Epilogue
Peighton
The waiter leads me to a small table tucked beneath a striped awning, the kind that feels cozy and crooked in the way Italian bistros always do.
Fall air rolls off the water and curls beneath my hat, brushing my cheeks.
I smooth the blue fabric of my dress and sit with slow grace.
My sunglasses come off last. I place them neatly beside my bread plate, look up, and smile.
Rupert looks like he swallowed glass.
He folds his newspaper, blinking as if his eyes are malfunctioning. “Peighton,” he says stiffly. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“Of course you weren’t.” I rest my chin on my hand and smile wider, wicked enough to make his throat bob. “But I found you.”
His gaze flicks sharply across the street, then behind him, then over the patio. Searching.
I tsk under my breath. “Looking for Gustav?”
His jaw locks.
I lift one lazy hand and point across the narrow street. Gustav stands in the open, leaning against a low stone wall as if he owns the entire coastline. One hand in his pocket, shoulders loose beneath a white button-down, sunglasses hiding those intense eyes. His presence alone curdles the air.
Rupert pales.
“Don’t worry,” I say casually. “He’ll behave. As long as you play nicely.”
I angle my face toward the nearest window. The sunlight catches metal.
Rupert’s eyes widen as he spots the glint of at least two long-range barrels aimed directly at him.
Yes. Snipers. Real ones. I learned quickly that being married to a Sokolov meant learning prudence by fire.
“You really went all-in on security,” he mutters.
“I have to,” I say gently. “Because of men like you.”
The waiter brings water. I thank him politely, and Rupert watches, as if baffled that someone can sound so gracious and threaten him so softly at the same time.
“So,” I continue, placing my napkin across my lap. “We’re on a belated honeymoon. Although now it might be more accurate to call it a babymoon.” His eyes drop to my stomach. I pat it lightly. “Yes. Again. Two months along. So you understand why I need clarity.”
“Clarity about what?” he asks tightly.
“Your intentions.” I take a small sip of water. “Now that Gustav’s Yellow Card year has expired, I need to know whether he’s still on the Council’s radar. Or if we can finally breathe without your shadow looming over our lives.”
He exhales sharply, annoyed. “The Council oversees a fragile network of international crime organizations. If one family destabilizes itself, or threatens others, all suffer. Gustav is unpredictable. Dangerous. He always will be. That risk doesn’t simply disappear because his year ended.”
I smile again. This time it’s pitying.
“I thought you’d say that,” I murmur. “Which is unfortunate for you.”
He stiffens. “For me? I hope you realize you are threatening a Council member. You are asking for death.”
I lean forward. “I already spoke with the Council.”
The shock on his face is immediate and satisfying. “You spoke with—what? When? I would’ve been notified.”
“Not anymore.”
He opens his mouth. I continue, unbothered.
“I reported you for allowing your personal grudge against Magnus Sokolov to poison your professional judgment. I brought evidence, documentation, and two witnesses confirming you sabotaged Gustav, not tested him.” I fold my hands neatly. “They agreed.”
“You—” He chokes on the word. “You lied to them.”
“No.” I tap my water glass. “I told them the truth you hoped would stay buried. Including what happened in the Pripyat forest.”
His face drains of color. “That wasn’t—”
“You unleashed the wildmen on us because you thought nobody would find out. Except they weren’t just a small rogue group.
They’re a rising faction, rapidly organizing, rapidly growing, and no longer content being an irritation on the map.
” I tilt my head. “I told the Council their leader deserves recognition. And oversight.”
“No,” Rupert mutters, finally understanding.
“Yes. His name is Nikolai. Calls himself a forest viking. He survived Gustav’s bullet-wound, but wasn’t mad.
Says a deal was a deal.” A small thrill passes through me.
Memories of that terrifying, yet handsome savage in the forest flicker like heat lightning.
“So I told the Council Nikolai deserves a red card.”
Rupert’s expression tightens.
“Do you know what red card law is?” I ask sweetly.
