That was when he knew everything would be okay. Better than okay, great even. He adjusted the angle of his hips and smiled at her gasp.
“How are you liking mostly straight dick now?”
“Do that thing again.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“That thing with the curve and the— Yes! Oh fuck, oh fuck…”
She tightened around him, and he’d have bruises from those shoes in the morning. Battle wounds. Badges of honour. He gave in and released, unable to hold on any longer, and then he kissed his girl breathless.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” Alexa lay back on the cool stone and sighed, but the sigh quickly turned into a snort. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Is that André on the damn ceiling?”
“Look closer; we’re all there. I tried to tell him the Sistine Chapel wasn’t very ‘dungeon,’ but he had this vision…”
EPILOGUE
ALEXA
Three months had passed since the one-sided showdown with the Cranstons, and the Dionysus Estate had remained blessedly free of unexplained “accidents” ever since. Everyone assumed Rayna Bishop was responsible for the fire as well as the murder of Marielle Marten, and after a semi-well-known podcaster made a show featuring the case, sightings of her had been reported from Tijuana to Tierra del Fuego.
Three months, and everything had changed.
The second cottage had been rebuilt, but we’d joined it to the first and extended the building to the rear to give Chase his own space. Four more cottages were under construction on the far side of the winery, and those would be used for friends and the occasional Dionysus client.
Not that Nolan needed to entertain clients anymore. The quality of the wine spoke for itself, and between Mayra’s admin-slash-marketing skills and product placement with a carefully curated group of celebs, last year’s entire vintage had sold out. And most of this year’s, and those grapes hadn’t even grown yet. The team was busy planting more vines, but those wouldn’t be ready to produce for several years.
The beer venture was underway, though. Nolan had made a deal with a local hop farm, Mayra had started a social media campaign, and seasonal staff had become permanent as Nolan expanded Dionysus’s product range. And once a week, he’d started taking small groups on wildlife walks around the area, which he enjoyed as much as the brewing.
The old library had become my new office, and I felt more at home there than I had anywhere since Blackstone House. I hadn’t quit travelling completely—Chase and I had just returned from Paris—but I no longer felt the need to hop on an airplane every other week. Nolan had even taken a trip to Hawaii with me.
Noah Weekes had proven surprisingly competent, or lucky, or perhaps both, and Room 72 was no more. The main players were either dead or awaiting trial, if they made it that far—one of them had already been attacked by a fellow inmate. Thanks to overcrowded detention centres and a for-profit prison service, individuals awaiting trial were being sent to any facility with space, and coincidentally, the damage had occurred at Redding’s Grove, part of the same correctional facility where Levi Sykes was currently languishing. I only hoped he was getting the same treatment.
Astela was ticking along, no drama, and nobody was trying to start World War III, so the Choir didn’t need me much either. I hadn’t replaced my mouthguard in two months, and I felt strangely at peace. A little bored. And also antsy because peace never lasted for long.
“Ah, fuck, I give up.” Nolan held out his bow tie. “Is there a trick for this?”
“You want me to google? Or ask Chase?”
Although asking Chase might take a while. We were staying at Jay’s place in San Francisco, and Chase had decided to pay a visit to Brax’s club before dinner, a debauched playground where clothing was optional and phones were banned. I’d never been near Nyx’s basement, and I didn’t plan to. I knew what went on there. Bleurgh. Just because I liked Nolan’s slightly curved, very adequate dick now, didn’t mean I wanted to see a whole bunch of other dicks in various stages of fucking. Chase could go dick around by himself.
“Or I could try Jay?” I added. Jay wouldn’t go near the basement either.
“Try Google.”
Nolan managed to follow a YouTube tutorial while I snagged a pair of pantyhose on my engagement ring. Oh, right. The rings. Yes, those represented the biggest change of all. Nolan had proposed a month ago by the swimming hole, with a ring he’d basically foraged. And although I’d never really seen myself as the marrying kind, I did see myself as the spending-the-rest-of-my-life-with-Nolan-de-Luca kind, so saying yes had been easy.
As had the actual wedding part. I hated the idea of a big, showy affair, so Chase had gotten himself ordained as a minister, which took about half an hour online, then pronounced us husband and wife in our little dungeon with a handful of friends in attendance. Juno was the ring bearer, and Nolan made me macarons as a wedding gift. I wasn’t going to bother with a dress, but when Marcel heard about that, he lost his mind and showed up with half a dozen for me to choose from, so I wore the least awful one to say “I do.” Jay took a few photos on his phone. The end.
Nolan de Luca was mine.
I was his.
Our lives were a work-in-progress blend of togetherness and doing our own thing, and we were both good with that.
Tonight was one of the “together” times. At our wedding reception, which had actually just been Marcel cooking spaghetti carbonara while the rest of us drank wine on the terrace, an alert pinged on my phone. Dionysus’s Syrah had been shortlisted for a Lux Life award, which would have been good news if the nomination hadn’t come with an invite to the awards dinner.
