"He would have if he had the chance."
I rest my head against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. The rhythm I've been falling asleep to for the last four nights and will fall asleep to for every night that follows.
Around us, the family moves. Liam is holding Lorcan against his shoulder, swaying gently near the window while Grace watches with soft eyes. Aidan and Tanya are dancing properly, gracefully, because Aidan is the brother who actually learned how. Killian is sitting with Katya, her swollen feet in his lap, his hand rubbing her ankle while she eats a third piece of cake without apology. Connor and Anya are in the corner, his arm around her, her head tipped back as she laughs at something he's murmured in her ear.
Saoirse is standing in the doorway. She's stopped crying. Her eyes move across the room, touching each of her children, each of their partners, the grandchild in Liam's arms, the one growing in Katya's belly. Her boys. All married, all home. The Council mandate fulfilled, the family whole.
Her gaze finds mine across the room and she smiles. It's a smile that holds years. Decades. A lifetime of raising kids in a dangerous world and hoping they'd find partners strong enough to stand beside them.
I smile back.
Iris appears at Saoirse's side and loops her arm through her mother's as she says something. Saoirse nods and looks at theroom one more time, then she pats Iris's hand and turns back toward the kitchen.
The evening folds in on itself. Guests leave in waves. My parents are among the last. My mother hugs me so long that Timofey has to physically steer her toward the car. Darya squeezes my hand and whispers, "Call me tomorrow. I want details."
"You're not getting details," I whisper shout, part horrified, part embarrassed.
"I'm absolutely getting details," she retorts, cackling as she leaves.
Timofey high-fives Rafferty on his way out, which makes my husband look so bewildered that I laugh until my ribs hurt.
The house empties. The brothers drift to their rooms or their homes with their wives. Iris starts clearing plates until Saoirse shoos her to bed. Lights go off one by one until the estate is dark and quiet and ours.
Rafferty takes my hand at the bottom of the stairs.
"Ready?" he asks.
I look at this man. My husband. The man who heard my worst secret and responded with violence and tenderness in equal measure. Who showed up on my porch with blood on his knuckles and told me I was beautiful. Who gave me back my power in the same breath he used to claim me.
"I've been ready," I say.
He leads me upstairs to our room. Our bed. Our life.
