Page 180 of Claiming Pretty

When I blinked, he was gone.

I spun, searching the misty corners of the balcony, the potted plants Ty and I had tended together, the dark lattice leading to the strawberry patch below. There was no trace of him.

I leaned over the railing, desperate to catch a glimpse of his retreating figure, but the garden was empty, the shadowsempty of the one I could never hold. Only the wind remained, carrying the echoes of his presence.

As I gripped the railing, something fluttered in my hand. A piece of paper, so light I hadn’t even realized it was there.

It could only have come from Ciaran, but I hadn’t felt a thing.

But what message could he possibly have for me?

Ciaran’s path to hunt down every last member of the Sochai was shrouded in blood and darkness.

He had chosen it, embraced it, and it terrified me to think of what cruel or heart-wrenching truth he might leave behind.

My heart thudded painfully against my ribs, each beat reverberating with dread. What if his words were meant to sever the last thread between us? Or worse, what if they carried a truth so unbearable it would break me completely?

The note in my hand felt impossibly heavy, like it held the weight of every secret, every sacrifice he had ever made.

My fingers trembled as I held it, the edges whispering against my skin in the cool breeze. I hesitated, fear locking my chest tight.

For a brief, fleeting moment, I wanted to crumple it up and throw it into the sea—to let it drift away with the mist and take with it whatever pain it contained.

But I couldn’t. This was Ciaran. Whatever he had to say, I had to face it.

With a deep breath, I unfolded it slowly, as though it might detonate in my hands. The faint creases gave way, revealing the words inside.

They were written in tight, looping letters.

Three words. Just three.

And they stopped my heart cold.

Then the weight of them—themeaning—stole the breath from my lungs and sent my heart into a wild, erratic rhythm.

Liath is alive.

AVA

EPILOGUE 1

Several years later…

Our beautiful baby girl was born with her father’s eyes and her mother’s strength. Her tiny face was a perfect blend of us, her mother’s mouth and chin, her father’s inquisitive gaze.

She came into this world through love—messy, tangled, imperfect love—and when I held her against my chest for the first time, her velvety skin warm and new, I understood with unshakable certainty that love didn’t compete for space in your heart, nor did it push aside what was already there. It didn’t carve out its own hollow to fill.

Lovegrew.

Ty’s palm rested on her impossibly tiny head, his touch so gentle it made my heart ache.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

“She’s ours,” I replied, barely able to speak through the lump in my throat.

We named her Ciara, a name that carried the weight of all the love, loss, and redemption that had brought her here.

That night, Ty climbed into the narrow hospital bed with me, his arms wrapping around me as if holding me was the only thing keeping him steady.

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