Page 75

Epilogue - Flynn

Six Months Later

Braymore Bay’s water stretched out before us, a mirror of orange and gold beneath the setting sun. I leaned against the pristine teak railings of the yacht, focused on the perfectly still surface below.

Move. Just… move.

Nothing happened. Not even a ripple.

Beside me, Seb cut an absurd figure against the peaceful maritime scene. While I’d opted for shorts and a light jumper, he stood rigid in his black coat and waistcoat, clutching an umbrella like some Victorian gentleman on a pleasure cruise. The sight nearly broke my concentration.

“You look ridiculous,” I said.

“I’m a vampire next to the world’s most reflective light source.”

“It’s sunset.”

“UV rays are surprisingly persistent.” He twirled the umbrella.

I opened my mouth to mock him some more, but then my phone buzzed.

Rory

We miss you, Selkie. Come back to London. Plus, there’s more work for the rest of us if Noctule is skiving on holiday with you. We don’t like it.

Hearing my Killigrew Street codename still brought a smile to my face every time. A moment later, another message popped up.

Priya

Ignore Terrier. Keep Noctule away for as many days as possible. God knows that man needed a break after twenty years.

When Seb had booked our flights to Ireland, insisting that he had a surprise for me, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Last night, we’d met Tom for a drink at the pub.

Good fortune, really—he was back from the yachting circuit for a month.

I’d thought it was going to be super awkward for sure, but it was surprisingly easy.

Maybe because Tom couldn’t stop grinning at how happy I looked.

“You found your person,” he’d said later, pulling me into a bear hug that smelled of sea salt and engine oil.

“Even if he is a bit… posh.” The way he’d whispered that last word, like Seb’s skinny tie was somehow scandalous, had made me laugh until my sides hurt.

Then, the next morning, we’d walked the familiar paths of Braymore Bay, past weathered fishing cottages and the old pub where I’d spent countless nights.

The late autumn air carried that particular mix of salt and seaweed I’d grown up with, and gulls wheeled overhead, their cries echoing off the cliffs.

Everything was exactly as I remembered, yet somehow smaller. Though still as lovely.

The harbour came into view, its ancient stone walls dark with centuries of spray, fishing boats bobbing gently in their moorings like they always had. Except there, gleaming among the working vessels like a swan among ducks, floated a brand new yacht.

I’d almost had fucking a heart attack.

The Selkie’s Heart. A Hallberg-Rassy 40C—my absolute dream boat. It was a battle not to wet myself in excitement.

Once I’d stopped crying, we had to leave my new baby to meet Mum and Katie on the beach. Katie’s new boyfriend even joined us—she wasted no time after she kicked Connor to the curb, and it was instantly obvious Greg was a massive upgrade.

It had been a lovely afternoon with them, though they were confused by my continued insistence on sitting by the large sea wall that offered shade. Mum had been utterly charmed by Seb—especially when he’d asked for her recipe for her legendary chocolate cake so he could make it for my birthday.

Katie kept shooting me suspicious looks, no doubt wondering how my boyfriend could casually drop half a million pounds on a yacht for me. I caught her mouthing “gangster?” at me behind his back more than once.

Then Seb offered to invest in her florist business, and her whole demeanour changed. Funny that. One mention of expanding into wedding planning and high-end events, and suddenly Seb wasn’t a potential crime lord anymore—he was a “savvy businessman” with “excellent taste.”

Both of them were slightly sad that it was clear I’d remain in London now, even though they could see how happy I was.

But I had plans—proper ones, for the first time in my life.

I’d enrolled in a Royal Yachting Association course, working on becoming a fully qualified sailing instructor.

Teaching kids to sail on the Thames, passing on that same joy I’d found on the water, was something I was excited to do.

I’d left Rising Dough behind too, though not alone.

It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Emma to jump ship with me to Fat Cat’s.

The regular stream of Killigrew Street Hotel customers, with their tendency to tip generously, meant she was earning almost double what she made before.

Plus, she got to see Priya most mornings, their lingering conversations and shared smiles becoming quite the entertainment source for the rest of us.

I turned back to the ocean, trying once more to channel whatever spark of power had awakened during Magdalena’s ritual.

I was determined that my connection to the water hadn’t been a fluke, that it had left me Gifted.

