And looking at the two women who own my soul, I realize that the war is finally over.
I didn't just conquer the city.
I conquered the curse.
CHAPTER 35
THE KINGDOM OF GLASS
POV: SILAS
Five years later.
The problem with owning everything is that you run out of things to conquer.
I stand on the terrace of the penthouse, looking out over a city that kneels at my feet. It is winter again. The park below is dusted with white, the trees like skeletons dipping their fingers into the frozen ponds.
It looks exactly like the day I took her.
The wind bites at my face, sharp and familiar, but I don't feel the cold. I don't feel the old, gnawing hunger that used to live in my gut, the one that screamedmore, more, more.
That beast has been fed.
"Daddy!"
The scream is high-pitched, piercing, and joyous.
I turn just in time to catch the projectile hurling itself at my legs.
Elena Vane is five years old, and she is a terror. She has my dark hair and her mother’s defying eyes. She is wearing a blackvelvet dress that cost more than most people’s cars, and she has smeared what looks like crimson oil paint all over the front of it.
"Careful, little wolf," I rumble, scooping her up effortlessly. She settles on my hip, wrapping her small arms around my neck. "You’re going to ruin my suit."
"Mommy let me paint," she announces, unrepentant. "I painted a monster."
"Did you?" I brush a smudge of red form her nose. "Is it scary?"
"No," she says, looking at me with absolute solemnity. "It’s a nice monster. It protects the princess."
My chest tightens. It’s a familiar ache now, one I’ve grown used to over the last five years. It’s the weight of a love so heavy it should crush us, yet somehow, it only makes us stronger.
"Good," I say, kissing her forehead. "Monsters are good guard dogs."
"Silas?"
I look toward the French doors.
Ivy steps out onto the terrace.
Five years have not aged her; they have refined her. She moves with a lethal grace now, the hesitation of the past completely erased. She is wearing a gown of shimmering silver that clings to her curves—curves that have softened slightly since Elena, becoming even more intoxicating.
She holds a glass of wine in one hand and a rag in the other.
"She escaped," Ivy says, nodding at our daughter. "I turned my back for two seconds to mix a color, and she bolted."
"She knows where safety is," I say.
Ivy smiles. It is the smile of a woman who knows exactly who she is and who she belongs to. She walks over to us, the winter sun catching the diamonds at her throat.
