27. Epilogue

Epilogue

Elijah

The soft strains of "Silent Night" drift from the television. It’s Christmas day and I'm sprawled out on the plush leather couch, my feet resting in Mason's lap as he absently massages my ankles. The touch is soothing, grounding, a reminder of how much has changed in such a short time.

The scent of pine and cinnamon hangs in the air, courtesy of the massive Christmas tree dominating one corner of the living room. Its twinkling lights cast a warm glow across the room, reflecting off the shiny wrapping of the presents piled beneath. It's all so perfectly festive, so wonderfully normal. The irony isn't lost on me.

I watch through heavy-lidded eyes as Iris sashays towards us, her hips swaying hypnotically with each step. She's a vision in deep green silk, the robe clinging to her curves in a way that makes my mouth water. But beneath the polished exterior, I can see the telltale signs of exhaustion—the slight droop of her shoulders, the faint shadows under her eyes. Her hair is still damp from the shower she just took.

As she reaches the couch, I shift my legs, making room for her to settle between us. She sinks into the cushions with a soft sigh, her body molding perfectly into the space between Mason and me as I stretch my legs back out across both of them. His arm wraps around her shoulders, pulling her close and pressing a tender kiss to her temple as his other hand goes back to rubbing circles into my skin.

Iris turns toward him and their lips meet in a slow and passionate kiss that has my cock twitching in my pants. Her hand reaches out, trying to find some sort of stability as Mason deepens the kiss and her fingers squeeze my thigh close enough to my hardening length to set my blood on fire.

I can't help the groan that escapes me, equal parts arousal and exasperation. "Christ, woman, you are insatiable. Are you trying to kill me? Because I'm pretty sure that's not how the 'till death do us part' thing works."

Mason barks out a laugh. "I don't recall any vows being exchanged with you, pretty boy. Unless you count 'fuck, yes, harder' as a marriage proposal."

I clutch my chest in mock offense, fixing Mason with my best wounded puppy look. "Are you saying our passionate declarations of lust meant nothing to you? I'm hurt, truly devastated."

Suddenly the carolers on TV fade away, replaced by the urgent tones of a news anchor. "We interrupt this broadcast for breaking news," the woman says, her face grave. "Police have made a gruesome discovery in the town square."

My breath catches in my throat, a thrill of anticipation racing down my spine. Mason's hand stills on my ankle, his grip tightening imperceptibly. Iris leans forward, her eyes locked on the screen.

The camera pans across the town square, now cordoned off with yellow police tape. In the center stands a massive Christmas tree, its branches heavy with more than just ornaments and lights.

"Earlier this morning," the anchor continues, her voice tight with barely contained horror, "police responded to reports of a disturbance in the town square. What they found was beyond their worst nightmares. The content you are about to see contains graphic and potentially upsetting imagery. Viewer caution is strongly recommended."

The camera zooms in, revealing the true nature of the tree's macabre decorations. Bodies. Each of them is covered with a sheet, I’m assuming by the police to hide them from prying eyes, but we know what they are.

Women's bodies, artfully arranged among the branches. Their limbs are contorted into unnatural poses, faces frozen in expressions of terror and agony. Twinkling lights wrap around them, casting an eerie glow over their pale skin.

"Twelve women," the anchor says, her voice cracking slightly. "Twelve victims, posed in what authorities are calling 'a twisted perversion of the Christmas spirit.' The identities of the victims are being withheld pending notification of next of kin. Currently there are no leads on who left this gruesome display in our town."

I feel a low chuckle building in my chest, threatening to bubble over. I bite my lip, trying to contain it. I glance over at Iris and Mason, remembering how they helped me bring my vision to life over the past week. After our intense encounter that morning, we had talked–really talked–about who we were and what we wanted. To my surprise and delight, they understood my artistic vision completely.

Iris smiles at me and leans closer, her soft lips brushing my ear as she whispers, "Merry Christmas, pretty boy." Her breath is warm against my skin, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

I turn to meet her gaze, seeing the same dark excitement dancing in her eyes that I feel coursing through my veins. My mind flashes back to the past week–the thrill of the hunt as we tracked down the remaining women, the exquisite torture as we broke them down piece by piece, the artistic precision as we arranged their bodies into a macabre masterpiece.

Mason and Iris had thrown themselves into helping me complete my vision with an enthusiasm that both surprised and delighted me. They brought their own twisted creativity to the project, suggesting new poses and embellishments that elevated the entire display.

I recall the way Mason's eyes lit up as he carefully wove strings of twinkling lights through the limbs of our victims, bathing them in an ethereal glow. How Iris hummed carols under her breath as she artfully arranged shards of shattered ornaments to catch the light just so, transforming congealing blood into glittering rubies.

The memory of working side by side with them, our hands slick with blood as we crafted our masterpiece, fills me with a warmth that has nothing to do with the crackling fire in the hearth. This shared experience has bonded us in ways I never could have anticipated when I first woke up strapped to a cross on their wall.

Mason's voice pulls me from my reverie. "I think next year we should come up with a new tradition," he muses, his tone fond as he gazes at Iris and me. "As a family."

My breath catches at his words. Family. Is that what we've become? This twisted, beautiful bond forged in blood and pleasure?

I look between them–my lovers, my partners, my home. For the first time in my life, I feel truly seen and accepted. A slow smile spreads across my face as I nod. "I'd like that," I reply softly. "I'd like that very much."

The news report continues to churn out details of the grisly discovery, but their words are white noise to us. It's as if we're the only three people in the world, locked in this private bubble of twisted delight.

As I look between Mason and Iris, I'm struck by how right this feels. How perfectly we fit together, three broken pieces forming a whole that's far more dangerous—and far more beautiful—than any of us could be alone.

The fire continues to crackle in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the room. Outside, snow begins to fall, blanketing the world in pristine white. It's a scene of perfect, picturesque Christmas beauty. But within these walls, we've created our own version of beauty—one painted in shades of crimson and shadow, scored by screams instead of carols.

I close my eyes, savoring the moment. For the first time in my life, I feel truly at home. Truly understood. Truly loved.

"Merry Christmas," I murmur, my voice thick with emotion.

Mason and Iris echo the sentiment, their voices warm with affection. As we settle into a comfortable silence, I can't help but smile. This may not be the Christmas I had planned, but it's turned out to be so much better than I could have ever imagined.

The future stretches out before us, a canvas waiting to be painted with our twisted visions. And I can't wait to see what masterpieces we'll create together.