still has a letter C on it from the one night I was their captain.
“To s-show support,” I stutter.
Releasing the collar, he jerks the sleeve down, checking for my leather cuff.
I haven’t taken it off since, well, the last time I took it off to give to Gideon for safekeeping.
His fingers trail over it until they reach my wedding ring, which I wear proudly.
We’re not a secret anymore. He made sure the dean at North Point knew that because he wasn’t fucking pretending anymore. I didn’t want to pretend either.
“Take it off,” he demands.
I roll my eyes. “Fuck’s sake, Tate. I’ll be with you the whole time. I’m not going to sneak down to the damn rink.”
He shrugs. “That’s fine. We don’t have to watch the game. I’d much rather fuck you till your throat’s raw anyway.”
Okay, so he’s in one of those moods.
And normally, I’d rather him fuck me till I’m comatose, but I actually do want to watch the game tonight. With the season over for me, I’ve already got that itch to be back on the ice.
He’s too wound up. He hates that he hasn’t found the breach in his security, and every time he berates a security guard that can’t give him answers, all he wants to do is dig his claws into me further. Make sure no one can take me from him.
Alright, I’ll admit that the jersey was a bad choice, but I didn’t know he’d be doing this when I got here. And isn’t exposure therapy a thing? He’s going to have to get used to me being here, supporting my friends on the ice.
Um, but maybe we can start that therapy another night. He’s staring. Waiting. He’s not going to budge on this one.
“Okay, baby. Okay. Let go, and I’ll take it off.”
But it’s as if his sixth sense has a sixth sense right now. His eyes flick to the still open door. The one Tyler didn’t close behind him.
I didn’t even know I was going to do it until I dart for the open door, his hand narrowly missing my jersey as I fly by. What am I doing? I don’t fucking know. But with Tate riled up like he is, it can only lead to the hottest sex imaginable. Especially if he has to hunt me down.
There we go. That’s what I’m doing. Being the distraction he needs tonight. And that’s exactly what I’ll say when he inevitably catches me. I don’t hear his footsteps behind me, and he hasn’t sent his mini army after me, so that has to mean he’s agreed to play.
My heart pounds with dread alongside my blood, knowing he’s probably planning something. I breeze by Ethan as I sprint down the hallway.
“Where are you—”
“You didn’t see me,” I shout, even though that man’s loyalty will always be with Tate.
This is the worst getaway ever, but there’s no universe in which I’d actually be able to get away from my husband.
Or want to. My technique doesn’t matter.
I run past patrons and other staff, making my way into the thick of the mob before I slow down.
There are several members of security scattered that I recognize.
Some in plain clothes now after the breach on Tate’s orders, so they appear as part of the crowd.
I figure he can’t be too pissed at me for coming down here where there are plenty of eyes on me. Stony eyes flash to me, their heads tilting only enough to speak into their shoulder mics. Security is definitely reporting to Tate or Jane or both.
The hum of the many conversations surrounds me, broken by cheers for what’s happening on the ice. The game hasn’t started yet; it’s just a couple of guys on skates beating the shit out of each other. Some new pre-game entertainment Ethan suggested.
There’s still no sign of Tate. Since he knows where I am, maybe he decided not to play after all. I huff a laugh to myself. Yeah, no. He’s playing. He wants me to think he’s not. So, do I hide or take a seat in the crowd?
I pass by the entrance to the dressing rooms. I’d love to stop by and wish my friends a good game. I take a step but then think better of it. Tate will lose his mind. He might finally make good on his threat to lock me in his dungeon.
But there’s shouting, and it’s not of the riled-up crowd variety.
Just two people—two familiar people. What the …
? I know curiosity killed the cat, but I head down the hallway anyway.
I make it to the halfway point where you can either turn right toward the dressing room my friends will be in or left for the other team.
There’s a flash of unmistakable amber as his back slams against the wall.
Griffon?
“What the fuck are you doing here, Griff?” That should be my voice, but it’s not. It’s Rhys.