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EPILOGUE: LOCHLAN

E vie’s lips are warm. That’s the only thing I register for a second. Not the people watching, not the priest behind us, not the weight of a thousand eyes waiting to clap or cry or nod with approval. Just her—kissing me like she means it, like she already knows I’ll never walk away from this.

When she pulls back, her eyes are locked on mine. No hesitation. No nerves. Her hand is still in mine, her fingers firm, sure, like she’s anchoring me there. I don’t need anchoring—but it still helps.

The priest says something final in Irish. I hear my name. Hers. Then it’s done.

We turn. The pews are packed—family, soldiers, killers in suits, and a few men who don’t fit into either category but know their way around a rifle. I spot Ronan near the front, jaw tight, hands behind his back like he’s on watch. He meets my eyes for a second, gives the faintest nod. Nothing soft. Just a silent agreement.

Outside, the wind bites. Early spring, damp and sharp. The sky’s all gray and low clouds, but no rain—at least not yet. The chapel sits high on the hill, stone walls covered in ivy and moss like it’s been waiting for this day longer than we’ve been alive. The bells above us let out one more slow ring as we walk into the open air.

The courtyard is set up for the reception, tables under a canvas tent, strung with lights that’ll matter more once the sun drops. Old wooden chairs. White linen that already has a table service on it. Flowers everywhere—wild ones mostly, with roses tucked in here and there. Evie’s touch, no doubt. It smells like rain’s coming and someone lit a peat fire nearby.

I feel them before I see them—my brothers from the field. Men I haven’t heard from in months, some years. They don’t come in loudly, but they’re unmistakable. The way they move. The way they look at a crowd, never relaxed, even at a wedding. Always scanning, always reading exits.

Dean’s first. Hair a little longer, same scar under his eye. We clasp forearms instead of hugging. That’s what we do. Mason follows, then Elias. A few others I haven’t seen since the last convoy rolled out under gunfire.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Dean says, smirking. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Neither did I,” I admit. “But she said yes, and here we are.”

He glances over at Evie, who’s laughing at something Jasper just said. The wind catches her veil and she brushes it back with one hand. She’s glowing, people would say. But it’s not some romantic thing. It’s power. She knows who she is now.

“She’s your shot at making it right,” Mason says quietly. He’s not the type to say much, but when he does, it lands.

“I know.”

Dean lowers his voice. “You ever think about Maelyn?”

“Every day.”

“She’d tell you not to screw this up.”

“I won’t.”

We stand there for a beat, not saying more. There’s nothing else to say. These men saw me at my worst. Burying friends. Dragging bodies. Getting high just to sleep. They know what it took to get here, and they respect it in the way only guys like us can. Not with words. Just with presence.

“You look good,” Elias says. “You look like someone who’s not trying to die anymore.”

I look out at Evie again. She’s got one hand on her belly now, almost seven months along, still dancing in those heels like the world owes her joy. And maybe it does.

“Yeah,” I say. “Because I’m not.”

Dean studies me for a second, then nods once. No more than that. Mason finishes what’s left in his glass and sets it down on the edge of a planter like it doesn’t belong to anyone. Elias adjusts his jacket and doesn’t say a thing. They don’t offer congratulations. They’re here to see with their own eyes that I made it out the other side.

“Tell her thanks,” Dean says. “For dragging your sorry ass back.”

“She already knows.” I chuckle.

“Still. You got lucky.” Dean’s shoulders relax as he slides his hands into his slacks pockets.

“Yeah. I did.” A moment passes in silence again. Moments like this are typical with these men. No need to fill the air with chatter when you’ve survived a warzone together and lived to tell about it. Then the tone shifts and I know they’ve gotten the peace they came to obtain. A collective sigh is released, and my shoulders relax.

Mason jerks his chin toward the tables. “Go dance with your wife, man.”

He says it like an order—a final nudge. They’re done here. They got what they came for.

I nod once, and they scatter, heading back to their wives and families. My eyes scan the room to find what I’m looking for and they land on the most beautiful sight in the world.

Evie’s talking to Jasper near the edge of the tent. He’s got a pint in one hand and his other hooked lazily around the back of her chair like he’s in the middle of telling some story he’s halfway making up. She’s laughing at him in a way that makes her natural beauty stand out, hand still resting on her swollen belly—our son. Her face is alight with emotion I want to always see expressed there. She’s gorgeous.

She spots me coming and stands expectantly, and I wiggle my fingers at her, beckoning her to the dance floor. She untangles her dress and meets me halfway, and I escort her the rest of the way there.

“Your old friends look like they’re half a second from organizing a raid,” she says.

“They probably are.” My stiff smile as I nod at one of our guests in passing feels genuine. I’m coming out of the haze of angry shock from post-war hangover. Evie’s doing this for me. She’s healing me somehow. Loving her is exactly what I needed to do to survive this.

“You okay?” she asks softly. I hear the concern in her tone.

I take her hand. “Better.” And it’s true. Being with her, being near her makes me better. I am a better person, a better man when I’m around her, and marrying her was the smartest decision I’ve ever made.

The music changes to something older. A little scratch in the recording, like it’s being played off a record somebody found in their uncle’s attic. The kind of song that doesn’t need lyrics to say what it means.

I lead her out, slow steps over uneven stone. Her hand finds my shoulder like it’s done it a hundred times as she spins into my embrace. My arm circles her waist. She exhales once softly.

“You're nervous?” she asks, her eyes searching my expression with intent to understand me.

“No. I just don’t want to mess this up.” That fear still lingers, that I may do something to risk her life or lose her. I’m not sure it will ever go. I’m not sure I want it to. It keeps me on my toes.

She rests her head against me. “Then don’t.” I can almost see her soft smile, and I chuckle again. I love that her attitude is always no-nonsense. She finished her degree and went back to work like nothing even happened, and even now in her final trimester, she's pushing forward, no hesitation.

We sway back and forth, just the rhythm between us. The space closes until there isn’t any.

People watch, but they’re not in the way. It’s like everything fades out—chairs, tables, noise, even the soft flicker of candlelight against the white tent walls.

When I took that job for Draco under my brother's orders, I worried that it was the end of me as a man. It was a punishment to endure for losing my place in this world and in my mind, it became a black mark on my reputation.

But now I see it as the best thing that ever happened to me. Evelyn is the magic I needed to find myself again among the chaos and noise that plagued and tormented my mind. Without her, I'd be lost in a sea of guilt and regret that would eat me alive. With her, I am human again. She saved me, and I saved her. But we'll never be even.

I'll spend the rest of my life doing everything in my power to ensure she has everything she ever dreamed of and making sure her heart is full and her mind is at peace.