“Thank you,” Nassa whispers.
“I have something I’d like to say,” I announce, and everything falls deathly silent. I turn to Nassa, taking her hands in mine. “This isn’t a ceremony. I know vows aren’t needed. But I want you to hear me say this to you. I’ll give you everything I have. Everything I am. I will always hold you close and learn to let you go. With every heartbeat I have left, I will defend your every breath. You are mine. And you are loved.” It wasn’t said without hesitation and sadness, but it was said. And I meant every fucking word.
With a wicked smirk, she leans forward and brushes her lips over mine softly. “Your hot ass is officially mine, Gallagher,” she whispers.
“Your vindictive, crazy ass is officially mine, buttercup.”
“About fucking time, yeah?” Asher shouts.
I look around the circle of friends and family surrounding us here tonight, taking my time, meeting the eyes of Asher, Callan, Keegan, Abby, Kenna, Eve, and Nassa.
The prince.
The fool.
The rule maker.
The kindhearted.
The strength.
The divine.
The heart.
And even the tragic.
We all played our parts. All told a story.
We wrote each other into our lives. Opened and closed chapters. And in the end, we will continue to exist.
As a family. Full of love.
I have faced my past.
I have faced my present.
And now, with her by my side, I will face my future.
All of it my dark paradise.
The End.
EPILOGUE
GAGE
Twenty Years Later . . .
As soon as I step into my loft, I pause. My gaze slides between Nassa and the beautiful blonde woman standing next to her, by the windows.
When my eyes meet Nassa’s, she doesn’t smile at me. As a matter of fact, she looks like she’s about to be sick.
Pinching my brows, I look back at the other woman.
The one whose cognac gaze is focused on mine.
Wondering what the hell is going on, I swagger into my home and toss my jacket, keys, and cigarettes onto the leather couch to the left of me before sliding my hands into the front pockets of my dress pants.
As I take a step closer to them, the blonde presses a hand against her stomach, taking in a sharp breath as if in pain as I curiously approach her. A look of terror and desperation falls across her expression the closer I get.
“Hello, Gage,” she barely manages to get out.
“Ophelia.”
“You look just like—” She pauses, stopping her thought. “I mean, you look the same.”
Dipping my chin, I can’t help but notice the air is filled with an odd tension. Tilting my head, I look over the queen of the woodland realm. She still looks as youthful and beautiful as the day we met. Her long blonde hair is braided on one side, lined with citrus leaves, and I can’t help but be hit with a twinge of a memory of our one night together.
“Time has been kind to you as well, Your Majesty.”
I smile.
Holding her breath, Ophelia dips her chin at my compliment.
“How long has it been?” I ask.
“Twenty-two years. Or so.” She smiles kindly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Twenty-two years,” I repeat, nodding.
“My deepest apologies for appearing unannounced in your home, after all this time.”
“You’re always welcome here,” I tell her, wondering why the hell she is here.
Nassa clears her throat. “I’ll just give you two a moment.”
“No.” The word snaps out of my mouth more harshly than I intended.
Nassa shakes her head in tiny fast shakes. “Gage, I think—”
“I’m sure anything Ophelia has to say to me can be said in front of you.” Her lips part to argue, but I stop her. “No secrets. Remember? That’s our ongoing rule, buttercup.”
Pressing her lips flat, she falls silent, and I turn my attention toward Ophelia. “Nassa and I are—”
The queen holds up a palm. “I understand.”
“So, Majesty, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today?” It seemed like a friendly enough question, but I immediately see the fear in her eyes. Confused, I step closer to her and lean in, so I can bend and look her in the eyes. “What’s wrong, Ophelia? What’s happened?”
“I need your help,” she whispers almost inaudibly.
“Anything,” I assure her. “Anything you need.”
I hold Ophelia in high regard.
I always have.
Not only is she an even-handed ruler, but she has a good soul. A queen with high moral integrity. I have no idea why she ever gave me the time of day, but for that one moment we shared, I’m indebted to her, for her kindness. Drama and overreacting aren’t in her vocabulary. I know she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t in some sort of trouble. To my left, Nassa crosses her arms and toes the ground, inhaling.
“Please understand, I had no other option than to come to you.”
“Ophelia, it’s no trouble. What can I do for you?”
“Not me.”
“Then who?”
“My son, Tristan.” Her voice shakes as she says his name.
I look at her, taken off guard. “I hadn’t heard. I mean, I didn’t know you had a son.”
“Two, actually.” There is a sadness to her tone. “Both of whom I love dearly.”
She stares at me, lost in thought as I run my thumb over my bottom lip. I’m curious as to why there’s a frightened quiver in her voice as she speaks about those she loves.
“Zander is Rionach’s,” she explains. “They came to the woodland realm when Zander was very young. Like his brother, he is now grown, and second in command of my army, the Lion Guard, under his father, Rionach, my husband.” Ophelia watches me listen.
I sigh with my entire body. “I am happy for you, Ophelia. It is rare that mated supernatural beings get a second chance at love. Let alone with someone like Rionach.”
