Page 127 of Tricked By Jack

Epilogue

Nicklas

5 years later

It’s Christmas Eve, and the house is quiet except for the slow hiss of logs collapsing in the fireplace. Our girls are asleep, one curled with a stuffed reindeer, the other still clutching Carolina’s hair ribbon like a talisman.

Though Willow usually sleeps in her own bed, tonight she’s sharing with Lily, our youngest. They’re both excited for tomorrow morning and wouldn’t shut up about when Santa would get here. Little do they know their dad is Santa.

I sit on the edge of our bed with my mom’s diary in my hands—the last relic that ever dared mention curses and superstitions. After all these years, the binding is worn smooth at the corners.

The bedroom door opens, and Carolina enters, wrapped in a sexy as fuck negligee, legs bare beneath it. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and the sight of her still catches in my chest, sharp and sweet.

“Is that the last one?” she asks, nodding at the diary in my hands.

I run my thumb along the edge of the book. “Yes.” The word feels heavier than it should, like a confession. “The final record of the Knight curse.”

My Kitten sits beside me, close enough that our thighs press together. She takes the diary, opening it to where my mother’s handwriting flows across the yellowed pages in elegant, troubled lines.

“It feels like ages ago I discovered this old thing,” she grins. Her expression somber. “Nick, are you sure—”

“Yes.” I think of Jack and Ruby—one died and came back, the other claimed by a family disease that ate her from the inside out. “ I’m done letting ghosts dictate how we live. I refuse to let it become Willow’s or Lily’s burden.”

The fire pulses in the hearth, shadows dancing against the wall. Carolina watches me with those eyes that see everything—the parts I try to hide, the parts only she gets to touch.

“Then burn it,” she says. “End it tonight.”

I take the diary back, its weight familiar in my palm. Then I walk over to the fireplace, Carolina following. The heat pushes against my skin as I stand before the flames. For a moment, I hesitate. Not because I believe, but because this was hers—my mother’s.

“It’s okay,” my Kitten murmurs, her hand at the small of my back. “She’d understand.”

I toss the diary into the heart of the fire. The leather blackens immediately, curling at the corners like dying flowers. Pages catch and glow, illuminating my mother’s handwriting one last time before ash claims it. The binding cracks, exposing more pages to the hungry flames.

“The curse died with Ruby, or with Jack’s name change,” I say, watching the last of the superstitions burn. “Not because it was real, but because we made it real by believing it.”

My wife’s arms wrap around my waist from behind, her cheek pressed between my shoulder blades. “And now?”

“Now we live,” I say, turning to face her. “No more ghosts. No more curses. Just us.”

The diary collapses in on itself, pages consumed, binding fractured beyond repair. The fire hisses as it devours the last record of the Knight family’s darkest beliefs.

Carolina’s hands slide up my chest, finding their way to the nape of my neck. Her touch grounds me, pulling me back to the present—to her, to us, to the life we built from wreckage.

“So,” she says, lips curving into the smile that still haunts my dreams, “does this mean you’re not dressing as Santa tonight?”

The question breaks through the heaviness, unexpected enough to pull a laugh from my throat. “Only if you’ve been very,verynaughty,” I growl, hands finding her waist, tugging her closer.

“I’m always naughty,” she reminds me, pressing her body flush against mine. Her eyes darken with familiar heat. “That’s why you married me.”

I kiss her hard, one hand tangling in her hair, the other sliding beneath the hem of the negligee. She tastes of toothpaste and promises kept, like every choice that led me here.

She tugs me toward the bed, but I pause, remembering something. “Check your email first.”

“Now?” Her brow furrows, confusion clear in the tilt of her head. “It’s Christmas Eve, Nick.”

“Trust me.”

She huffs but reaches for her phone on the nightstand. I watch her unlock it, navigate to her inbox, find the message I had our lawyers send this morning.