“I’m shocked. Truly.”
Kyrie’s smile grows a little brighter, a little steadier. “But it was partly because I wanted to find my own way, my own path. So yes, I want to go with you, Jack. I want a new opportunity for me as much as I want one for you and for us.”
I place a lingering kiss to her knuckles. Then I gift her a dark smile full of hunger and promise. “Alberta has no idea what’s coming for it, my little reaper.”
Creatures designed like us were not meant to bask in the light for long. Where we lurk, the darkness always finds us. This is the design. Yet, with Kyrie, there are exceptions to the rule. She is my exception. She is my light.
And I will forever protect her light against the darkness.
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EPILOGUE
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THAW
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~Three Years Later~
“Where are you going?”
“To get champagne,” Jack says simply as he stands and straightens his black blazer, running a hand down his tie. I look over my shoulder at the bar where a small lineup snakes toward three overworked bartenders and then to my phone, tilting it to check the time.
“Jack—”
“Don’t worry, lille mejer.” His breath warms my temple as he leans down to place a kiss on my cheek. “I’ll be back in time. Champagne, Sydney?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Sydney and I turn to watch Jack stride away in the direction of the bar before I take a long sip from my half-full glass in a futile attempt to drown a tiny flare of irritation.
“You two are gross,” Sydney says.
“Thanks.”
“Too hot. Too smart. Way too much in love. It’s disgusting.”
“That’s the reaction we hope for.”
“And I’m still single, having to put up with your blatant disregard for my relationship status on a near-daily basis. It’s torture.”
“I’m a fan of torture, so…go me.” I scan the room as I tug on the ends of the high ponytail that skims my shoulder. “What about the guy standing by the pillars back there? Silver fox. He’s hot.”
Sydney follows my gaze to a man with short salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He smiles broadly at something a companion says and shifts his weight with an air of confidence and ease.
“Yeah, he’s pretty hot,” Sydney says, her voice falling distant as she watches him. The chime sounds for the end of the brief awards intermission and the man’s eyes pan in our direction. I dart my attention away, but Sydney is not so quick and gives him a shy smile and half-wave that seems to disintegrate before dropping her gaze to the tablecloth. “Fuck, why am I so awkward.”
“You’re not awkward, you’re endearing.” I turn away and crane my neck, trying to spot Jack’s tall frame among the throng of people returning from the bar. He’s nowhere to be seen. “What’s awkward is me publicly murdering my fucking husband for his goddamn disappearing act. What the hell is with him and these fucking things.”
“Jack’s not at the bar?”
I rise halfway to standing, weaving my gaze through the crowd to see if he became snagged in conversation, but I don’t find him anywhere. A molten core of wrath sparks to life deep in my chest. “Evidently not.”
He’s not one of the few patrons waiting for their drinks at the bar. He’s not taken a random seat at a table of strangers. He’s not standing by the doors, watching from the shadows.
Jack is gone.
“What in the ever-loving fuck—”
“Thank you all for returning to your seats,” the retired newscaster host says from center stage, blanketing the audience with her warm, rich voice. “The Silent Auction is now closed, and winning bids will be announced at the end of the ceremony. Thank you all for your generous donations.”
A round of polite applause filters through the decorated reception hall, but I’m too busy tapping out a short message to Jack on my phone to clap. It says simply:
GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE OR I WILL STRIP YOUR BONES FROM YOUR FLESH AND FEED THEM TO CORNETTO.
I set my phone down with a thud and give Sydney a strained smile in reply to her questioning glance.
“And now, with the annual Educator of the Year Award, we recognize the contributions of one educator who makes an extraordinary effort to uplift and encourage students, creating an environment of excellence in learning.”
I cast a final glance around the room and check my phone for a reply. Naturally, there’s no sign of Jack. My fingers twist in my lap until they crack in protest as I school my features into something that hopefully looks decorous and not murderous.
The host smiles across the audience as photos of the campus and me with students light the screen behind her. “In addition to her teaching and research responsibilities, this year’s recipient has worked tirelessly to expand the University of Alberta’s Forensic Anthropology department by implementing the new Central Parkland Body Farm field research initiative, and for the last three years has chaired the Northern Lights Girls Mentorship Program to inspire the next generation of Canadian women in science. Presenting the award tonight to Dr. Kyrie Roth is her husband, Dr. Jack Sorensen.”
“What the fuck,” I hiss, Sydney cackling next to me above the sound of applause as I stare at the tall figure striding across the polished stage with all the confidence of a wolf sauntering through a field of lambs.
“Your face. That was great.”
“You knew about this?”
Sydney grins as I shoot a quick glance in her direction. “Of course I did. I was sworn to secrecy.”
“But you’re shit at keeping secrets,” I whisper with a doubtful flash of a glare.
“Not when there’s a bottle of Moët on the line,” she replies as she clinks her glass to mine. I give her an incredulous look as she elbows me and nods to the stage.
When I look up, Jack’s gunmetal eyes are fixed to mine.
“Hello, petal,” Jack says, leaning toward the microphone. His sly grin annihilates my rage and I huff a laugh, the audience chuckling. “I got your text asking where I’d disappeared to, but I don’t think you should feed my bones to the dog just yet. Maybe let’s see how the introduction goes first, shall we?”
I laugh along with the audience, dropping my forehead into my hand while a crimson flush ignites my cheeks.
When I look up to the stage once more, Jack is waiting, his gaze fusing to mine as the rest of the room seems to melt away.
“I should say a quick word of thanks to the awards committee for allowing me to present this recognition to my wife, but truthfully, I didn’t really give them much of a choice.” Jack looks down at the black and gold plaque in his hands. There’s a long and thoughtful pause as his faint smile fades before he returns his attention to me. “A little over three years ago, I was due to present Kyrie with the Allistair Brentwood Philanthropy Award, but I was late to the ceremony. Though it set off a chain of events that would finally bind us together, I nonetheless failed to recognize Kyrie’s achievements on a night that meant so much to her. I’m grateful for the opportunity to do it properly this time.”
My heart aches as though it’s grown too big for my chest. I don’t break my gaze from Jack as he looks across the audience.
“Those who know Kyrie well know that her many facets were cut from the sharpest edges of life. But with each one, she has not only survived. She has found her own way to thrive, on her terms. She carries her hard-earned qualities into every aspect of her work. As an educator, Kyrie models leadership, and empathy, and passion. But she is also fierce, formidable, and fearless. And having the privilege of knowing her better than anyone, I can confidently say that her most central quality, woven into everything she does, is her resilience.