Though my ability to influence water had been extremely temperamental so far.

I was possibly on track for the world’s most underwhelming party trick.

I could certainly give Priya’s teaspoon telekinesis a run for her money.

A small puddle had collected on the deck from earlier. I stared at it, willing it to move with all my might. The surface trembled slightly .

“Did you see that?”

“Might have been the wind,” Seb said carefully.

“It wasn’t the wind!”

I concentrated harder. The puddle rippled again, definitely this time, and then—

“Ha!”

A single droplet leapt up like a tiny performer, hanging suspended for a heartbeat before splashing back down. My heart shot straight to my throat.

“Definitely not the wind,” Seb said, a smile evident in his voice.

I couldn’t stop from grinning. After months of trying, something had finally happened . Something real, tangible—proof that I still had magic coursing through my veins.

“I knew I just needed to come home!” I said, then caught myself. Because Braymore Bay wasn’t home anymore.

The same hotel room I’d stumbled into months ago had somehow become home, my temporary refuge transforming into something permanent when no one seemed keen on me leaving.

Even Seb had gradually migrated his things over, one vintage waistcoat at a time, until the wardrobe became an amusing clash of my wrinkled T-shirts and his meticulously pressed clothing.

Still, there were moments—usually late at night—when I’d wonder if I was overstaying my welcome.

If the others secretly thought it odd that the random Irish bloke who’d wandered in during a crisis had just…

never left. But now? That droplet of water might as well have been a key, unlocking something I hadn’t even realised I’d been searching for.

I wasn’t just the guy dating the boss anymore, or the accidental tourist who’d stumbled into their supernatural world.

I had magic . Maybe not the impressive kind that sent demons flying or healed wounds, but it was mine. A gift from the sea itself, echoing the life I’d left behind in Braymore Bay, but transformed into something new. Something that made me truly part of Killigrew Street’s peculiar family .

I beamed at Seb, then gestured dramatically at the vast ocean surrounding us. “Now for my next trick—”

“Flynn.”

“I shall part the English Channel—”

“Flynn.”

“Moses style.”

Seb’s laugh was wonderful. “Perhaps you’ll be able to use your superpower to help with our task?”

Right. Of course. The real reason we’d sailed out here, far from prying eyes.

I helped Seb lift the makeshift raft of driftwood we’d cobbled together into the ocean.

His collection of diaries—the ones from his human years, the dark and painful ones—sat in a small wooden box beside us.

The silver crucifix lay wrapped in cloth, its presence still making my skin crawl even through the fabric.

“Are you certain?” I asked, watching Seb’s face carefully. “These are your only records of… well, everything.”

His fingers traced the edge of the oldest diary, its leather binding cracked and worn. “I don’t need them anymore.” He met my eyes. “They serve no purpose save to cause me pain.”

I understood. These weren’t just journals; they were chains, binding him to memories of guilt and manipulation, years of forcing himself to relive those memories, punishment for crimes that were never truly his.

Together, we arranged the diaries on the makeshift raft. I held his umbrella over him as he placed the crucifix in the centre, its evil somehow palpable even through its wrappings. It deserved to rust away in the depths.

“Ready?” I asked, holding up the lighter.

Seb nodded, and I flicked the lighter. The flame caught quickly on the sun-dried wood. We pushed the burning raft away from the yacht, watching as the fire spread to the diaries. The pages curled and blackened, their edges glowing orange before dissolving into ash and smoke .

For long minutes we stood in silence, watching his past turn to cinders. The sea air fed the flames, carrying sparks up into the darkening sky. Each diary succumbed in turn, decades of pain transformed into drifting embers.

The crucifix was the last to go, glowing an unnatural red as the flames finally reached it.

By then, the heat had taken its toll on the makeshift raft; waterlogged wood finally gave way, splitting apart with a hiss of steam.

We watched as the burning remnants scattered and sank, that cursed piece of silver the last thing to disappear beneath the waves.

Seb stood motionless, watching until the last traces of his darkness slipped into the depths. I slipped my hand into his, and he squeezed it gently.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For being here.”

“Always,” I replied, meaning it with every fibre of my being.

Always.

A flicker of pain crossed Seb’s face at my words, his jaw tightening. The meaning hadn’t escaped him—that promise of “always” held different weight for an immortal vampire than it did for my fragile human life.