Crossed: Epilogue

I STAND BACK IN THE SHADOWS AND WATCH HER.

Ma petite pécheresse. Mon trésor.

My wife.

She’s covered in blood.

It turns me on.

Five years have gone by since I first saw her dancing in the club, and although she was transfixing as Esmeralda— still is, when she chooses to put on private performances for me—she’s absolutely stunning like this.

Deadly. Disastrous. Devilish.

There was a lot of inner trauma that Amaya kept bottled up for years, not ever allowing it to rise to the surface, stuffed so deep down that nobody knew it was there. Not even her.

But as monsters tend to do, it grew strong in the dark, feasting on untapped pain and inhaling it like vitamins.

I’m no stranger to the feeling, so I’ve taught her how to let it free.

And she’s taught me how to separate my true faith, my true ideals from what I was brainwashed into thinking as a child.

Together, we’re balanced. Impenetrable. Unshakeable.

Still, as she stares at me, a bright gleam coming from her smile, splitting apart the splotchy blood-soaked cheeks on her face, there’s a hint of something that flashes through her eyes.

As though she’s waiting for me to tell her what a disappointment she is. Or how she should do things differently. How she should feel knowing that what she did is something a former priest of the Catholic church would look down on and condemn.

I smile at her, swooping across the floor of our private cabin, hidden away in the Auvergne Mountains, and I grip her face in my hands, tipping up her chin so our eyes meet.

“Mon trésor, you are a vision.”

She grins back, relief coasting across her gaze.

As though I would ever shun her.

There’s nothing she can do that I would turn away from.

As a former priest. But even more so now that I’m just a man.

I still have my faith. Still believe in the unshakeable force that is God. It just all pales in comparison to her.

She is my Bible. My scripture. My religion.

She is everything, and I am nothing without her.

There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her.

No suffering I wouldn’t endure just to make sure she lives a pain- free life.

Which is why, after traveling for the first year after the news broke of Parker being the Green Mountain Strangler, I brought her here to the region of Auvergne- Rhône- Alpes, France. To settle.

Quinten took surprisingly well to the change in routine and blossomed in a way that he never could while he was stuffed into corners in Festivalé, and although he didn’t have as much formal therapy at first, once we settled, Amaya found him the best play therapists to work with. He’s homeschooled now, with a small group of other neurodivergent children, and I would be lying if I said my heart didn’t warm to see him flourish the way he is.

Tonight, actually, he’s spending the night with one of his closest friends. So Amaya and I both thought it was the perfect time to let loose and let our monsters fly.

Besides, we were just married in a small outdoor ceremony. Not Catholic, of course, but over the years, my beliefs have turned from strict religion into a spiritual faith. God loves me for who I am, just as I am. And I don’t need to embroil myself in the politics and corruption that is the church.

I press soft kisses down the expanse of her throat, my hands firm in their grip as I turn her this way and that, manipulating her body precisely the way I want it.

“Cade,” she moans. “Let me clean up first.”

“Hmm,” I hum against her skin. “I think I prefer you this way, mon trésor. Dirty and depraved.”

She scoffs, pressing against my shoulders, but instead of pushing me away, her fingers dig into the fabric of my shirt and grip me close.

“Filthy, even,” I continue.

“I…have…”

Her feeble protests break off when I bite down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder and take one of my hands, slip it down the front of her body, and dip into the top of her flowy skirt, beneath her flimsy panties, finding her soaking wet and ready for me.

The way she always is.

“Should I take you here, petite pécheresse?” I ask. “Fuck you with my fingers before I stretch you with my cock?”

“God, yes,” she breathes.

I smack her pussy sharply. “Do not take His name in vain.” Her eyes flash and my dick pulses.

She knows I still have my faith, and while she’ll never be religious, I find that I don’t care. In fact, I think she considers it foreplay to piss me off. She thinks I’ll make it hurt more when I take her.

Normally, she’s correct.

She rises up on her tiptoes and crushes her mouth to mine, her tongue slipping between the seam of my lips and tangling around my own, the taste of her invading every single one of my senses. I groan against her, my sack tightening as I walk her back and slam her into the wall, grinding my throbbing length against her.

Part of me assumed that after a while, my obsession would dull from familiarity, but I’ve found the opposite to be the case.

Her depravity dives down to meet my monster, and her spirit flies high to give me faith. There is nothing beyond Amaya for me.