“Thank you.” Tears appear in her eyes.
When Ophelia and I first met, we were both in an ugly, dark place, having lost the loves of our lives, our mates. For a brief moment, we got lost in one another.
It’s nice to see that out of the darkness, we’ve both found the light. My eyes meet Nassa’s and I offer her a small smile, which she returns. I’m sure she can see and read what I’m thinking.
“Tristan is my biological son,” Ophelia states, gaining my attention again. “He’s”—she swallows, strangely choosing her words carefully—“beautiful and strong. Intelligent and kindhearted. Though, at times, he is a bit lost, and stubborn. Perhaps a bit broken.”
At her description, I feel an odd knot form in my throat as I try to picture her son, but I can’t imagine him.
My gaze slides over the queen as she takes in an uneven breath, collecting herself. Even in her vexed state, she is the epitome of elegance, majestic.
“Tristan is the future heir to the woodland throne,” she continues. “The prince.”
There is something in her expression, something I didn’t notice before, but can’t help but hold on to now because it makes my chest tighten in an uneasy way.
“Ophelia, you are a powerful queen. I don’t understand how I could possibly help you with Tristan.”
Her eyes close briefly as I say his name, then reopen and pin me with a look. “He has been sentenced to stone petrifaction.” The lines around her eyes fall a little.
“By whom?”
“The London clan.”
I lower my voice. “Only gargoyles can be petrified.”
With a shaky exhale she nods, agreeing.
“Tristan is half-gargoyle, half-satyr.”
Everything suddenly feels heavier under the weight of her admission. The reality of what she is saying rips all the air from my lungs and makes my whole world unstable. �
�Half-gargoyle,” I repeat, and slide my gaze to Nassa’s.
The sorceress bites her bottom lip, trying to hold back her emotions.
“How old is Tristan?” I manage to ask.
She lifts her chin. “Twenty-two.”
Immediately, I back away from her, shaking my head as if the motion will somehow make what she’s saying untrue. Even though, deep in my gut, somehow, I know it is. Ophelia isn’t a liar. The back of my legs hit my bar.
I turn, placing my palms on the top, inhaling through my nose as I hang my head, trying to process all of this. I try to hold back my panic, knowing I’m about to spiral.
Her next words send me spinning.
“Tristan is your son, Gage.”
My past, my present, and my future—all of it is spinning out of control. “Christ!” I exhale, biting back all the things I want to fucking scream at her.
I storm around my bar, pouring myself a full glass of brandy before downing the entire contents in two large gulps and then refilling the glass, panting, trying to just breathe.
A kid.
A fucking kid.
“I have a goddamn son?” I growl.
“You have nothing to worry about. Tristan is an adult now. And he doesn’t know you’re his father. I knew, after Camilla, there would be no chance that you would want either one of us in your life. Rionach and I have given Tristan everything. I promise you, he has been nothing but loved and cared for since birth. By us. His parents.”
I open my mouth, but only an uncertain breath comes out. I can’t answer her. I just need a moment to calm down first. Everyone falls silent as I internally freak the fuck out. Nassa’s stare is hard and her breathing steady as she keeps her gaze pinned to mine.
I can’t even imagine what she is thinking.
“Gage?” I don’t turn toward Ophelia’s voice.
I keep my gaze focused on Nassa. She takes in a calm breath. As if both of our lives aren’t falling apart around us. Searching her eyes, I try to sort through things. Other than Camilla, Nassa is the only one I haven’t used protection with. The. Only. Fucking. One.
“We used protection,” I point out like an asshole, basically calling Ophelia a liar.
“There must have been a tear.” Her voice is small. “We failed to notice it in our unfocused state.”
Nassa flinches and pales at Ophelia’s words, looking as if she’s about to be sick.
“I’m sorry.” Ophelia walks toward the bar. “I never intended to tell you. Not ever. I swear. But Tristan is in trouble, Gage. They’ve accused him of killing a royal protector.”
“Why?”
Confused, she closes her eyes.
“Why did they accuse him?”
“Why didn’t you intend to tell me?”
She opens her eyes, fixing them on mine. “Would it have made a difference?” When I don’t answer, she gives me a small sad nod, telling me she knew my answer. “I have no authority over protector rulings. But you have the London clan’s ear. As a friend. As a clan leader. Trust me when I say our son is innocent of the charges brought against him.”
Pain like nothing I’ve felt before rips through my heart as she says our son. Ophelia must not realize this or she wouldn’t have said it, knowing how it would’ve affected me. “You need to leave,” I say with a voice void of emotion.
Ophelia’s stare is flat, like she’s not even in this moment. After a moment, she jerks back and looks around the loft. Respectfully, she dips her chin at Nassa, who offers her a polite expression, then she quickly makes her way toward the door to leave.
Once she has it open, before she escapes, I clear my throat, needing to know one more thing.
“What’s his last name?”
Ophelia stops halfway out the door, not looking back.
“Gallagher. Tristan Gallagher.”
I’m always torturing myself. During the day, the darkness recedes. But nights are completely different, because at night, I can’t guard my emotions and thoughts.
