Page 80 of Necromance

EPILOGUE

TWO MONTHS LATER

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm, flickering glow across the grand canopy bed. Lucien’s arm was draped over my waist, his breath steady against the back of my neck, his legs tangled with mine beneath the blankets. The chill of early morning hadn’t reached us here, not in this bed, not with him beside me.

I sighed, stretching a little, careful not to wake him just yet. My fingers toyed with the rings on my hand—three, stacked delicately: one simple silver band, one with a bloodstone, and the last, an antique piece that had once belonged to Lucien’s mother.

My husband.

Even now, the word sent a thrill through me. My husband, who had once been a painting. Who had hauntedthese halls in shadow and sorrow. My husband, whose dark eyes were now full of laughter and warmth, who held me every night like I was the only thing that had ever mattered.

I smiled as I turned my hand in the morning light, watching the rings catch and scatter it across the sheets.

After all the pain, the curses, the battles and heartbreak, it had come down to this. Peace. Love. A quiet life that still felt utterly magical.

Lady Hathaway had been more than happy to sell the castle once the hauntings had ceased and she’d been handsomely paid for the inconvenience. Lucien hadn’t even blinked as he wrote the check, simply declaring himself the rightful heir of Ravenspire. No one questioned him. His name still held power, even after all these years.

So the castle was ours again. Home.

I still took clients on occasion, those who came with trembling hands and tearful eyes, asking if I might help them speak to a lost mother, a sister, or a child. I never could say no to that. But Lucien had, in no uncertain terms, forbidden me from accepting any more haunted castles.

“One was enough,” he had muttered against my neck, arms around me. “No more cursed paintings. No more spectral staircases trying to kill you. If a spirit needs help, they can bloody well come here and ask nicely.”

I had laughed then,and I still laughed now, thinking of it.

Behind me, Lucien stirred. His hand slid up my waist, fingertips brushing over my breast. “You’re smiling,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and it was utterly unfair in how deep and warm it was. “Dangerous. What are you thinking?”

I turned toward him, our noses nearly touching. “How spoiled I am.”

He arched a dark brow. “And?”

“And how you’re never getting rid of me.”

He smirked, his fingers trailing over my hip, then further until he reached between my thighs and stroked the spot that aches for only him. “Good, because I intend to keep you.”

I leaned in and kissed him, slow and soft, tasting of forever. I arched against his skillful fingers, my core already needy.

When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine. “Do you know what you are to me, Mia Arden Wescraven?”

I smiled against his lips. “Tell me anyway.”

“You’re my heart. My salvation.”

I cupped his cheek, my thumb brushing the corner of his mouth as he moved on top of me, his length pressing between my thighs. “And you’re my phantom.”

He chuckled, his voice a low rumble in the quiet. “Hardly a ghost anymore.”

“No,” I agreed, spreading my thighs and pressing my hips against him. “But are you jealous that he got to have me first?”

He paused, pulling back just a little, teasingly. I whimpered, writhing beneath him, a teasing smile playing on my lips. He gave me a look, one I was quite fond of, the same one that meant I was in trouble.

“He,”he said firmly, dark eyes narrowing. “Was me, love.”

“Hmm,” I mused, running my tongue across his bottom lip. “Prove it. Make love to me exactly like you did that first night.”

He grinned, saying nothing more, his lips blazing hot kisses against my throat, then trailing over my breast, my stomach and further until his tongue found the place between my thighs that needed him. I moaned when he tasted me, my hips arching. The memory of the first night we made love crawled over me.

His movements were flawless, slow, deliberate, and when his fingers slipped inside of me, I breathed his name.

“That’s it, witch,” he soothed, pressing a finger inside of me as his tongue swirled over my core. “Let go.”

And I did.

THE END.