Page 143 of The Ecstasy of Sin
I laugh quietly, curling into him, my eyes locked on the glittering ring on my finger where my hand is splayed across his chest. “I’m strong and independent.”
He carries me out of the cell like I’m as fragile as glass, taking each step down the old stairs with the utmost care. “I know you are,” he says with confidence. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. You’ve spent years surviving the streets of Toronto with less than bare minimum. You’ve lived through things that would break anyone else… and you did it all while fighting a chronic illness people have taken their own lives to escape.”
His words are appreciative, spoken with such quiet conviction that tears well in my eyes again. I’m speechless. Is that really how he sees me?
“You’ve carried the weight of the world on your shoulders for long enough,” he continues, his arms tightening around me. “It’s my turn to carry it now. At least for a few decades. Maybe when we’re old and feeble, I’ll stop carrying you so much.”
A sob escapes me before I can stop it, and he pulls me closer.
For all the violence that lives in him, for all the blood on his hands, Dominic holds me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. He loves like a force of nature. A hurricane of obsession, devotion, and ruin.
Does it absolve him? No. Not even close.
If heaven and hell are real, the gates won’t open for Dominic Kael. But it doesn’t matter. Because no matter where we end up, we’ll be there together.
When we die, if Dominic has to walk into the unknown dark, I’ll go with him.
“I love you,” I whisper, resting my head beneath his chin.
“I love you more, little lamb,” Dominic whispers back.
EPILOGUE 2
Dominic
“HaveyouseenRyker’snew back piece yet?” Ghost asks as we step out of my Camaro and into the parking lot ofSoulrend Ink, the tattoo studio we’ve trusted for nearly a decade.
“No. He’s had it covered up all week,” I reply, raking a hand through my hair.
I stretch, leaning back until my spine cracks. The hour-long drive took longer than it should’ve thanks to the heavy city traffic, and I fucking hate traffic. It means I’ve been away from Wren longer than I anticipated.
I’m a needy son of a bitch. If I’m not touching her, I get ornery.
“He was laid out for twelve fucking hours straight,” Ghost says, grabbing the studio door and hauling it open. “He got an insanely detailed religious piece. Or sacrilegious, depending on how you look at it.”
“Fucking masochist,” I mutter, shaking my head as I step inside. He likes taking pain almost as much as I like causing it.
The familiar scent of antiseptic and ink hits me as we walk in. The walls are covered in framed artwork—black and grey realism, fine line horror, surrealist color explosions. There’s graffiti on the walls, too. Every single artist here is insanely talented.
I head for the front desk and grab a clipboard and pen so I can start filling out forms: basic information, a waiver, the standard paperwork for any tattoo appointment.
Ghost drifts up beside me, flipping through the flash binder with disinterest.
“So,” he says, cocking a brow without looking at me, “this your version of an engagement ring?”
I smirk. “I guess it is.”
My brothers were really happy when we announced our engagement. Ryker made a comment about Wren being “our future wife,” which resulted in me punching him in the throat. He didn’t find that funny, but I sure as fuck did.
“You gonna get her name all the way across your chest in giant block letters?” Ghost teases.
I let out a low laugh, a quiet rumble in my chest. “Just over my heart.”
“Amateur,” he mutters, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “And you’re planning on marrying her? Go big or go home, brother.”
I lean over and shoulder-check him, drawing a low chuckle in return.
When Maverick calls us over, I strip off my shirt and sink into the familiar black leather of the chair. He’s prepping the stencil when his gaze sweeps across my body.