With my legs dangling over the side of the loft building, I relax my wings and inhale a long hit off my cigarette. Paris, my city, is sprawled out beneath me.
Yearning for a peaceful moment, I look over the city as the darkness creeps in. A feeling I am accustomed to.
Except this time, it’s too fucking much and I feel like I can’t take it anymore. The pieces of my fucked-up existence still hold so many unanswered questions.
My past is always looming in the distance, constantly threatening my future. Christ! I have a fucking kid. The sad and unreal thing is, when Ophelia said he was mine, my first thought wasn’t about me. Or her. Or even about the kid. It was about Nassa.
What she’d think.
How she would respond.
If she would still love and want me.
I thirst for the sorceress, even now. Every wrong move I make terrifies me, reminding me that I could lose her. Like I did Camilla. When Ophelia asked if knowing about the kid would have changed anything, everything in me went numb again. The truth is, it wouldn’t have.
As shitty as that sounds, twenty years ago, all I cared about was myself. I was drowning in pain and loss.
I was numb to the world.
Lost.
I could barely let Nassa in, let alone accept a kid that wasn’t Camilla’s. Ophelia knew this about me, which is why she kept Tristan’s existence from me. A smart move. Even now, it’s not like I’ve changed. I haven’t left the darkness behind me; it still lingers. It always will. Which means, I can’t be a father to Ophelia’s son. Not ever.
A light breeze picks up, bringing with it the scent of lavender. I look over my shoulder and see Nassa’s tiny frame approach me. I know she’s angry, too. Hurting. Like always, she hides it well. It’s a vicious cycle we’re always in, each of us only focusing on ourselves.
Which means one more exhausting night with Nassa where I have to force a smile and make her think everything is okay. Once she’s next to me, like she does every night, she bends down and holds on to my shoulders for support. Slowly, she swings her left leg across my legs, sitting down on my lap, facing me, clinging to my shirt for support. One of my hands flattens on her back.
“One of these times, you’re going to fall.”
Blinking slowly, she tilts her head. “You’d never let me fall, Gallagher.”
“True.”
“Besides, if you did, I’d smack the beautiful right off you.”
I chuckle and flick what’s left of my cigarette off the building.
“Are you ever going to quit smoking?” she asks.
“Is my life ever going to quit being fucked up?”
Looking into my eyes, she brushes the strands of hair out of my face. What I’ve learned from loving Nassa all this time is that love and happiness can exist without the other. We don’t have a happily ever after.
We have a forever love.
Sometimes there is happiness.
Sometimes darkness.
But no matter what, there is always fierce fucking love. The mystery that has always surrounded her is still there. It peeks out of her emerald eyes and lingers in the thoughts she never speaks. Her silence brings me peace.
“Gage?” I can hear all her fears in my name.
Her eyes fill with concern and uncertainty as I wrap my arms around her waist. “I have a fucking kid, Nassa. A son. An . . . adult son,” I mutter.
“It would appear so,” she whispers, threading her fingers into my hair and tugging.
Emerald eyes lock with mine, emotions flashing through them as she searches my gaze.
“Are you okay with that, buttercup?” I ask, needing to know she won’t disappear.
She tilts her head. “I told you once before, there is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you. Or disappear. I’m here. By your side. Always, no matter what.”
I lean forward, brushing my lips over hers, needing to feel the reassurance.
“What about you? How do you feel about all of
this?” she whispers.
“I don’t know. My life is like a scab that refuses to stop bleeding. Just when I think I’m finally fine, finally have some semblance of peace, something else crashes into my world, opening the wound, throwing everything off kilter. It’s confusing, and it hurts.”
“Why does it hurt?”
“I can’t be a fucking father to a kid, let alone a kid that isn’t Camilla’s or—” I cut myself off.
“Or?”
My eyes hold hers. “Yours,” I mumble hoarsely.
“I get that this is complicated, but he is your son. And, stone petrifaction is a pretty harsh sentence,” she points out. “One that I am sure Asher didn’t hand out lightly.”
“A fucking royal protector?” I growl. “He spilled protector blood.”
“Maybe you should to talk to him. Or Asher. Find out what’s happened?”
My hands grip her tighter. “You’re right. Regardless of whatever shitty genes Ophelia’s son inherited from me, given who she is, there is no doubt something is off.”
“Good,” she smiles.
“I’ll talk to Asher tomorrow.”
Frowning, her eyes search my face as she clears her throat. “What about Tristan?”
“What about him?”
“Don’t you want to know him?”
“No.”
Nassa blinks at me but remains silent. I’ve always admired her silence; she doesn’t feel the need to fill the void. The sorceress only speaks when she has something important to say, and she doesn’t talk with unnecessary flowery or empty words. Only important ones.
“I’m not fit to be a father. And he’s not a child,” I point out. “He’s a man. A prince in line to inherit a powerful realm in our world. He has a father, a good one, in Rionach, trust me. He has a loving mother and a brother. A life. I have nothing to offer him, buttercup.”
“He’s a part of you too. All those moments of his childhood stolen—”
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