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He smiled softly, glancing down at the baby once again.

The child appeared to have fallen asleep, his little face screwed up. Daphne had already warned Emily about what newborns were like—screaming and wailing and demanding to be fed at all hours of the day and night—but at that moment, Emily simply did not care.

“Well, I can promise you this,” Cassian said, his voice soft. “You won’t have to fight for me anymore. Because I am yours, Emily. Heart, body, and soul.”

Emily smiled sleepily up at him. “That is very nice to know.”

“Although perhaps I should call youAnon? The rest of London does. They’re also desperate for your next painting, by the way.”

Emily perked up. “Perhaps I might paint a portrait of Arthur?”

“You could, although I’m not sure the rest of the world is going to be as fascinated by our baby as we are.”

She chuckled to herself. “You might be right, Cassian. You might be right.”

The End?