Page 120 of Bound

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

Mrs. Erin Bachman

The first thing I hear every morning is a delivery truck.

Not gunfire.

Not security.

Not Lucian barking orders.

A delivery truck.

It backs into the alleyway up the street at six fifteen every morning with a beep-beep-beep that makes my husband threaten murder from beneath our duvet.

This is my favorite part of our happily ever after.

“Make it stop,” Lucian mutters.

I open one eye. Sunlight pushes through the curtains of our townhome. Our townhome.

Not a penthouse. Not Iceland. Not a fortress hidden on a cliff.

Home.

Three floors of old brick and warm wood in the rebuilt Bachman Village. Across the narrow lane, on the public street, I’m sure the windows in Cass’s bakery are already glowing. Next door, I can picture the black-and-gold sign for Bachman Jewelers as it catches the morning light.

The delivery truck beeps again.

Lucian growls.

I smile into the pillow. “You could buy him a quieter truck.”

“I could buy the company and extinguish it.”

“Growth.”

“I am in bed. Growth begins after coffee.”

Coffee wouldn’t cure his reflex. I know the sound the truck makes is more about the trigger than the annoyance.

He’ll never stop protecting me.

I love being reminded of this fact.

I roll toward him. His hair is a mess.

I love that too.

No one else gets to see Lucian Bachman with bedhead like a child.

That might be my greatest luxury.

He opens one eye. “Why are you staring?”

“Obsessing,” I say.