His voice turns arrogant, clipped. “A new bratva boss is given five established mafia leaders to join his family. To mentor. Strengthen. Help more safely build their empire.”
“Mm-hm.” My smile slides into something lethal. “And Nikolai was thrilled.”
Rupert’s eyes snap to mine.
“He especially liked the idea of a Council member joining him,” I whisper. “A soft one. One who hides behind rules he manipulates. One named Rupert.”
For the first time since I met him, Rupert looks afraid.
“You didn’t,” he breathes.
“I did,” I reply. “I showed him your picture. He agreed instantly.”
“No,” he whispers. “No, no—”
Two dark-suited Council enforcers appear at the edge of the patio. Their faces calm. Their grip absolute. Rupert doesn’t get a chance to stand before they seize his arms and haul him upward.
He thrashes. “You can’t send me to him! Peighton, you can’t—”
“You did this to yourself,” I say softly.
His face contorts with rage and fear as they drag him away, heading toward a black sedan waiting by the curb. The door slams shut, and Rupert’s voice disappears beneath the rumble of the engine as it pulls away.
A chair slides out across from me. Gustav sits. His presence settles the entire world.
“Got your revenge?” he asks, voice low, warm, dangerous.
I beam. “Our revenge. The sweetest kind.”
He chuckles, leaning back. “You really have become a proper Russian wife.”
“Wrong,” I say, grinning. “I’ve become a hybrid. The boldness of an American. The toughness of a Russian. Remember?”
He hums with approval. “As long as you’re mine.”
“I am.”
“I never used my last life. One was for you. Rupert’s brother as a warning and payback. And two to the Morocovs for peace and blood money.”
“You are out of time,” I muse.
He takes the card from his wallet and studies it for a long moment. “If I did it again, I’d only use the one, anyway. Just you.” Then he tosses it into the trash. The card itself is symbolic only, but his words are as real as the air I breathe.
“Thank you,” I whisper, truly thankful for what I once feared so gravely.
We finish our lunch while the coastline glitters and the air smells like basil and wine. Then we walk to our hotel, a quiet place overlooking the water, sunlight warming the balcony.
Inside the room, Gustav locks the door. Then, he takes my hand and presses it to below his collarbone. There’s a faint ridge beneath the skin. Something hard.
“For you,” he says calmly, as if he’s handing me a flower.
I blink. “For me?”
“A chip,” he replies, watching my face with a dark smile. “Encrypted. Untraceable to anyone but you. If I disappear, if I’m taken, if I lie to you — you will know.” A pause, then softer, almost pleased. “You said you wanted me to.”
My stomach flips. “Gustav… you’re not cursed anymore.”
“I know.” His mouth curves, proud. “This is not obedience. This is devotion.”
A shiver runs through me. Awe. Possession turned inward.
He cups my chin, forcing my eyes back to his. “You have to get one, too.”
I chuckle, but nod. “Deal.”
I suppose my husband isn’t a mad king anymore, but some darkness lingers. And in our world, I do prefer we can find each other.
He lifts my hat from my head, lets my hair spill down my back, and sets the hat aside. Then he undresses me with the same devotion he uses when cleaning a weapon: calm, precise, reverent.
When my back hits the mattress, he parts my thighs with his hands, lowering himself with a predatory patience that makes my breath catch.
As his mouth touches me, desire unfurls low and deep. My arms stretch above my head. My legs fall open wider. The ceiling blurs. My eyelids grow heavy with pleasure.
My dark fairytale found its ending, but not the kind I expected.
Better.
For a fleeting second, before a wave of bliss drags me under, I picture Rupert somewhere in the Pripyat woods, standing before a rugged, blonde king who seeks chaos over comfort. A far cry from a lavish yacht.
Nikolai will have fun with him.
And I have Gustav.
We are a storm. A union no curse could break. A force built from blood, fire, and the stubborn refusal to let go.
And as Gustav unravels me, I know without a doubt:
I am a force.
And he is my fire.
Together, we burn bright.