THE FINAL BOOK 2: EPILOGUE (2)

He inspects the contents of his drink, then tosses it back in a single gulp before setting the glass down with a thud and meeting my gaze. “I don’t want to leave you.” My chest warms at his admission. “I feel as if I’ve always wanted you,” he goes on, “and this is the first time I have you.” He reaches for my hand, and instead of threading his fingers through mine, he flips my palm. His thumb traces the lines of my palm in a way that feels far too intimate for public. “Nothing can pull us apart if we don’t let it,” I promise softly, and his jaw tightens. “Good.” He reaches into his pocket for something, holding it up. It glints between his fingers, the size of a nickel, but it’s gold. “What is that?” I ask. “A promise.” His voice goes rough as he stares at me. “I told you once I’d never leave you. I might have moved to New York last summer, but my heart never left you. I meant what I said. I mean it still.” My breath trembles out, unsteady. “You are the only person I let under my skin,” he goes on, his voice rough. “I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. The way you see the world, the way you care, the way you try, the way you get up when you’re knocked down.” My throat is tight with emotion, and every word adds to the sensations overwhelming me. “I choose you, Emily,” he says. “Over uncertainty, over fear, over doubt. I will always choose you. Whether you’re next to me or a thousand miles away, when you look at this, you’ll know it’s true.” I take the ring from him, and it’s cool and heavy despite the narrow band. The inside is smooth, the outside scarred. No, carved. The band is engraved with flowers. “It’s beautiful,” I manage. Timothy rounds my stool and unfastens my necklace, then slips the ring over the chain and refastens the clasp. I adjust it, and the ring settles between my breasts along with the pressed flower. My fist closes around it. I twist in my seat, needing to find his gaze. Once I do, it’s so full of love and awe I never want to let it go. I never want to let him go. He claims my mouth in a long kiss that’s searing and tender at once. By the time he pulls back, I’m tugging at his hair, needing to feel his body on mine. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs. “That dress is killing me.” “I thought you liked it.” “I’m going to like taking it off you more.” We pay for our drinks before putting on our coats and stumbling outside. “Let me call a cab.” “Come on,” I tease, “we can walk.” With everything that’s happened tonight, I could use the air. I could inhale and entire city’s worth of oxygen right now. “So… sign, join, or jilt?” Timothy drawls as he holds the door, reminding me of our old game. “Who?” I retort. “Me.” I don’t realize how late it is until we get into the street. “Well,” I say, pretending to consider. “You’re already signed, so unless I lure you away from your label—” “Which you could do in a heartbeat.” “Really?” I trip over the pavement, falling against his side with a laugh. “I have nothing to offer you.” His low chuckle buzzes through me. “Your mouth is remarkably persuasive.” “You’d leave Zeke for a blowjob?” I demand, mock aghast. The idea of Timothy coming apart under my hands, my mouth, is impossibly sexy. He groans. “I’m walking home in the middle of the night with a fucking hard-on, and it’s all your fault.” I laugh as we stumble down the road toward Timothy’s place. He takes my hand as we talk about all kinds of things, our voices raised from the alcohol. Nothing can break the beautiful imperfection of this moment. Despite the rift between me and my dad and the uncertainty of my future, Timothy’s finally getting what he deserves, I’m learning to stand on my own feet, and we have each other. We’re a few blocks from his apartment, and I’m already imagining the things we’re going to do together when a rough voice interrupts my fantasy. “Give me your purse.” I glance at Timothy, sure I’ve misheard. “What did you say?” But the words didn’t come from him. I spin to see a guy in black from head to toe. He’s half in the shadows of the alley, which is why I didn’t spot him. “Your purse. And phones.” Timothy moves between the guy and me, stilling when something under the guy’s jacket glints in the streetlight. My body goes cold. I don’t know what it is, a knife or a gun, but every part of me’s focused on that silver flash. “Give it to him,” Timothy says calmly, reaching into his pocket and holding out the phone. Give what? Shit. My bag. I swallow and force myself to hold out my purse with my phone inside. The man takes it and shoves it in his jacket. He hasn’t touched me, but I feel violated, as if someone’s burst our perfect bubble. I cut a look down the street. The closest major intersection is five blocks away. “Wallet too.” Timothy reaches slowly into his pocket and holds it out. The guy takes it, flips it open to check for cash. “Got any jewelry?” “No,” Timothy answers steadily. How can he be so calm? “What about her?” I shake my head fast. The man’s gaze drops to my chest. My fingers close around the gold necklace. “It’s nothing,” I say softly. “It was a gift.” “Hand it over.” My eyes burn as the ring and the rose warm in my hand. I can’t move. “Give it!” He makes a threatening gesture, and I hiccup a breath as I reach for the clasp with trembling fingers. “No.” Timothy’s voice has an edge this time. Something silver flashes again, and Timothy moves, every bit as fast at the other guy. “The fuck you doing?!” the other guy shouts as Timothy lunges. They’re on the ground, and I’m watching in horror as they roll. I want to scream, but it’s stuck in my throat. It’s like seeing a car crash. I can’t call 9-1-1; he has my phone. They roll over and over, and there’s panting and grunting. Then the guy’s out from under Timothy, sprinting down the sidewalk. A sickening groan pulls me back. “Timothy!” I drop to the ground next to him. One hand’s still on my necklace, and I force myself to let go in order to roll Tyler onto his back. The second I do, there’s blood. The smell of it invades my nose, and I fight nausea as I search wildly for the source of it in the dark, patting his chest through his black dress shirt, rumpled and dusty from the fight. “Timothy, oh my God. Say something.” His lips are parted, and the only thing that escapes is a grunt of pain. Relief edges in as I shove Timothy’s sweat-damp hair off his face, searching his half-lidded gaze. I feel dampness around my knees, and my chin jerks down. There’s a bloom of red pooling at my leg near Timothy’s side, and the moment I realize what’s happened, the knot in my throat loosens. Now, I scream.