EPILOGUE
ESMERELDA
I’ve paced so much the rug’s got a worn path, the fibers flattened like they’ve just given up fighting me. My palms are damp, useless things, and my pulse refuses to settle no matter how many times I whisper “breathe” to myself like it’s some magic spell that might actually work.
It’s foolish. I know he’s coming. I know he’ll be here any moment. And still, anticipation coils tighter and tighter in my chest until I swear I might combust just from waiting.
If anyone saw me so strung-out, jittery, and pacing like a lovesick teenager, they’d laugh their asses off. Minerva would never let me live it down.
But it’s him. And waiting for Marcus Benyamina has never been easy.
A year and some months since our families came back to us, and the world feels both new and fragile. Like glass glued back together. Whole enough to hold, but still bearing the cracks.
The Mephistus coven is quieter now, smaller, but healing. The surviving vampires have shed some of their sharp edges, worn down by loss and the brutal reminder of how fleeting everything can be. There’s laughter in the halls again, timid at first, the kind that makes you flinch because you’ve forgotten thesound. Then stronger. Braver. As if we’re all slowly relearning how to live without grief gnawing at our throats.
It’s not perfect. Some days are still hard. Shadows creep back. Memories slice you open when you least expect it. But for the first time in forever, happiness doesn’t feel like a fairy tale for someone else’s children. It feels possible. Real. Mine.
The sound of boots on stone pulls me out of my thoughts. Each step echoes closer, steady, sure. My breath hitches, chest tight, like the air’s gone too thin.
And then he’s there.
Marcus. Broad shoulders, travel-worn, dust clinging to his cloak, the weight of distance still on him. Even tired, even marked by the road, he radiates that steady strength, the kind that makes the ground beneath me feel safe no matter how shaky I am inside.
His eyes find me instantly. Not the room. Not the shadows. Me. Surprise flickers across his face, then softens into something warmer, something that makes my knees threaten to give way.
“Esme,” he murmurs, setting his bags aside with that deliberate attention of his, like even exhaustion can’t make him careless. His voice is low, rough from travel, and it slides through me like warmth after a long chill.
“Is everything all right?”
There’s more in the question than the words: tension in his brow, the faint thread of worry beneath the calm. Because Marcus never assumes. He reads. He waits. He lets me tell him if the world’s collapsing.
And here I am, strung tight and breathless, not because disaster struck, but because he’s here.
My throat tightens with all the things I’ve held back these long days. Ridiculous, really, that something so simple can unravel me faster than battle ever did. But I manage a smileanyway, even though it wobbles, caught between laughter and tears, or maybe both.
“Everything is perfect,” I whisper. And for once, it feels true. My heart’s in my mouth as I add, softer still, “Will you have dinner with me?”
The question sounds fragile, almost childish, but it carries the weight of every night I waited, every moment I dreamed of him walking back through this door.
One brow arches, that familiar spark flickering in his gaze. Even after weeks apart, he can still disarm me with just a look.
“If you’ll let me freshen up first,” he says, voice smooth and steady, like he hasn’t just upended every nerve in my body.
My lips twitch, half laugh, half groan, because of course he’d say that. Of course he’d think about washing the road from his skin before realizing I’ve been pacing holes into the rug. Gods, the man could undo me with a single sentence.
Impatience floods me before I can rein it in, hot and sharp, stealing any chance of composure. I shake my head, honest and unrepentant, my pulse still pounding in my ears.
“I’d rather not wait,” I admit, the words tumbling out rough, bare. My voice drops, aching with truth. “I don’t think I can.”
His breath stills for a beat, and something shifts in his eyes: the spark deepening into hunger. And the way he looks at me in that moment makes every second of waiting worth it.
His chuckle is low, warm, curling through me like velvet. It grounds me and ignites me all at once. He’s still smiling, that rare, unguarded smile, and I see it for what it is: love. Fierce, unshakable love, written in every softened line of his face.
“Then impatient it is,” he murmurs, threading his fingers through mine. His hand steadies me even as he lets me tug him along, past the cavernous dining hall we abandoned long ago, straight into the side sitting room that’s become ours.
The air here is easier, lighter. Laughter lingers in the walls, meals, and stolen kisses stitched into its bones. It smells faintly of firewood and wine, and it feels like home. Our home.
Two plates wait on the table, silver cloches gleaming like secrets under the lamplight. The whole room feels intimate, conspiratorial, like the world has narrowed to this one table. This one choice. My heart thunders, too loud, too obvious.
