To the Ends of the Earth (Stripped 5)

“And you’d leave me there.”

He stills, his hands tightening on my hips. “I didn’t promise.”

“Could you do it? Would you leave me?”

A shudder runs through him. “I’d sooner rip off my arm.”

“Good,” I whisper, lifting myself and sinking down again. Because I had found my prince. He didn’t have blond hair or a white horse. He had green eyes and a mean left hook. And he had slayed every one of my dragons. “Because if you left, I’d follow you.”

He closes his eyes briefly, as if in pain. “God, Beth. Fuck.”

I smile, because Delilah’s still with Candy and Ivan in their villa. She can’t hear him swear. “Now say it.”

His eyes narrow. “Say what?”

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“You know what.” And I roll my hips as punishment for making me wait. The way he gasps makes me feel powerful. I want to explore this newfound sensual strength.

He grits his teeth, flexing inside me. His eyes meet mine. “I love you, little bird.”

And I realize that I’m not surprised either. “I know.”

A rough laugh. “I’ve loved you from the moment you stood in that doorway with a shotgun in your hand. And I would have followed you anywhere. God help me, I still will.”

I meet my lips to his, promising him without words that I’m here, that it’s all right—that he might follow me, but I will lead him wherever we’re meant to go.

Epilogue

The sweet ache of red bean paste fills the bungalow, wafting into the living room where I’m reading a book. A timer dings from the kitchen, and I cross to check on the buns. I learned how to make Anpan from the woman two doors down from me, a young woman with dreadlocks and a gorgeous island accent.

Mine aren’t as good as hers, but the crust is golden and the red bean paste has caramelized where it’s seeped from the bun. I pull them from the oven, moving them onto a rack to cool.

Then I push open the screen door to find my small family.

The island air lifts my hair around me, an ordinary magic. Small black gravel fades into pale sand. I hear them first—a small baby voice wafting in on the breeze. A lower voice answering her. Delilah took to the ocean like a mermaid, more comfortable swimming than walking. She’ll go as far out into the sea as we let her.

Right now she’s on land, her tanned legs dusted with a fine layer of sand. Her turquoise swimsuit has ruffles at her waist. A white cotton hat sits atop her dark curls, protecting the pale skin of her face.

Luca lounges opposite her, his skin dark after weeks on the island. His broad shoulders and muscled abs are covered with scars and faded tattoos, remnants of his former life. And on his chest, over his heart, are the fresh lines of a sparrow in flight.

“This is A,” he says, drawing the letter in the sand with his finger.

She makes a slanted copy. “Apple.”

He draws a B beside it. “B. B is for blueberries. And bananas. And bedtime.”

She makes a sound of protest at the mention of bedtime. Her small fingers brush away the shape of the B. Instead she draws a heart. “Love,” she says, though it sounds like “lub.”

“That’s right. Like your mommy loves you.”

“I love.”

He tweaks her nose. “And you love her too.”

She stands, wobbling only slightly on the damp sand, before flinging her little arms around his neck. “Love you too.”

Luca’s eyes widen. Slowly his large hand comes to cradle her back. I’m not sure he’s ever been hugged by a child before. Maybe not anyone else but me.