Page 89 of Marrying My Professor

She kisses me then, soft and desperate and tasting like salt from her tears. When we break apart, she's still crying, but there's something else in her expression now. Determination. Resolve.

"Then we make the best of it," she says. "We play by their rules, we lead the faction, we do everything they ask. But we do it together. Partners."

"Partners," I agree, pulling her close again, holding her like she's the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath my feet.

And maybe she is.

Maybe she always has been.

The Veritas took my freedom when I was seventeen. They took my name when I was twenty-three. They took my future today when they made me a faction leader.

But they can't take this. They can't take her. They can't take what we've built from the ashes of their control.

So if they want me to lead the Sovereign Bastards, fine. I'll lead them better than James ever did. I'll reform from within, change policies, protect the initiates from the worst of the hazing. I'll use the position they meant as punishment and turn it into something that actually matters.

And I'll do it with my brilliant, murderous wife at my side.

Because that's what we do. We take the hands we're dealt—no matter how terrible—and we find ways to win anyway.

Even if winning looks different than we planned.

Even if it means staying in the cage instead of escaping it.

As long as we're in it together, I can survive anything.

Even this.

EPILOGUE

ELARA

Six months later

The beach in Belize is exactly as beautiful as the travel websites promised—white sand so fine it feels like silk between my toes, water in shades of turquoise and sapphire that look Photoshopped but are somehow real, palm trees swaying in the warm breeze that carries the scent of salt and tropical flowers.

But none of it compares to the man standing in front of me.

Alexander wears linen pants rolled up to his calves and a white shirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, the fabric catching the late afternoon light in a way that makes him look almost ethereal. His hair is longer than it was six months ago—he stopped cutting it the way Atticus Drexel used to style it, letting it grow into something more natural, more him. His feet are bare in the sand, and he's smiling at me with an expression so open and genuine it makes my chest ache.

We're alone except for the officiant—a local woman named Maria who runs a small wedding planning business out of her home and who asked absolutely no questions when Alexander contacted her about renewing our vows in a private ceremony. No guests. No family. No Veritas members watching to ensure we're playing our roles correctly.

Just us. The way it should have been the first time.

"Ready?" Maria asks, her accent lilting and warm.

I nod, unable to speak past the emotion clogging my throat.

We decided to write our own vows this time, instead of just saying whatever came out first. The courthouse wedding six months ago had been efficient and necessary and completely devoid of meaning beyond the legal paperwork. This, this is real. This is us choosing each other again, without coercion, without threats, without the Veritas breathing down our necks.

This is what marriage should feel like.

Alexander reaches for my hands, his fingers intertwining with mine, and the familiar calluses on his palms ground me in this moment, in this choice, in this life we've built from the wreckage of our traumas.

"I'll go first," he says softly, his eyes never leaving mine.

Maria nods, stepping back slightly to give us space while still remaining close enough to officiate.

"Elara," Alexander begins, and even just my name in his voice makes my pulse quicken. "When we got married the first time, it was to save your life. To bind you to the Veritas through me so they couldn't kill you for knowing their secrets. It was a transaction. A negotiation. A cage disguised as salvation."