26
Epilogue
The manor's kitchen had become my war room.
Sunlight streamed through the frosted windows, catching the dust motes that danced above the massive oak table I'd claimed as my shipping station. Stacks of cardboard boxes in various sizes formed a miniature skyline to my left. Rolls of bubble wrap and tissue paper—some enchanted by Selene to shimmer faintly, some mundane—littered every available surface. And in the center of it all, arranged with the meticulous care of a general positioning troops, were the products: enchanted candles that promised calm, crystal clusters that hummed with protective energy, tiny crocheted creatures that Azrael had learned to make during his poetry-writing breaks.
The hellhounds were "helping."
Cerb, the larger of the two, sprawled across my feet like a living furnace, his massive head resting on his paws as he watched me work with lazy red eyes. Styx had claimed a sunbeam near the window, rolling onto his back to expose thetruly ridiculous crocheted sweater Selene had forced him into—bright yellow with little black bees stitched across the chest. He seemed to love it, which said something deeply concerning about hellhound psychology.
"Stop moving," I muttered, trying to tie a raffia bow around a box of amethyst clusters. "You're making the whole table shake."
Cerb's tail thumped against the floor in response. Not helpful.
The kitchen door swung open, and Lucien stalked in, his amber eyes blazing with righteous fury. He was wearing his usual black—jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—but there was a smear of what looked like mud across his cheekbone, and his dark hair was windswept and wild.
"The postman," he growled, as though the word itself was an insult. "He looked at the mailbox wrong."
I paused mid-bow. "Define 'wrong.'"
"Like he was planning something." Lucien crossed to the coffee pot—Selene's special blend, always steaming and fresh no matter the hour—and poured himself a mug with aggressive movements. "I followed him for three blocks. He didn't do anything suspicious, but that's what makes it suspicious."
"Uh-huh." I finished the bow and set the box in the "completed" pile. "And did this postman, by any chance, simply glance in the direction of our property while delivering mail?"
Lucien's jaw tightened. "...Maybe."
"So you stalked an innocent postal worker for doing his job."
"He's not innocent. No one's innocent." But his ears had turned pink, and he buried his face in his coffee mug to hide it. "I'm protecting the family."
I bit back a smile. "I know you are. And we love you for it." I held up a small box wrapped in silver tissue. "Now make yourself useful. This one goes to the 'fragile' pile."
He grumbled but took the box, his rough hands surprisingly gentle as he placed it with the others. The sight of him—fierce, lethal, capable of tearing grown men apart with his bare hands—carefully arranging packages of enchanted trinkets was so absurdly domestic that my heart swelled.
The door opened again, and Azrael drifted in like a ghost made of moonlight. His white hair was loose around his shoulders, and he held a leather-bound journal in one hand, a pen in the other. His golden eyes were distant, dreamy—the look he got when he'd been writing.
"I've composed something," he announced, settling onto a stool at the island. "A poem. About the way light catches in Lizzie's hair during the golden hour."
Lucien snorted. "You wrote a poem about her hair?"
"I've written seventeen poems about her hair. This is the eighteenth." Azrael opened his journal, completely unbothered. "Would you like to hear it?"
"No."
"Yes," I countered, shooting Lucien a look. "I would love to hear it."
Azrael's golden eyes warmed, and he began to read—something about "strands of chaos kissed by setting sun" and "the wildfire of her soul made visible." His voice was low and melodic, the words washing over me like a benediction. By the time he finished, I had tears prickling my eyes and Lucien was studiously examining the ceiling, his own eyes suspiciously bright.
"It's beautiful," I said softly. "Thank you."
Azrael pressed a kiss to my forehead. "You are my muse. Writing about you is the easiest thing I've ever done."
Lucien made a gagging sound, but his hand found mine under the table and squeezed.
The kitchen door swung open a third time, and Darius entered with his usual quiet authority. He was dressed impeccably—dark slacks, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no tie—but his silver eyes were soft in a way they only were when he looked at us. At his family.
"The Blackburn Coven's remnants have officially disbanded," he announced, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Our sources confirm they've scattered to minor territories across the country. They won't be reforming."
