She would marry someone else one day.
But that day was not today.
Today, she was still his.
Today, they were still together.
Today, they were going to remember why.
---
The one hundred forty-third week, Damien and Christabel took a breath.
The first real breath in years.
The war was over.
The city was safe.
The family was together.
But peace, they would learn, was its own kind of battlefield.
---
The morning after the battle, the sun rose like it always did.
Pink and gold.
The city was quiet.
The streets were empty.
The bodies were gone.
Cole's team had cleaned everything.
No evidence. No witnesses. No loose ends.
Christabel stood at the window.
Watching the light spread across the skyline.
Damien stood behind her.
His arms around her waist.
His chin on her shoulder.
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking about how many people died yesterday."
"How many?"
"All of them."
"Good."
She turned in his arms.
Faced him.
"You're not sorry?"
"I'm not sorry they're gone."
"Then what are you?"
He touched her face.
"Relieved."
---
She kissed him.
Not softly.
The way she kissed him when she was tired of being strong.
"I love you."
"I know."
"I love you in ways I didn't know I was capable of."
He pulled her closer.
"I know. Because I love you the same way."
---
They stayed at the window until the sun was fully up.
Then they walked to the bedroom.
Not to sleep.
To feel.
To remember.
To breathe.
---
He undressed her slowly.
Not the way he used to.
Not desperate. Not hungry.
Reverent.
Like she was something sacred.
Her armor was gone. Her weapons were gone. Her walls were gone.
She stood before him in nothing but skin.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm covered in scars."
"You're beautiful."
---
He traced each scar with his fingers.
The one on her arm from the first raid.
The one on her ribs from the second.
The one on her shoulder from yesterday.
"Each of these is a story," he said.
"Each of these is a battle."
"Each of these is a victory."
She looked at him.
"Each of these is yours."
---
He laid her on the bed.
Not roughly. Not gently.
Somewhere in between.
The way he laid her down when he wanted to worship her.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"I love every part of you."
"I know."
"The parts that fight. The parts that kill. The parts that come home and hold our daughter."
She touched his face.
"Then love me."
---
He kissed her neck.
Her collarbone.
The space between her breasts.
She gasped.
"Damien."
"I'm here."
"I need—"
"I know."
---
He moved lower.
His mouth on her stomach. Her hips. Her thighs.
She was shaking.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please touch me."
He touched her.
His fingers found her center.
She was wet. Ready. Wanting.
"You're so beautiful," he said.
"Then show me."
---
He entered her.
Slowly.
Deeply.
She wrapped her legs around his waist.
Pulled him closer.
"This is what I needed," she whispered.
"What?"
"You. Us. This."
---
He moved inside her.
Not fast. Not slow.
Somewhere in between.
The way she loved.
She met every thrust.
Held him tight.
"I love you," she said.
"I know."
"I love you so much it hurts."
"I know."
"Don't stop."
"I won't."
---
She came apart beneath him.
Whispering his name.
Holding him close.
He followed.
And when it was over, they lay tangled together.
The sun was high.
The room was warm.
"I love you," she said again.
"I know."
"I love you in ways I didn't know I was capable of."
He kissed her forehead.
"I know. Because I love you the same way."
---
They stayed in bed until the afternoon.
Not sleeping.
Holding each other.
Talking about nothing.
"We should do this more often," she said.
"Do what?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
He smiled.
"I like nothing."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
---
Lena knocked on the door.
"Mama! Papa! Wake up!"
Christabel laughed.
"She's awake."
"She's impatient."
"She's yours."
"She's ours."
---
They got dressed.
Went to the living room.
Lena was jumping on the couch.
"Papa! Mama! You were sleeping all day!"
"We were resting."
"Resting is boring."
Christabel picked her up.
"Resting is necessary."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
---
Damien stared at his daughter.
"Did you just—"
"I learned from Mama."
"Apparently."
---
That night, they ate dinner together.
Not in the penthouse. In the building. In the common kitchen.
With the family.
Jax. Nia. Tara. Zoe. Maya. Cole. Others.
Laughter. Stories. Food.
Normal.
For the first time in years, normal.
---
Christabel looked around the table.
These were her people.
Her family.
Her home.
Damien took her hand.
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking about how lucky we are."
"Lucky?"
"To have this. To have them. To have each other."
He kissed her hand.
"We earned it."
First Line of Chapter 189(Teaser):
"The one hundred forty-fourth week, the world remembered Damien and Christabel. Not as criminals. As heroes. The press wanted interviews. The government wanted medals. The people wanted to thank them. But all they wanted was each other."