I drop to my knees, ripping her clothes as quickly as I can, buttons flying from her blouse and torn fabric floating to the side as I expose her wet cunt to the open air.

My forearm keeps her tightly contained against the wall.

“You and your walls,” she muses, her fingers running through the messy black strands of my hair.

I smirk as I lean in and blow across her swollen clit.

“Oui. I like you where I can keep you, mon trésor.”

And then I lean in and I worship her. The way I was born to do.

She is my salvation.

My hope.

My temptation.

My blood.

My everything.

“Cade,” she moans, her fingers ripping the roots of my hair. It makes my cock throb with a drop of cum, aching to feel more of the pain only she can provide.

My tongue laps at her, from the top of her pussy down until I’m circling her entrance, the musky taste of her arousal making me drunk with need.

She pushes her hips farther into me, grinding her clit against my face, and I move back up, sucking it into my mouth and rubbing my tongue flat against the bundle of nerves.

Her legs start to shake, and I move from where I’m holding her down and grip the undersides of her thighs, lifting her up until her knees are over my shoulders and her ass is resting in my hands, making her cunt open up even more for me.

I feast on her. I could suffocate myself in her and it would never be enough.

And then she’s coming, hard around my tongue, and I’m moving before she can think another word, dropping my pants to the ground and lining my thick shaft up to her hole, her legs wrapping around my waist, before I spear her apart with one single thrust.

Our hips collide, a sharp smack ringing out into the air around us, and my eyes roll back from how absolutely perfect she feels gripping me like a vice. She’s still coming, her cunt squeezing and releasing in a torturous rhythm, making my sack draw up before I can think twice.

“You feel so perfect, mon trésor, coming around my dick like my filthy little sinner.”

Her head falls back, perspiration lining her face, the blood splotches from the man she killed earlier making her seem like a fallen angel sent to earth just for me.

Groaning, I fuck up into her, over and over until she’s screaming out my name again, her nails digging into the scars on my back, even through the fabric, until I feel them bleed.

That shot of pain is all it takes and I’m undone.

Blinding, blistering, all-consuming.

White light dances in front of my eyes as pleasure rushes through me, and I swear that I’ve never felt closer to God than I do when I’m inside my wife.

Our hearts dance together, our chests pressing against one another as we come down from the high and catch our breath.

This is us at its core.

Wild.

Untamed.

Invincible and brutal in every single way.

I fuck her two more times before we clean ourselves thoroughly in the shower and then head to the living room of the cabin where I make us homemade hot chocolate.

It’s tradition.

I heat up the milk, the gas stove ticking as it catches fire, and smile when Amaya walks up behind me with the hammer, her green eyes sparkling like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

We work together without speaking, just enjoying each other’s company in the silence, and it isn’t until we’re curled up on the couch in front of the crackling fireplace that she hums as she takes her first sip.

“So what now, husband of mine?”

My heart clenches in my chest and I set down my mug, moving toward her and pressing my lips against hers softly. “I do love it when you call me that.”

She smirks. “You just love that I’m yours in every way now.”

My fingers ghost along her cheek, moving back until I’m fisting her curls in my hand. “You’ve always been mine.”

“You know, Monsieur Frédéric, I think you’re right about that.”

Slowly, I move her own cup of chocolate from her hands, placing it on the coffee table.

And then I show her just how much she truly belongs to me. The same way I belong to her.

Slow, soft, and tender on the rug in the living room, warm from the fire.

And I love her.

In every lifetime.

I f someone had told me twelve years ago that I would be a world traveler, I would have laughed in their face. Probably would have thought they were mocking me.

Because twelve years ago, on this day, July 5, I had just turned nineteen years old and my mother had abandoned me with my one- year- old brother.

And now, here I am. Living in the mountains of France, seven years after meeting the other half of my soul, marrying him, and loving without bounds.

It’s early morning, and I’m sitting on the balcony of our cottage in the Auvergne Mountains. It’s secluded, private. Beautiful.

Ivy traces up the white brick and wraps around the banisters, and there’s a cobblestone patio in the backyard overlooking a gorgeous garden of flowers. It’s a large space, one that we use to entertain when the mood strikes us. We are, after all, known as affluential people here.

That’s what happens when you’re a widow to a billionaire mogul who didn’t leave a will.

There were, of course, several people who contested it. After all, Parker wasn’t officially dead, and we were only married on paper for mere days.

But my husband saw to it that we were taken care of.

I don’t ask him what he had to do in order to get the others to withdraw their complaints, but I have an idea.

