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“Yes, daddy! I’ll marry you!”
He thrusts faster, hips slapping against my pelvis so hard I’m sure he’ll leave bruises, crushing my windpipe until I can’t breathe. My orgasm barrels through me, dousing me in liquid fire, making my toes curl as it burns my insides. I pulse around him, feeling the exact moment he starts to spill inside me, my pussy milking out every last drop of his release.
Sagging into my body, he doesn’t bother pulling out, drawing out the flutter in my inner walls. I thread my fingers through his hair, my heart so ridiculously full, as he strokes the locket around my neck, a faraway look in his eyes as he pulls back to look at me.
“You didn’t have to fuck me into submission, you know.” I lick the seam of his lips. “I would’ve said yes if you’d asked me at dinner.”
Smirking, he releases the locket and buries his head into the crook of my neck. “Maybe. But that was way more fun.”
When he leaves me to pull a black velvet box from his pants pocket and slides a solitaire diamond onto my finger, I burst into tears, unable to keep the happiness inside me at bay. Unwilling to, after a lifetime of bottling up all the sadness. These days, I’m trying to learn to live with both sides of the coin.
Things aren’t perfect, but they never will be. They’re muddy and unclear, sometimes truly dark in manifestation. But the absence of light doesn’t always mean an absence ofgoodness—just that, like some flowers, some souls learn to bloom at night.
For now, I choose to embrace the darkness.
Epilogue
Fiona
Fireworks erupt in the night sky, kaleidoscopes of color and noise. An explosion of celebration, but all it does now is drown out the sound of a gunshot as it reverberates through the air.
My palm burns, a heat searing where the cold metal presses into my skin. Beads of sweat pop up despite the cool fall temperature, and I swipe the back of my free arm across my forehead, sucking in a deep breath.
I’m a murderer.
I suppose I should’ve seen this coming; it’s practically in my blood, after all. When you come from a long line of mafia associates, the only real choices you have in life are to fall in line with the family business or die trying to escape it.
But I thought I found a third option. Crime, completely unaffiliated with anyone but me.
Retaliation.
Self-preservation.
Something tells me a court of law won’t see it that way.
Prying the pistol from my grip, I throw open the dumpster lid and drop the weapon inside. A throb flares in my temple, a hammer beating against my skull, telling me I’m in trouble.
I spot a dirty, discarded plastic tarp buried beneath various trash, and use both hands to extract it from the metal container. Draping it over the body, I dig my palms under his back, shift all my weight into my biceps, and roll him against the brick wall of the restaurant he’d taken me to.
To be fair, I was warned against him. Told that he didn’t have a decent bone in his body—coming from my brother, whose own fiancée sometimes still refers to him as the Devil, that said a lot.
But I didn’t listen, too wrapped up in being vindictive and the Italian words that rolled off his tongue. A flowery, romantic language, my mother calls it—something we’ve grown up with, living in King’s Trace.
And because I’m an Ivers, because we’ve made a legacy of evasion, I run.
My sneakers beat a dull thud against the pavement as I sprint from the alley, my lungs struggling to catch up with the surge of adrenaline.
I run until it feels like I might burst or pass out, until that familiar ache threads through the side of my abdomen and my vision blurs, exertion clogging my body.
I run until I collapse to my knees in a yard I’ve not seen in months. The memory of the house’s owner kicking me out and telling me not to come back plays on repeat behind my eyes as I stare up at the dilapidated craftsman-style bungalow. The glowing night sky illuminates its white, algae-ridden siding and the screen door hanging off the frame.
A familiar retro motorcycle with forest green paint sits in front of the porch steps, indicating its owner’s presence.
Miles away from Ivers mansion, from the parts of King’s Trace I frequent, this home looks nothing like you’d expect. Practically falling apart at the seams, it’s impossible to think he spends any time here.
But he grew up in the majority as far as wealth in this town goes—or, rather, lack thereof—and even his cushy job at my dad’s company can’t take the boy out of the slums.
Sucking in a breath, I try to calm the rapid pace of my heartbeat as I push forward, making myself reach the lopsided porch. The fireworks overhead only serve to set my nerves on edge, goose bumps rising on my skin, labored breaths wrenching themselves from deep in my chest.
