Epilogue

EPILOGUE

T here's something almost amusing when it comes to reading about your own death.

The article isn't an obituary, not really. I guess, if I want one of those, I'll have to invent some fictitious family member to submit it to the paper. I honestly didn't expect to see any news about my ‘death' at all, though I did learn something from Tommy. After Clay and I staged the scene with the dead body and my smashed-up car, I set an online alert for my name to see what popped.

I did the same for Marla Hopps, the unfortunate blonde who was close enough to my age, my height, and my size to pass for my corpse. Clay only had her on ice for a few days while we did a little dental work and plotted how we would keep Detective Jordan off my ass, but it seems like we picked well. Doesn't look like anyone misses Marla since I haven't seen anything ping for her, but about two minutes ago, I got this notification.

The Gullhaven Gazette. I'm not surprised it's that online rag that picked up the story. The rest of the world didn't care about what happened on Halo Island—not ten years ago, not three weeks ago—but the hometown I could never truly escape… they just won't let its ghosts rest.

I know the only reason I made the main page on their site is because everyone in Gullhaven knows I was on the island before all the murders. That I immediately left made them curious. Clay and I both decided I needed to disappear before they became suspicious.

At this time, it is confirmed that Ms. Preston was the sole passenger and casualty, and that this was an accident that has no correlation to the Halo Island Massacre…

I shouldn't have doubted him. When he suggested I take a page out of his book and fake my own death, I didn't think it would work. But since our reunion on the island, we've been making a fresh start of things. He doesn't hold my time with Tommy over my head, and I try not to be bitter that I lost five years with my husband because of a stupid promise he made when he was a teenager.

Tommy is dead. Clayton Rivers, too. And, now, so is Cynthia Preston.

Is it too soon to move on? Maybe. I struggled to start over after I thought Clay was gone the first time, but now that I have him back and—as Mr. and Mrs. Clay Barker, newly ‘married' and currently on their honeymoon on a tropical island far from California—I can't think of a better way to begin my second— third —chance at a happily-ever-after.

I have a husband who will do anything for me. I used to think Clay was the one with the upper hand, especially after the way he manipulated me into our relationship all those years ago, but after the island… I can't deny what I've always known.

I own this man. He ‘died' for me. He killed for me. There isn't anything he won't give me, and now that Clay's seen just how fun the dark side can be, there's no going back. Not for either of us.

To take his place on the island, poor Aaron might have been Clay's first victim. He never killed before he and Tommy set their convoluted plan into motion; not because of any morals he might have, but because it never interested him before. He wanted me. Just me. And if he had to sacrifice all those lives, slaughter my friends—my tormentors—as penance for leaving me for Tommy to take, he would do it. He got a taste for it, though. The blood. The hunt. The chase . I should've known that, to a man like Clay, playing God could become an addiction.

Good thing for the two of us—and the rest of the fucking world—that he's already addicted to me .

I'll go to my knees for him whenever he wants me to, and if he commands me to crawl to him, I will because nothing gets my husband hotter than thinking he's in control when it comes to sex. I can give him that because, deep down, Clayton Rivers has always been the dog at my feet. I'm his mistress, and he'll do anything to please me.

I say ‘fuck', he's already hard. I say ‘kill', he won't hesitate to draw his blade. I say ‘worship me', and the only man who's ever really loved me for who I am is already on his fucking knees, nuzzling my pussy, begging for a taste.

If it was up to Clay, he'd still be tonguing me now. Sprawled out on the thousand-dollar sheets in the honeymoon suite of our luxury hotel, he gave me two orgasms for breakfast before I shoved him away from me with my foot to his shoulder. As strong as he is, I know he only moved because I wanted him to, and when I motioned for him to flip onto his back so that I could climb on top, he folded his hands behind his back and watched as I fucked him.

But after he finished and the two of us took a shower in the oversized stall—that ended with me bent over under the spray while Clay thumbed my ass as he pounded into my pussy again—I insisted on taking lunch by the glittering infinity pool outside of our hotel.

