She studies me for a long moment, then nods once, satisfied.
The drive back to Bar Harbor is quiet in a way that only shared peace can create. Roxy dozes lightly in the passenger seat, her hand resting on my thigh, the sun dipping low enough to paint the road ahead in gold and pink. I keep glancing at her, at the way her brow smooths when she sleeps, at the faint curve of her smile, and I’m struck again by how thoroughly she has undone me. But the cut on her forehead still makes heat light up in my chest. If I could, I’d bury Eric all over again for ever daring to touch her.
I clear my throat, suddenly aware of my own nerves.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” I say.
She hums softly, eyes still closed. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not,” I assure her, then hesitate anyway. “I was thinking about where I live. About the estate.”
Her eyes open, curious now.
“If you wanted,” I continue, words coming faster as I commit to them, “we could make it yours too. Or I could sell it. We could go anywhere. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere that feels like home.”
The more I talk, the wider her smile grows, until she’s laughing softly and turning toward me in her seat.
“You’re nervous,” she says, delighted.
“Only with you,” I admit.
She leans across the console and kisses me, slow and sure, and when she pulls back her eyes are warm and bright.
“Not yet,” she says gently, “but soon.”
The relief that floods me is profound, settling deep in my bones. In the back seat, Andrea stirs—sleeping comfortably with both of us close now. The Bear and her mother, planning a future.
Epilogue
Roxy
8 Months Later
The ballroom glows the way winter nights always seem to when money is involved, all amber light and crystal reflections, warmth manufactured against the cold pressing in from outside. Chandeliers throw prisms across marble floors, and the air hums with conversation softened by orchestral strings. I stand near the edge of the room with a glass of champagne cradled loosely in my hand, my gaze drifting again toward the far side of the crowd.
I haven’t seen Makari for several minutes.
This is ridiculous. He’s not lost, Roxy. He can handle his own.
His men are everywhere, even if they blend seamlessly into the tuxedos and tailored dresses. Dima lingers no more than ten feet away, pretending to study a sculpture he’s already deemed structurally unsound, and two others are stationed near the doors with the patience of men who have stood watch far longer than this.
Still, unease curls low in my stomach.
I don’t like that he orders them to stay close to me, not when he’s the one with enemies and a reputation that still ripples outward into dangerous places. The Chicago syndicate left not long after Makari wiped out their team—but that doesn’t mean they won’t be back, or that others won’t grow curious.
I’ve argued with him about it more than once, about the absurdity of guarding me like a state secret while he moves through the world as if he’s carved out a permanent exemption from harm. He always listens, always considers, and then calmly ignores me.
“You are my home,” he said once, as if that explained everything.
I scan the room again, more out of habit than fear, and force myself to breathe. Eight months have passed since blood and fear and secrets pressed in from all sides, since the world cracked open and revealed the fragile things worth protecting beneath it. Eight months since I learned that love does not arrive quietly or neatly.
“Roxanne Adler?”
I turn at the sound of my name, startled out of my thoughts by a man who looks like he stepped out of a glossy magazine spread. He’s young, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, dressed in a tuxedo that looks criminally good. Once, I would have blushed at the sight of his lean body and lopsided smile, the extended hand.
“Elliot Warren,” he says. “I was hoping I’d run into you tonight.”
The name clicks immediately. Warren Dynamics. Eco-tech. Renewable energy systems that have been quietly reshaping infrastructure across three continents. I shake his hand, aware suddenly of how small my world once was compared to the one he occupies. In my old life, I never would have come within one-hundred feet of a Warren.
