"I love you," he says.
His voice is hoarse.
Wrecked.
"I love you too," I say.
He presses his forehead against mine.
His amber veins are glowing softly now.
Steady.
Healthy.
Alive.
"Your hands will heal," he says. "I will ensure it. I will hire the best specialists. I will—"
"Cyprian."
"Yes?"
"Shut up and hold me."
He shuts up.
And holds me.
And for the first time since I dumped that volcanic oil into the device core, I feel safe.
Whole.
Home.
EPILOGUE: The Stressed Auditor - Tamsin
The Sanctuary is quiet at 9:47 PM.
Not empty—never empty, not with Obsidian Aegis operatives positioned discreetly throughout the building—but quiet in that specific way that means I'm the last one here.
I love this part of the day.
The part where I lock up my own business, count my own till, and don't have to think about eviction notices or past-due medical bills or whether I can afford premium orange juice.
I can afford premium orange juice now.
I buy it specifically because I can.
It's petty.
It's also deeply satisfying.
I'm wiping down the main reception desk when the door chimes.
After-hours.
Which means either Cyprian is early picking me up, or someone has a genuine emergency.
