When he lowered himself to his knees, I gasped.
He released our hands and reached into his pocket, withdrawing two rings. Simple gold bands, worn smooth with age.
“My mother’s,” he said, holding up one. “And my father’s.” He looked at Oliver, then at me. “I’m not good at asking. I’m better at commanding.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “But I’m asking now. Be mine. Let me be yours. Wear these, and let me spend the rest of my life loving you.”
Oliver went first. He dropped to his knees beside Kiernan, cupping his face with both hands.
“Yes.” He kissed him—hard, fierce, certain. “You impossible, stubborn, beautiful man. Yes.”
Kiernan’s breath shuddered out of him. He took Oliver’s hand and slid his father’s ring onto his finger.
Then they both looked at me.
I was still standing. Still crying. Still trying to comprehend that this was real—that this was my life now.
“Phee?” Kiernan’s voice was soft, uncertain in a way I’d never heard from him. “I need an answer.”
I sank to my knees in front of him, joining them on the floor.
“Yes.” I kissed him through my tears. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He slid his mother’s ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been waiting for me.
The three of us knelt there together, foreheads touching, hands intertwined, the firelight flickering across our faces.
“Forever,” Kiernan said quietly.
“Forever,” Oliver echoed.
“Forever,” I whispered.
“There’s one more thing,” Kiernan said, his voice dropping low. “Tomorrow night. The Thistle.” His eyes shifted between us, hungry and possessive. “I want to show you off. Both of you. Let everyone see what’s mine.”
“Yours?” Oliver’s eyes scrunched.
“Ours,” Kiernan amended, but his smile said he wasn’t sorry. “Let them see what’s ours.”
EPILOGUE
—KIERNAN—
Iwoke before dawn on my wedding day and lay still in the gray half-light, listening as the ancient castle settled.
Greymarch had stood for three hundred years. Generations of Lockharts had loved and lost within these walls. My parents had married in this castle, as had my grandparents before them. They’d followed tradition, done what was expected, and lived lives that fit neatly into the world’s understanding of how things should be.
Today, something new would happen here. Ophelia, Oliver, and I would defy convention and marry. Our union would exist outside the law but would be real, nonetheless.
The kilt I wore had been my father’s. It was a dark tartan in the Lockhart hunting pattern, and the wool remained supple despite the decades. I dressed slowly and deliberately. Putting on the crisp white shirt, then the waistcoat, then the jacket with its silver buttons bearing the family crest. Thesgian-dubhslid into my sock, its handle worn smooth by the hands that had carried it before mine.
In the mirror, I saw my father’s jaw and my mother’s eyes. They would not have understood what I was about to do—a ceremony binding me to two people instead of one. I didn’t care. I’d never been more confident of any decision I’d made in my life.
Oliver’s parents and sister had flown in from Australia. Ophelia’s family had come from Nigeria. We’d braced ourselves for the worst when we told them, and rehearsed explanations and justifications that none of them had needed.
Ophelia’s father had simply said, “My daughter has never stayed in one place long enough to call it home. If you and Oliver are the reason she’s finally found one, then I have nothing but gratitude.”
Oliver’s mother had looked at the three of us across the dinner table and said, “Well, you’ll need a bigger Christmas tree.” His father had laughed and poured another round of wine.
We’d spent weeks dreading rejection that never came.
