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“I love you,” Luna says.

To all of us. And every sin, every piece of me that once flinched from that kind of softness, that kind of truth—kneels.

This isn’t the end.

It never was.

It’s the beginning ofus.

And gods help whatever stands in our way next.

The end

Epilogue - Luna

The movie’s loud—blood-curdling scream loud—and Silas jumps so hard at a jump scene I feel it in my thighs. He makes a strangled sound, something between a gasp and a squeal, then flinches dramatically backward, dragging me with him by the legs he’s already looped over his shoulders like some bizarre human blanket. I spill half the popcorn across the rug in the process, and he flails as if the kernels are cursed.

“Ihatethis,” he hisses, clutching my ankles like they’re a lifeline, his whole body vibrating under me. “Why do I do this to myself?”

“Because I look really hot when I’m terrified?” I suggest, voice syrup-sweet. I trail a foot down his chest. “You’re welcome.”

He groans, tips his head back to look up at me, and gives me the most pathetic, love-drunk expression I’ve ever seen. “Luna. My goddess. My radiant, sadistic siren. Please put something else on. Something where no one’s intestines become a fashion statement.”

“You asked for this,” I whisper, leaning over his shoulder so my lips are against his ear. “You told me scary movies bring people closer.”

“Not when my soul leaves my body.”

Across the room, Elias makes a strangled sound of his own—half-laugh, half-judgmental wheeze—and mutters, “You are so deeply embarrassing.”

Silas flips him off without even turning around.

“You’re just mad because I got the best seat in the house.” He wiggles my leg for emphasis. “And you’re over there dry-humping your dignity.”

Elias, reclined sideways in one of the massive armchairs, throws a piece of popcorn at Silas’s head. It bounces off his temple. Silas fakes a death spiral and dramatically keels over—taking my legs and half the blanket with him.

Riven’s watching the whole thing from beside the fireplace, quiet and steady, sipping from a mug of something that smells faintly like cloves and stormwind. His eyes find mine through the low flickering glow, and the corners of his mouth tilt up, soft. Possessive. Knowing.

We’ve all changed since the Hollow, but Riven… he’s clearer now. Like whatever madness burned into him has finally gone quiet. And the way he looks at me, like I’m his north star and his weapon in the same breath—I’ll never stop craving that.

“Are we actually watching this,” Caspian mutters, from the couch’s far edge, where Ambrose’s arm is draped lazily around his shoulders. “Or just sacrificing Silas to it?”

“Both,” Ambrose answers without blinking.

He’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him in weeks. But even now, there’s a sharpness to him. He never quite lets it all go. Not even in safety. Not even in softness.

Orin’s by the window, reading.

He has the book open in one hand, fingers spread wide against the page, but his eyes are on me. Always on me. He doesn’t hide it anymore—not since I gave him that gift, not since he asked to bond and I said yes. I can still feel the burn of his magic underneath my skin. It’s nothing like the others. His magic doesn’t blaze or consume—it hums, patient and infinite, like he’s not just bound to me, heunderstandsme.

And Lucien…

Lucien hasn’t looked at the screen once.

He’s watching me, his jaw tight, fingers flexing slow on the armrest like he’s debating whether to pull me into his lap or pin me against the nearest wall. The bond still simmers fresh between us, hot and electric and strange. I think he’s still adjusting to it. To this version of us that doesn’t involve anger as foreplay.

He catches me staring. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t look away. Just lifts his chin like he’s daring me to come to him. And maybe I would—if Silas didn’t flinch violently at another jump scare and drag me backward into a heap of tangled limbs and popcorn casualties.

“Ihatethis!” Silas yells again.