She didn’t respond at first. The ache in her throat surprised her.
Then he said, softer, “I always wondered if I imagined you… If you were just a story I made up to survive.”
“Thane…”
He shook his head, a slight smile curving his mouth. “I’d like to go to Japan someday. See the mountains. The cherry blossoms. Walk through the temples.”
“You’ve never been?”
He gave her a look. “You know I haven’t.”
“You told me you wanted to go. You said you’d become a samurai,” she said, voice warm with the memory.
He grinned faintly. “You said you’d be the ninja who showed up just to mock my form.”
“I would have kicked your arse, for sure.”
They both chuckled, the sound soft and shared.
Then, after a beat, his voice turned serious again. “There are a lot of firsts I can’t share with you: my first kiss, my first time. All that messy, teenage coming-of-age crap. It wasn’t you. And that kills me sometimes.”
Faolan stayed quiet, listening.
“But I saved everything else,” he said. “The dreams. The plans. The future. Just in case I ever found you.”
She blinked hard, turning her head to him.
He glanced at her, serious now. “Come on this trip with me.”
She didn’t answer immediately, but then, she said, “Are you sure you don’t want to make it some kind of solo pilgrimage? I don’t want to be clingy.”
“I’m not sure of anything,” he said, “except for you.” There was no hesitation in his voice.
“You are my end game,” he murmured. “Nothing else matters.”
Faolan turned to the window again, watching the moon rise over the fields. And with her fingers still laced in his, she whispered, “Then let’s go.”
Epilogue - The Girl in the Pink Room
The house was too large.
Faolan stepped into the marbled entryway, the quiet echo of her boots giving away her hesitation. Crystal chandeliers shone from the ceiling of the foyer, and original oil paintings lined the walls—clean white walls that were a direct contrast to the violent men this mansion housed.
Dimitri met her in the hallway, dressed in black, as always. The only colour came from the ring on his finger—the crest of a man who had taken the throne with blood and fire.
The search for Anatoly had been brief, abandoned easily once his crimes came to light.
The throne passed hands without ceremony, but not without casualties. Rumours of dissent had surfaced, fleetingly. Then, they disappeared, just like the men behind them.
But power had not given Dimitri peace.
“She hasn’t spoken since her mother died,” he said quietly as he led Faolan up the wide staircase. “A year now. She was ten then; she’ll be eleven soon. She refuses school, ballet, food. I’ve tried everything.”
They stopped outside a door painted blush pink, the brass handle gleaming. Dimitri hesitated.
“I owe you another blood debt for this.”
Faolan didn’t answer. She simply nodded once.
