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Laughing.

Alive.

Until we meet again…

Always remember, surviving Hell is easy.

It’s learning to live and LOVE again that takes work…

But it’s so worth it.

Love y’all!

XOXO, Maisie

Epilogue

I had eaten enough fries to qualify as a structural threat to my own waistband by the time I checked the clock for the third time.

Bernie and Guy were late.

Which meant Mated Dragons, as a species, had apparently lost all respect for clocks.

I sat in a corner booth at Paws, Claws, & Fangs with a basket of fries, a Diet Coke the size of a small aquarium, and approximately six thousand opinions about people who said, “We’re leaving in five minutes,” and then vanished into Mate Land for half an hour.

Not that I was judging them.

Fine. I was absolutely judging them.

Outside, Arrhythmia had leaned hard into Halloween. Inside, the tavern had apparently decided moderation was for cowards. Paper bats dangled from the rafters. Jack-o’-lanterns grinned from every shelf. A Vampire in a velvet cape argued over a game of darts with a Goblin wearing Fairy wings. Three Witches at the bar were dressed as three different versions of the same pop star, and someone had wrapped fake cobwebs around the Dragon-shaped beer taps.

That last one felt disrespectful.

Which, naturally, meant Dean was pretending not to see it while polishing glasses behind the bar with the exhausted dignity of a man who had already chosen his battles and lost most of them.

“You know there are cobwebs on the taps, right?” I called.

Dean did not look up. “I have eyes.”

“Are you using them?”

“Selectively.”

I respected that. Avoidance was an underrated life skill.

I took another fry, dipped it in ranch, and reminded myself that The Crumb & Crypt was opening soon. My bakery. My ridiculous, wonderful, sugar-dusted, possibly haunted bakery. I loved the name so much I wanted to embroider it on something, then immediately remembered I didn't embroider.

Across the room, Knox MacAllen laughed.

Not loud. Not performative. Just real.

I turned before I could pretend I hadn’t noticed.

He sat in a booth near the far wall with Maisie MacDonald, who had dressed entirely in black because, from what Bernie had told me, she refused to participate in stereotypical Alicorn bullshit on principle. Black boots. Black jeans. Black sweater. Black leather jacket. The only concession to sparkle was one tiny rhinestone glinting near her collar, as if it had snuck onto her outfit under cover of darkness.

Knox said something I didn’t quite hear.

Maisie gave him The Look.