"Yes." The word tastes like the beginning of something new. "But I'm picking the venue this time."
His grin breaks across his face. “Anything you want. Can I take you home now, jungle flower?”
I press my lips to his, tasting the salt of my tears and the warmth of his mouth and the future we're building from the wreckage of every wrong turn that led us here.
"Take me home, husband."
And this time, I mean it. Forever.
Epilogue
Ilona, four months later
"Hold still. I'm hiding the devil and you keep breathing too hard."
My belly rolls with laughter. "I'm breathing for two. Cut me some slack."
"Your daughter can wait thirty seconds while I finish her horns."
Luna crouches in front of me with a brush between her teeth and another in her hand, her moonlight eyes narrowed in concentration. Gold paint streaks her cheek and her dark curls escaped their clip an hour ago. She doesn't care. She never does when she's working.
She's been painting me for three hours. Roses and vines wind across my shoulders and down my arms in deep crimson and forest green, a callback to the hibiscus and jungle leaves from that first night at Scarlet Thorn. But this time the design tells a different story. The vines curve around and over my belly at twenty-eight weeks, turning my large bump into a garden. Petals unfurl beneath my navel. Leaves curl over my sides. And hidden among the roses, visible only if you know where to look, a tinydevil grins with ruby-red eyes that match the viper inked on my husband's hand.
"There." Luna sits back on her heels and surveys her work. Paint smudges her fingers from her hours of work. "You're done. Don't touch anything for ten minutes."
I stand with my arms extended and my legs slightly spread while a fan blows on me. "Can I at least look?"
She angles the mirror toward me and the woman staring back steals my breath.
I'm not the terrified virgin who walked into a masquerade all those months ago desperate for one night of freedom. The woman I am today carries a life inside her. Very visible. Very proud.
The curve of my belly is painted with flowers that celebrate rather than conceal. I no longer hide my hair. It falls loose around my bare shoulders now on full display with no fear of being shamed and shoved behind a door. My light brown eyes hold a steadiness that the girl who walked into Scarlet Thorn six months ago wouldn't recognize.
I chose to be here. Every step, every scar, every broken road that led from that first night to this one. I walked it with my own two feet and I’m so glad I did.
The white gown waits on a hanger behind me. It’s simple and elegant. I opted for a buttery silk to fit over my growing belly. At seven months, fitting is a generous word. The silk stretches over my bump like it's wrapping a gift, and I've made peace with the fact that elegant and enormous can coexist.
Luna helps me into it, her small hands careful around the drying paint. The silk settles against my skin with a cool whisper that makes me shiver. Through the thin fabric, the faintest suggestion of painted petals shows like a secret garden visible only in certain light.
"You look like a goddess who ate a watermelon." Luna's eyes glisten with tears she's pretending aren't there.
"Best compliment I've ever received."
She presses her forehead against mine, careful not to smudge the leaves on my collarbone. She smells like pigments and lavender and loyalty. "You deserve this," she whispers. "All of it."
The doors to Scarlet Thorn's main hall open and I stop breathing.
Candles. Hundreds of them. Their flames dance in the warm air, casting the cavernous space in flickering amber. Jungle flowers cascade from towering arrangements that climb toward the vaulted ceiling. Birds of paradise. Orchids. Jasmine vines that perfume the air so thick I can taste it. Yellow hibiscus bloom in the bouquet I carry. The exact shade he handed me the night we met.
The silk whispers against my calves with each step. My bare feet make no sound on the polished floor because Luna convinced me a painted goddess doesn't wear shoes, and for once I didn't argue.
Rafael and Persia stand near the front, baby Sofia reaching for candles she can't touch. Drake and Katriana hold hands with the ease of two people who've forgotten where one ends and the other begins.
I envy their easy love, but I can feel Luca and me growing toward it, day by day.
Massimo dabs his eyes with a handkerchief he'll deny later. Rowan stands at the far side, those ice-blue eyes soft for once. Luna walks me down the aisle because she's my maid of honor, my bridesmaid, and the closest thing to family I had before I married into one. A sprig of yellow hibiscus is tucked behind her ear and her eyes threaten tears any second.
Kon stands at the altar as best man. He’s a mountain in a tailored black suit, his dark eyes carrying a warmth I’ve learned he reserves only for those he considers family.
