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Epilogue

KILLIAN

The day Jamie left the apartment he’d shared with Rio, he wasn’t sad at all. He’d explained that he’d miss Rio, sure, but they’d still see each other every day at Redcars, and we weren’t moving far.

We’d found a place to share as a brand new couple, and it wasn’t fancy, unlike the penthouse I still owned, gathering dust and offering expensive views uptown on my visits to keep up appearances.

This place was old, low-key, and quiet. A little beat-up around the edges.

Tucked off a street just a few blocks from the garage.

It wasn’t on any lease and didn’t appear in any relevant database.

It was completely off the grid—just the way I needed it.

Because no matter how much I wanted to wrap my life around Jamie, he still had a record, and I still had a reputation to maintain to front the work the team did in the Cave.

The respectable lawyer. The clean-cut face of a courtroom defense.

That persona didn’t survive cohabitating with a convicted arsonist—not on paper.

But this house? This was ours.

In the three months since everything, he’d only set one fire.

And I’d gone with him.

It was in the middle of nowhere, deep woods and an abandoned lumber mill, and I remember standing there as the flames took hold—watching his eyes light up, his chest rise slowly, as if the fire soothed something in him that I couldn’t always reach.

I said it was beautiful. I meant it.

He didn’t need to hear me say I was scared. Or that I wasn’t sure I’d ever fully understand what fire did for him. What mattered was that he’d let me come. Let me see. And that one moment was enough.

Today was unofficial Sunday car day at Redcars. Everyone stayed late to mess with old rebuilds, drink beer, and talk shit. They’d decided that this one was for Jamie’s moving-in day with the idiot lawyer. Enzo had texted me something like beer or bust with sixteen emojis I couldn’t identify .

I pulled in after dusk. The garage door was open, music spilling into the cooling air. The half-finished Pontiac—Redcars’ pet project —sat front and center while Enzo worked under the hood, pointing things out as he and Robbie laughed.

It was good to hear Robbie laugh. Inside, someone had lined the back workbench with snacks and beer, a few pizzas sweating in open boxes.

“Look who finally showed up,” Rio called. He was perched on the hood of an Impala, new bruises visible on his face. “Thought you were ghosting us on J’s moving-in-with-you party.”

“I had to finish hiding his flamethrower collection from the movers,” I shot back.

“As if I’d wimp out and use one of those,” Jamie called, walking over from where he’d been talking to Logan and Cassidy. He looked good. Relaxed. His fingers found mine as soon as I was within reach, and he tugged me in for a kiss, long and slow, as if we were alone.

“You’re late,” he murmured against my lips.

“Fashionably,” I replied.

“I saved you a beer.”

“Is it warm?”

“Of course.”

I grinned, pressing another kiss to his mouth before following him inside. The rest of the night played out the way it always did with the Redcars crew—loud, sarcastic, messy, but underneath all of it, a kind of joy I hadn’t realized I’d missed.

We stopped partying a little after midnight; Enzo and Robbie went upstairs, and after we locked up, hand-in-hand, with Rio next to us, we headed out, Jamie stiffening when someone stumbled out of the shadows.

“DaemonRaze?” the man asked Jamie, weakly, his hand to his side.

He was short and wiry, wearing worn jeans and a leather jacket that had seen better days.

His long, dark hair was tied up in a messy bun, strands falling loose to frame a face half-lit by the amber glow of the streetlamp.

He looked tired—haunted, even—but not dangerous. Not armed. Not overtly threatening.

That didn’t matter to Rio.

He snarled and shot at the man—silent, fast, all heat and muscle.

One second the man was talking, the next his back hit the alley wall with a sickening crack, his breath exploding from his lungs in a strangled gasp.

Rio had him pinned, one arm across his chest, the other fist twisted into the collar of his jacket, lifting him clear off the ground.

His feet kicked uselessly in the air, scraping for leverage on the brickwork as he wheezed, ribs compressed under the force.

“What the fuck—Rio!” Jamie snapped, pushing in, but Rio didn’t budge. His face was pure fury—eyes sharp, jaw tight, breath steaming in the cold night air.

"Who the fuck are you?” Rio snarled at the stranger, his voice low and lethal.

The man clawed at Rio’s arm, choking on nothing, eyes wide in panic. Not so harmless now.

Jamie shoved at Rio’s shoulder. “Jesus, let him breathe!”

But Rio didn’t let go, and he was in a world of his own where he was saving all of us. The red mist had consumed him.

The name the man had used set my pulse on edge—Jamie’s hacker handle, or whatever it was called. Jamie assured me no one outside of Redcars and the Cave team knew his alternative name, that it meant nothing now anyway, but here was a stranger staring at us with desperation in his gaze.

“Who’s asking?” Jamie said, his voice calm but tight.

I expected an epic hacker handle, something anonymous and cutting, like Jamie’s take on a burning demon, but instead, the guy deflated, not even fighting Rio’s hold. Shoulders sagging, mouth working like the words were hard to say.

“L-Lyric," he forced, and my heart skipped. Lyric Thornwood? The man on the board, faceless, but with connections to everything that had happened. That was one hell of a coincidence.

"You fucker," Rio snarled.

Lyric let out a rasp, hands scrabbling weakly at Rio’s arm before falling away, strength bleeding out fast. His body trembled; his feet dangled, toes scraping at empty air.

The fight was draining from him, breath hitching in rapid, shallow bursts.

Jamie’s voice cut through—steady, measured—but my focus stayed on the man in Rio’s grip—his mouth working, no sound coming, head sagging heavier with every second.

If Rio held on much longer, we’d be looking at unconsciousness…

or worse. Hospitalization. Charges. A witness claiming excessive force.

My gut tightened. One more second, and this could cross a line we couldn't walk back from.

He was mumbling a word over and over, “Nightjar! Night… Jar…Root…”

I saw blood dripping from his hand, leaving a smear on Rio .

“RootNightjar?” Jamie asked.

“Y-yes…p-please”

“Let him down, Rio,” Jamie shouted, and Rio released his throat but held him still. Nothing was making the big guy let go of Lyric. “Talk,” Jamie ordered, and Lyric shuddered in fear and grasped at Rio’s arm as if it were an anchor, and he was about to snap in two.

“Kessler… I was off-grid… there’s a contract… wants to kill me,” he yanked at Rio’s arm. Not a good move, because he slammed Lyric back against the wall.

"Help me,” he pleaded. “P-please.”

Jamie was attempting to talk Rio down, and when Rio let him go, Lyric hit the ground hard and sprawled unconscious as if he were dead.

"Fuck!" Jamie snapped.

I went to my knees, checking for a pulse and already considering which cleaner to call to remove the body.

Rio was in shock, Lyric bleeding out on the concrete, and one thought burned through me—we’d rattled some cages, and whoever was hunting Lyric could be right behind him.

Kessler.

THE END