Page 164 of Sheltering You

The minister knew enough of her story to offer a nod and a supportive smile. “Let’s pray.”

Derrick tried to focus on the words, but his eyes kept catching on Jasmine’s, and she kept smiling at him, and he kept smiling at her.

They spoke vows. They exchanged rings.

And then, “You may kiss the bride.”

Derrick wrapped her in his arms and did just that, a sweet, tender promise of forever.

Around them, the room erupted in cheers.

Reluctantly, he started to release her, but she clung to him.

Worried something was wrong, he held her tightly and whispered, “Are you all right?”

“All right?” She backed up, pressing her hands to his face, seeming delightfully confused. “I am much better than all right. I am yours.”

“Yes, you’re mine.” He smiled down at his bride. She was small in stature and huge in courage. She was everything he’d ever wanted. “And I’m yours. Forever.”

EPILOGUE

Dariush Ghazi stared out the window across the water. On a clear day like this, he could just glimpse the state of Maine from the second floor of the house he’d found on the southern tip of Nova Scotia, a deserted cabin in a deserted town in the middle of nowhere.

Nobody would find him here.

It was the last Saturday of December, and people with brains—and choices—stayed far from this part of the world at this time of year, when snow piled up and wind whipped off the dark ocean water.

This was a summer retreat, though why anybody would choose to stay here even in the warm months, he couldn’t imagine. Did they not know there were places with clear, blue water and sunny skies? Had they never heard of the Mediterranean? The Caribbean? Even Florida had to be better than this.

This was a godforsaken place. Or would be, if there were a god.

Dariush had been trapped in Canada ever since he’d barely escaped the bullets that’d come too close that cold and terrible morning. The morning his plans had been thwarted. Again.

The day Khalid Qasim, the old fool, had almost surrendered to the Americans, the only thing he could not do.

Dariush had shot him, of course. In his fury, he’d tried to kill the man’s pathetic little wife, who carried his pathetic spawn. But the woman lived. Yasamin, now Jasmine. Her twin sister also lived. Leila French, née Nawra Farad.

The curly-haired blonde from Munich, Sophia Chapman, lived.

And all those Wright brothers lived. All in Maine.

Dariush hadn’t known the lame one who’d saved the blonde in Germany was related to the one with Khalid’s wife, nor had he realized before this trip the man he’d seen from afar in Mytilene, the one who’d rescued Nawra and killed Waleed, was related to the others.

He hadn’t put it together until he’d seen them all through his binoculars the day of the failed attack.

Rabie had told him that Derrick was one of six brothers. Dariush had their names now. And their images and the images of their women and children.

He could exact revenge if he wanted to.

But Khalid was dead. Waleed was dead. Hasan was in custody. Fortunately, he had never known Dariush’s true goal, or his plans would be ruined.

Khalid had known, though. Dariush hadn’t had a choice. They’d made a deal—the whereabouts of his pretty little wife for the name of the Russian.

Which was why Khalid had had to die.

Dariush’s mission wasn’t about the petty plans of petty people out to serve their petty gods.

He could pretend faith when it served his purpose. He could kneel on a mat and touch his forehead to the floor. He could recite words in a cathedral. He could feign worship in a synagogue.