“Yes, you can, Angel.” Sam’s voice is steady, his eyes locked onto mine. “Let go. We’ve got you.”
His fingers work harder and my orgasm hits me like a tidal wave. It rips through me, raw and intense, as I cry out against Sam’s mouth. My body convulses between them, my inner walls clenching them both.
“Fuck, Esme!” Sam shouts, his hips jerking as he spills inside me.
Locke groans, his forehead dropping to the center of my back. “You are my everything, Starlight.” His breath is warm on my skin as he thrusts into me once, twice more before stilling, his cock pulsing deep inside me as he cums.
Slowly, he pulls out of me and we collapse together in a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin. I’m sandwiched between them, my body still trembling with aftershocks as they hold me close. They press soft kisses to my shoulders, my neck, my forehead, murmuring words of love and devotion that make my heart swell.
“I love you both,” I say after a moment of silence, my voice soft but steady.
There are no more trials left to face. No thrones to reclaim. No gods demanding my suffering. It’s just this, our breathing, our bodies, and the bond we are forming together.
“I love you more,” they both say at the same time, and I laugh, the sound light and carefree. We are a mess of limbs and love, my heart only fully formed when I’m in their arms. Their love is the missing piece of me, the part I never knew I needed until they showed me. Sam, the softness and unwavering support. Locke, the fierce, protective love that burns like a beacon. My Wolf and my Warrior.
In this moment, it’s us against the world. Just us, and for the first time in my life, that feels like it’s enough. The thought is like a balm to my soul, soothing old wounds and filling me with a quiet, steadfast strength. Once everything else is stripped away, this is what remains. Love. My love for them, theirs for me, and the bond that ties us all together.
Until then, we make our own world here, wrapped up in each other, safe in the knowledge that no matter what comes next, we’ll face it together.
EPILOGUE
ESME
Two Weeks Later
There is beauty in the darkness, magic in the macabre, if only you look past the sharp thorns, misshapen vines and leaves, and the poisons meant to deter you. I have grown to love it, see it all from all sides, live it even. The gardens around Castle Noire are a perfect example of this twisted beauty that most would never understand. Most wouldn’t appreciate the artistry woven into every carefully cultivated shadow, only seeing something that needs to be burned, weeded out, destroyed. Not me.
I’ve learned to see the intention behind the cultivation—how each poisonous bloom serves a purpose, how the thorns protect what’s precious beneath. There’s intelligence in this design, a consciousness that speaks to something deep in my bones. Perhaps it’s the fae blood in me, or maybe it’s simply that I’ve lived long enough in darkness to recognize its gifts.
Like the gardens, Vanir itself has the same effect on those who don’t understand its nature, and I’ve grown to love its dark presence with a fierce tenderness that surprises me. It almostfeels like home. Almost. There’s still something missing, a piece of myself that remains elsewhere, but this realm has claimed part of my heart I never expected to give.
Twisted thorn trees line the winding cobblestone path, their gnarled branches heavy with black roses and deep purple blooms that shimmer faintly under the waning early morning light. The petals catch the dim rays like scattered jewels, each one perfectly formed despite—or perhaps because of—the unnatural darkness that feeds them. The air carries the intoxicating scent of night jasmine and something older, earthier and wilder, like the breath of the forest itself carried on the wind. Somewhere behind me, a fountain murmurs softly in the pre-dawn stillness, its water tinged with silver light that seems to pulse with its own inner magic. Even the shadows seem slower now, gentler, receding with the queen’s death like a tide pulling back from the shore. They no longer hide knives in their folds or whisper promises of betrayal.
Castle Noire has changed in ways both subtle and profound. Vanir is healing, the very air lighter without Queen Lucelle’s oppressive presence weighing down every breath. Yet, despite all this restoration, all this hope blooming where there was once only fear, the ache in my chest has not eased. If anything, it’s grown sharper, more insistent.
For two weeks, we’ve been working tirelessly to restore the Night Court to what it was meant to be. Locke, Sam, Rue, and I ride out daily into the treacherous edges of Kasamere Forest and the far-flung villages that dot the realm’s borders, hunting down the last of Queen Lucelle’s sympathizers with methodical precision. Those who once bent the knee to General Erron and whispered poison in the queen’s ear now hide like rats beneath floorboards and in forgotten cellars, but we’re good at flushing them out. We’ve become an efficient team, each of us bringing our own strengths to bear against the remaining corruption.
If you had told me months ago that I would be riding amongst fae soldiers, sword at my side, wielding my magic in the name of my father, the fae king, commanding respect from warriors who once saw me as nothing more than a half-breed curiosity, I would have laughed in your face until tears streamed down my cheeks.
Sometimes I feel as if I’m still back at the academy, unconscious in the hospital wing, dreaming unthinkable, unbelievable dreams that my mind conjured to escape some darker reality.
This is my new reality, strange and wondrous as it is. Still, even as the castle regains its color, tapestries brightening, flowers blooming in windowsills, laughter echoing through halls that once knew only whispers, and the court reclaims its joy, there’s a hollowness in me I can’t ignore. A void that grows larger with each passing day.
Rubbing my chest absently, my fingers tracing the spot where warmth should live but doesn’t, I acknowledge the truth I’ve been avoiding, there’s an emptiness only Micah can fill.
I miss her in a way that splits me open, leaves me raw and aching. Not just our Tether, that ever-present connection that once hummed between us like a living thing, but her. The essence of who she is. Her sharp wit that could cut through any pretense, her reckless devotion that made her throw herself into impossible situations, her willingness to run headlong into danger despite her constant denials of being a heroine. The way she always looked like she was seconds from burning the world down for the people she loved, consequences be damned. Yeah, I miss her with an intensity that steals my breath.
She’s alive. I know she is. I feel it, even now, like a distant star whose light still reaches me across impossible distances. I also know something’s wrong. Something fundamental changed the moment the Tether snapped during the trial. It didn’t justbreak, it burned, searing through me like a brand. I can feel the phantom traces of it even now, like the ghost of an amputated limb.
I pause at the edge of the garden path, placing a hand on a silver-edged rose that catches the morning light. Its petals curl around my fingers like silk, soft and dangerous. Beautiful in its perfection, deadly in its intent. Just like this place.
Just like me.
I take the long route through the castle, in no hurry to reach my destination. I wander through corridors that now ring with life again, past servants who hum as they work, their voices creating a symphony of contentment. Laughter drifts from passing groups, guards smile instead of scowling at shadows, and handmaidens tuck fresh flowers into wall sconces with genuine joy rather than fearful duty. It’s hard to believe how bleak these halls felt when the queen was in residence, how her mere presence seemed to drain color from the very stones.
How her shadows smothered even the smallest joys, turning celebrations into performances and affection into strategy. I remember the whispers, the manipulations that twisted every conversation, the side-eyed glances from courtiers who never knew which word might be their last. Everyone was on edge, walking a knife’s edge between favor and destruction. Castle Noire was never meant to be light and soft, but I don’t believe it was ever meant to be cruel and oppressive either.
I knock once on the heavy oak door to my father’s study, the sound echoing in the quiet corridor, then push it open without waiting for permission.