And when the state demanded a body, Parker’s suddenly appeared.

And everything he owned was officially transferred into my name.

I used a large portion to inject it back into the community of Festivalé in a way that Parker never did. We got people off the streets, cleaned up the broken sidewalks, and fostered trade schools and small businesses that would allow the community to thrive beyond a money grab of tourism and pretending to be a mini France.

And then I opened up a pole studio and named it Dalia’s Dancers. There’s now ten of them across the United States and another one opening here in France just next week.

It’s the least I can do to honor my best friend’s memory.

But the guilt still hits hard whenever I think of her.

And sometimes, I dream of her. She comes to me and holds me tight while I cry out my apologies and she soothes me and says there’s nothing to forgive. I’ll never believe it, but I know she wouldn’t want me to wallow in the loss.

So I live for her instead.

Tinkling laughter hits my ears and I smile, draining the last of my coffee before walking into my bedroom and then down the stairs until I hit the French doors that open to the back patio.

I breathe in deep, the air clinging to my skin, a crisp, light breeze blowing through the strands of my hair as I look out over the mountains, and then focus on where Cade and Quinten are huddled together on the ground, right before the stone turns to grass. I smile as I walk closer, my heart expanding when I see that they’re painting.

Again.

They’ve taken to doing it most mornings, and Quinten is an amazing artist.

My heart explodes when Cade turns toward me, smiling wide enough to crease his cheeks with dimples, his eyes sparkling in a way they never did back in Festivalé.

This is what peace looks like.

Although we both still have our moments.

Sometimes, the darkness flashes through his gaze, and I know he’s hearing Sister Agnes. Whenever that happens, I crawl up into his lap and hug him tightly, my limbs wrapping around him like a vice as I whisper how worthy he is to just be.

That if he hurts himself, he hurts me.

That we’re allowed to make mistakes without repenting.

He usually nods against me and whispers prayers to his god while I hold his pieces together until he can stitch them back up on his own.

Then I let our love hurt so good that he forgets the rest of his pain.

“You two look messy,” I say, smiling as I walk over.

Quinten laughs as he looks over at me, bouncing on his knees, but then like always, he looks down at his hands and realizes just how colorful they are from paint, and he stiffens before shooting up and running over to the basin of clean water they have placed at the edge of the stone.

He’s far more adaptable than even I gave him credit for, and that’s yet another thing that makes guilt try to reach up and dig in its claws. And that’s when it’s Cade’s turn to remind me that making mistakes is human, and life’s about learning. About growing.

And I’ll never stop growing with Quinten.

The moment I get close, Cade reaches out, wrapping his arms around me and tugging me into his lap. I squeal, the wet paint on his hands creating purple and gold prints on my skin, physical reminders that I’m his just as much as he’s mine.

“Salut, petite pécheresse. You look beautiful today.”

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips and rubbing his nose against mine. I grin, sinking into his touch.

“You got home late last night,” I murmur, flicking my eyes toward Quinten, who’s scrubbing the paint off his arm and bouncing on his tiptoes.

“I did.” He hums.

He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask him to. Some things about Cade will never change, and I love him wholly, because of who he is, not in spite of it.

Even if I do try to let him know that he doesn’t have a monster, just a damaged little boy who never got the chance to heal.

But his scars tell his story, and his coping mechanisms are his to have, the same way mine are my own.

Like I’ve always said, our experience shapes us whether we want it to or not.

His large hands glide their way up the back of my spine, sending shivers through my body.

God, I wish we were alone.

Years later and I still can’t get enough of him.

“Quin,” I yell out, noticing that he’s now far down the backyard and smelling every flower. I move to get off Cade’s lap, intending to go ask Quinten if he wants to go on a hike today, but before I can, Cade grips me tightly and pulls me back down.

“When we’re alone,” he murmurs, “I’m going to fuck you right here on this chair and remind you who you belong to.”

I scoff. “We’ll probably break it.”

His eyes glint. “One can only hope.”

If he would have said things so blatantly when we first met, I’m sure I would have shied away from his extreme possession. But now…now there’s really nothing I crave more. I enjoy being his. Feeling like I’m his. Being reminded of it.

I love having a man that even God couldn’t rule, and I know I could ask him to do anything and he’d give it to me.

The truth is that we both got lost in the world, and the world didn’t care to find us, so we found each other instead.

Nobody has ever loved me that way.

Then again, I’m not sure that our love is something common.

It hurts too good.