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“In love with you, you gaping asshole.”

“Funny,” I smile. “I might kinda sorta maybe be in love with you, too, Murder Muppet.”

“The fuck did you just call her?” Hades growls as my parents start to laugh.

Bella tucks against my chest and I reach down to cup her face with my good hand.

Our eyes lock as I start to eradicate the distance between our lips.

Bella winces and pulls away right before I kiss her.

I frown. “You okay?”

She grins impishly and cocks a brow. “I dunno. It’s a little weird that you got to second base with my dad.”

Hades snorts as I sigh and grab her jaw a little tighter.

“Shut the fuck up, little nightmare.”

“Make me,” she says with a cheeky grin.

My mouth crashes to hers. My hand tangles in her hair.

And for the first time since I woke up in a slaughterhouse hanging from a meat hook, everything is exactly how it should be.

EPILOGUE

BELLA

There are definitely more traditional ways to spend the night after Thanksgiving than throwing pieces of a dead body into the Long Island Sound.

But every tradition’s gotta start somewhere, right?

Also, I ate enough yesterday that eating again before Christmas feels excessive.

I brace against the side of the small powerboat as Dame noses us into one of the tidal channels. No map or GPS, since he apparently has every single current in the entire Sound cataloged in his psycho organized brain.

It’s almost one in the morning, it’s late November, and it’s fucking cold. Like even though I’m wearing three layers I am seriously rethinking the whole pierced nipples thing because Jesus.

I shiver as we cut through the dark water despite Dame's knitted hat that I needed to roll up by about half so it didn't blindfold me and one of his jackets, since mine apparently lacked sufficient “thermal efficiency.”

His words.

God, he’s a dork.

I love it.

Eventually, the engine cuts as my Captain Ahab husband finds his white whale.

“Okay, this is it,” Dame says in the sudden stillness of the chilly, moonless night. The boat rocks gently with the tide, small waves lapping at the edge as he drags the big cooler out from under a tarp.

I crouch down to open it while Dame…I swear you can’t make this shit up…starts folding the tarp.

“Pardon me, sir!” I chortle in a terrible British accent, holding the severed head aloft. “Could you spare a shilling on this cold night for a bit o' wood for the fire?”

Damiano gives me “the look”, which I genuinely adore. It’s a cross between “over it”, “really?”, and “I love you”, and God, does it encourage me in my bullshit.

I use my hands to open and close Councilman Montoya’s mouth to match my words.