Page 155 of Cold Curses

Kieran smiled. “You’re lucky to have her. And I look forward to seeing you named Apex of the NAC. I’ll be making sure the Western Pack is on board.”

Connor watched him for a moment, nodded. Then he held out a hand, and they shook.

Kieran put on his helmet, climbed onto his bike, and rode into the darkness.

“Brave, huh?” I asked.

“Too brave,” he said, and slid an arm around my waist. “But mine.”

EPILOGUE

The sky was banded in pink and purple as twilight fell away. An arbor of graceful vines stood in a meadow that glowed from the light of hundreds of candles; the scent of night-blooming jasmine filled the air. Cicadas hummed in the trees.

A new fall was coming, and it would bring longer nights and chillier air. Winter would follow, with its rest and release before spring’s new growth. The world would turn, and the sun would rise and sink, and the stars would shine through darkness as they had for millennia, lighting the way for anyone wise enough to look.

And love would persist.

Love would endure.

It was in the smile of the parents who held hands at the edge of the field.

It was in the grins of the new couples, their eyes full of promise as they waited for the ritual to begin.

It was in the tired but exhilarated faces of new parents, for whom their young children were new kinds of miracles.

It was in the excitement of friends and family and coworkers who’d traveled from across Chicago, or from across the country, and waited for the vows that would unite two families at long last.

First came the maid of honor and the best man. Her in a shortdress of midnight blue; him in a tuxedo he swore he’d never wear. And in her arms, atop a silken pillow, was the demon cat who ruled them all.

And then came the groom—tall, with dark hair, the waves tamed back for the occasion, except for the curl that rebelled across his forehead. The tuxedo fit his strong body perfectly, but it was the thrill in his eyes that everyone noticed. The anticipation.

And when he saw her at the edge of the gathering, her hand on her father’s arm, her hair a spill of golden curls below her shoulders, there was pride and love and victory.

She wore a crown of jasmine and a delicate dress of silk and lace that whispered as she moved.

Her father escorted her closer to the arbor; there was pride in his bearing, but it was joined there by loss. While he wasn’t giving away his daughter, he was releasing her into a new night and a new adventure.

The bride reached the groom, and they stood together beneath the arbor the groom had built with his own hands. For her. For them.

Elisa Sullivan. The only vampire ever born.

Connor Keene. The wicked prince.

Elisa, seeing Connor resplendent in his tuxedo, smiled up at him. “You look beautiful.”

That had his grin widening—becoming puppyish and wild at the edges.

“You look beautiful,” he said in return, and his eyes didn’t leave her face.

He vowed, then and there, in a silent promise to the glorious world that surrounded them, that he would look at her as often and as long as possible until his life was through. He would spend every moment cherishing her, supporting her, worshipping her.For he knew in his bones, the way these things always seemed to be known, that he was hers and had been from the beginning.

He would love her, he vowed aloud, until the world stopped turning. And beyond, if he could.

She would love him, she vowed aloud, until there was no more night and no more her.

Love was a tricky thing, with its mix of blessing and curse, choice and fate. But it would be easier to bear—good and bad—because they were united. Because they protected each other.

When the ritual was done, Elisa’s mother found her, embraced her tightly. “Someday,” she whispered, “you’ll tell me your entire story.”

“Someday,” Elisa said, brushing a tear from her mother’s cheek. “But I think my story is just beginning.”