Clay denies me nothing. He never did while we were married the first time, and now that he's eager to make up those five years to me, I get every fucking thing that I want. I deserve it, too, and maybe when another five years pass, I'll think about easing up the pressure I have on his balls. So he stalked me. So he thought he was giving me what I wanted: another chance at happiness with Tommy. So he never touched another woman while we were separated… He's my husband. I'm his wife.

‘Til death do we part.

A small smirk tugs on my lips as I read the last few sentences of that article again, including Detective Jordan's useless plea to get in touch with Aaron; unless he's got a scuba diver and a medium on the GPDs payroll, that's not happening anytime soon. According to the rest of the world, both of us—me and Clay—have died already. But with these new identities, plus enough paperwork and cash to back them up—we've renewed our promises. We've renewed our vows.

We're together, and there is absolutely nothing that will ever separate my husband and me again.

Thumbing my phone, I scroll up the top of the page, my smirk turning to a slight frown when I catch a second glance at the picture they used for my ‘death' announcement.

I'm amused, but I'm also a vain bitch. "If they're gonna write an article about me dying in such a grisly way, they could've picked a better picture," I mutter, more to myself than to my husband.

As always, though, he hears me.

"You look gorgeous, Cyn," Clay says.

He heard me, but I hear how distracted he suddenly sounds. Glancing over at him, I see his predatory gaze locked on a man seated on the other side of the hotel pool.

Oh, Clay.

The man is a little older than us. I'd put him in his mid-thirties, with a sculpted body he paid for, and a hundred-dollar haircut.

He catches my eye. With a tiny smile full of both humor and an undeniable invitation, he pats the empty chair next to him.

Clay starts to get up from his.

The two of us are side by side, lying on a pair of pool chairs that Clay scooted together so that our thighs are touching. It couldn't be more obvious that we're together, and if I'm with a man like Clayton Rivers, I can't imagine why some stranger would think I'd leave my husband for him.

The only exception ever was Tommy Gillis, and that was because the sixteen-year-old Cynthia I once was had a soft spot for him. Even then, I watched him choke on his blood, then framed him for the murders of our entire friend group…

I lay my fingers on top of Clay's arm. He relaxes a fraction, lying back down as he murmurs angrily, "He's been watching you since we came out here."

Because of my skimpy bikini, no doubt. "And?"

Clay's jaw goes tight. "I could carve out his eyes. He'd stop looking at my wife then. Cut off his fingers so he doesn't try to beckon her over to him. Drown him so I feel better. Any of those options work for me."

My heart flutters in my chest. I've forever been the sort of girl who felt butterflies whenever my partner showed his jealous side. It's always turned me on, and if I'm being honest, it's part of the reason I needed Clay and Tommy to choose. One of them had to have loved me more. They needed to prove it. To me, seeing that possessiveness, that jealousy … to know that my murderous husband would find a knife and do just that to this stranger if I let him… it's not just my heart that's reacting to my husband, either.

I ignore my aching pussy. She already got worked over twice today, and while I'm always ready to welcome my husband, it would probably be better if I distract him before he marches over to the other side of the pool and snaps that guy's neck.

I stroke his arm gently with my fingertips. "Hey. Look at me."

Unable to resist, his eyes are on my face.

"We only just arrived at St. Lucia. You promised me Christmas here. Hard to do that if you maim another guest, babe. Or drown him."

He scowls. "You're mine, Cyn. I don't like the way he's looking at you."

"How about this?" I ask, tossing my phone to the other side of my pool chair. Then, knowing that this will return Clay's attention firmly to me where it belongs, I rise up from my chair and, throwing a leg over his groin, I straddle my husband. "Maybe he likes this view better."

I know Clay does.

His cock is hard beneath my ass. I'm not surprised. He always used to get like this whenever he thought another guy was paying too much attention to me. When we were newly married, he'd find whatever private corner he could just to fuck me and remind himself that I was his.

