I look at his face—the face that terrifies others, that has witnessed and caused so much violence—and see only home.
"I already live here," I say, smiling.
"Not officially." His fingers trace my cheek. "I want it to be real. Permanent."
The word hangs between us, a promise neither of us thought we'd ever make again. Permanent. Not temporary shelter or strategic alliance. Something built to last.
I reach up and touch the spot where his collar once sat, bare skin now, warm under my fingers.
He catches my hand before I can lower it, presses it flat against his throat — that exposed place, the one that's been uncovered since the night I set the collar down on the pew. His pulse beats steady under my palm.
Outside, Miami does what Miami does — music from somewhere, a horn on the causeway, the city's permanent argument with silence. But in here the air is warm and smells like garlic and the last of the wine, and the wooden spoon rests against the wall where I left it, and his pulse is steady under my hand, and none of the exits are mapped.
This is what I was running toward, it turns out. Not away from anything. Toward this kitchen, these hands, this particular heartbeat. I just had to get rid of everything else first to see it.
"Move in with me officially," he says again, low, his thumb tracing my wrist.
"I'll think about it," I say, which means yes, which he knows means yes, which is why he smiles — slowly, the way he does everything, the smile that still surprises me every time because it transforms his whole face into something that was always there underneath.
The smile is still on his face when I slip out of his arms.
"Where are you—"
"Stay there."
The bedroom is upstairs in our suite. I don't turn on the light — I know this space now, the exact geography of it, which is its own kind of permanence. The nightstand drawer opens quietly. I find the collar by touch: soft fabric worn thin at the edges, lighter than it should be for something that carried eight years of weight.
When I come back to the kitchen doorway he's exactly where I left him, arms crossed, watching me with the expression I've learned to read. Not the Delgado face. Not the priest face. Just his face — the one that was underneath the whole time.
His eyes drop to my hand.
Come back up.
"Sera." One word. Low. The whole question in two syllables.
He doesn't move. Doesn't reach for it, doesn't stop me. Just watches with those dark eyes, completely still in the way he gets when he's made a choice and is waiting for the world to catch up.
I cross the kitchen. Stop in front of him.
I reach up. He tilts his chin — just slightly, just enough — and I fasten the collar around my own throat.
I've been thinking about intimacy wrong my whole life — as transaction, as performance, as the relief of being chosen. What I understand now, standing here with this collar around my neck and this man in front of me, is that this is something else entirely. This is everything. The priest and the prince and the killer and the man who tracked down my grandmother's handwriting and couldn't figure out the toaster. Nothing held back.
"Bless me, Father," I say, a small smile on my lips. Not a confession. An offering.
Something moves across his face. Then his hands find my hips and pull me in.
His teeth graze my neck, then tug on the collar, and the sound that escapes his lips sounds like blasphemy and a hymn.
Epilogue – Logan
Everyone else has gone to bed.
Gabriel and Sera were the last to go, disappearing into their suite with that quiet gravity between them, clinging onto each other like they’ll never let go.
I lock the front doors. Check the service entrance. Gunner's already done the sweep, but I check anyway, because checking is what I do.
The dinner table is still a mess, with hardened candle wax dripping down onto the tablecloths and wine glasses standing at different levels of empty. The mismatched chairs are pushed back at angles that map where everyone sat. I straighten two of them on my way past out of habit.
