Page 66 of Every Eligible Man

I start laughing. I can't help it. The absurdity of my life, this chaos, this perfect disaster, hits me all at once.

I'm a lady married to three farmhands. I have a goose as security, ferrets as children, rats as advisors, and a traumatized crow as... whatever One-Eye is.

I've never been happier.

"I love you," I say. All of them. I don't specify because I don't need to. "All of you. Even when you drive me insane."

"Especially when we drive you insane," Slade corrects.

"The insane parts are the best parts," Wreck adds.

Ash just tightens his arms around me. He's never been good with words. But I feel his answer in the way he holds me, like he's never letting go.

Eventually, we'll move. We'll find a bed. We'll continue the destruction of furniture that has become our signature.

But for now, we lie in the wreckage of our wedding altar, surrounded by animals, covered in splinters and satisfaction.

Married.

Finally.

Forever.

"Worth it," One-Eye admits quietly, just before he falls asleep.

"Worth it," we agree.

Epilogue: One Year Later

Cinder

The royal nursery smells like milk, lavender, and the underlying musk of ferret.

This is my life now. I regret nothing.

Three cribs line the wall beneath windows that overlook the kingdom, ruled jointly by me and my three husbands in what the historians have reluctantly termed "an unconventional but surprisingly effective monarchy." The nobles have stopped complaining. Mostly because Gerald bites anyone who objects too loudly.

I lean against the doorframe, watching my family in their natural habitat.

Ash is in the rocking chair, massive frame folded into a piece of furniture that was clearly not designed for men his size. In his arms, tucked against his barrel chest like a tiny dark-haired burrito, is Ember.

Our firstborn. By four minutes, but Ash counts it.

Ember has her father's coloring, dark hair, serious brows, an intense stare that suggests she's already judging everyone she meets. She's three months old and has never smiled at anyone except Ash.

"She's plotting something," Ash says, watching her watch him. "I can tell."

"She's an infant."

"She's my infant. She's definitely plotting."

He's probably right. Ember already has the energy of a tiny general. The wet nurses are terrified of her.

Slade is on the daybed, Sterling cradled elegantly in one arm while he reads aloud from a book of poetry. Because of course he is. Because Slade has decided that his son will be "cultured from birth" and no one can stop him.

Sterling is... exactly what you'd expect from Slade's offspring. Three months old and already beautiful, with fine features and an eerily knowing expression. He charmed the wet nurse within hours of birth. She now brings him extra blankets and calls him "my little prince" in a voice that suggests she's already planning to spoil him rotten.

"'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day,'" Slade reads, his voice a smooth purr. "'Thou art more lovely and more temperate.'"