Another reason why the last five years must have been torture for him, turning him from a blackmailer to a vindictive murderer…

Good. He deserves it for what he put me through, but since I absolutely need this man to be whole myself, I'll look past it so long as he never pulls that shit again.

Tommy had to die. I regret it the tiniest bit, but when I couldn't be sure that Clay's loyalty to his best friend since birth wouldn't fuck up my happiness again? This man is mine. His heart. His body. His loyalty.

His everything .

And as he relaxes into me, hands going straight to my hips, clinging to me as if remembering the long lonely nights when he watched Tommy have his turn with me… as Clay squeezes me tight, I remind myself that I've always owned him—and I wouldn't want it any other way.

He buries his nose in the crook between my shoulder and my neck. Breathing in deep, when he exhales, the rush of warm air on my skin has my nipples pebbling against his chest. " My wife ."

I thread my fingers through his hair, jerking his head so that his face is in my cleavage now. His possessive hold on my waist tightens, pulling me even closer.

Releasing his hair, I drape my arms over his shoulders. "You're mine, Clayton," I murmur, low enough that only my husband can hear me. "And if you try to leave me again, I'll fucking kill you myself. No more faking it, babe. You know that. Your only way out of this relationship is in a box."

Clay shudders.

I've told him that before. The night he killed Tommy. When we first left the ferry in Gullhaven and, instead of returning to my home there, immediately started to make plans to head back East. Right after I held down Marla so that Clay could shoot her up with enough heroin that she'd OD before the ‘crash'.

I might not have murdered as many as he has, but now we both know where we stand. My mother's murder was on impulse, and Clay encouraged me to finish Chase off, but seeing how much he's enjoying his murderous side… I'll do it. I'll kill him myself before he puts me through that again.

And he knows it.

Even better, knowing that I just threatened his life has pushed him from wanting me to needing me.

Clay's fingers are nimble and quick. One tug and my bikini bottoms have been shoved over my mound. He dips his pointer finger inside of me, checking to see if I'm ready for him again. Of course I am. Clay mutters my name on a heated groan before shifting his swim shorts down far enough to free his erection.

I rise up on my knees, sinking down on him, wrapping my arms around his neck to complete the connection.

Our hotel is exclusive. Private. We chose this one especially because it is an adult's only resort, and because there aren't as many visitors since it's the week of Thanksgiving back in the States. Apart from us, the only one out by the pool is that man?—

I smirk down at my husband. "Is he still watching?"

"Is that bastard watching me fuck my wife?" grunts Clay as he thrusts up into me. His gaze darts to the side, eyes darkening as he grins that boyish grin I fell in love with when I was seventeen. "Oh, yeah."

I dare a quick peek behind me. Instead of patting the pool chair, the stranger has moved his hand to his lap, stroking himself as I slowly swivel my hips, discreetly riding my husband.

"Good. Let him see what no other man will ever have again."

To punctuate my promise, I squeeze—and Clay groans again, forever at my mercy.

And this man really thought he could share me? The five years apart drove him so crazy, he went from my obsessed husband to a masked killer, stalking our old friends for sport in order to keep me for himself. I honestly did him a favor. Tommy, too. If I didn't make Clay choose, he would've eventually snapped and turned on his best friend anyway the first time I fucked Tommy and Clay wasn't involved. I know it to the marrow of my bones, just like how I hate that dead bitch Summer even more knowing that she was fucking Tommy at the same time I was.

Choose? Oh, no. There was never a choice. Not for any of us, but most of all, not for Clayton Rivers.

"God fucking damn it, Cyn, I love you so much," he grates out between clenched teeth. "I never stopped. I never will."

I lean down, tilting my forehead toward his as I grip his shoulders. His eyes are wild. Desperate. I could drown in their depths, and know that it would be as reckless as shoving my mother's head beneath the water.

Infinitely more satisfying, too.

I grin at my husband.

"Oh, babe, I know ."