Page 134 of The Devil's Canvas

They all laugh—uneasy, but genuine. The kind of laugh that feels like release.

I step back slightly, letting the moment settle, watching the people I once thought I’d lost forever. Bella is clinging to my arm again, asking about wardrobe requirements. Rhys is already trying to convince Dominic to wear something other than black. And in the corner, my mom and Rosalind are talking like old friends who were always meant to meet—two halves of the same strange fate finally aligned.

Julian moves beside me, brushing his knuckles against mine. I don’t have to look at him to feel the calm he carries now—not the sharp-edged power he used to wear, but something steadier. Something real.

“This is what you fought for,” he says softly. “Not vengeance. Not the Loom. This.”

And he’s right. I look around at the people I love—Bella’s laughter filling the room, Rosalind’s hand resting over my mother’s, Dominic pretending he’s not tearing up, Rhys shaking his head like he’s not half the chaos himself.

This.

This is what I never thought I’d get back.

And now?

It’s mine.

I take a breath. Not shaky. Not afraid.

“Let’s go home,” I whisper—meant for all of them, but mostly for the girl I used to be.

The one who finally made it.

Epilogue

Owen

TheInfernalUnion.

I missed the ceremony. Summoned mid-ritual by some fool with shaky hands and a death wish. The ink wasn’t even dry on the sigil before I ended the deal and sent him screaming. Idiots like that don’t deserve to call demons.

I would’ve stayed longer—made him bleed, maybe—but my brother was getting married. And even I have priorities.

I return just in time for the celebration. The afterglow.

Julian’s house has been transformed. Runes etched in gold light shimmer above the archways. Enchanted candles float midair, their flames shifting between colors like they can’t decide whether to burn holy or infernal. Laughter fills the halls. Music curls through the air like silk. For once, Hell doesn’t feel like punishment.

I stand near the entrance, drink in hand, watching the crowd shift and glitter. Souls and demons, fae and mortals, all tangled together in something dangerously close to joy.

Julian and Ophelia, moving through the space like they were born from it. His hands on her waist. Her smile like a secret she finally gets to keep.

She wears obsidian silk—sleek, backless, lined with fine silver thread that catches every flicker of light like spun stars. Her hair is half-pinned, wild curls falling like flame around her shoulders. No crown. No jewels. Just bare feet and the mark glowing faintly at her collarbone, where his soul lives inside her skin.

She is the embodiment of power reclaimed. Of survival worn like armor.

Julian leans in and murmurs something against her ear. She laughs—light, full. And he looks at her like he’s still not convinced she’s real.

It’s almost enough to make me believe in happy endings.

“They look smitten,” Seth says, appearing beside me like smoke with a grin, and handing me a glass of something that probably costs more than most souls.

I take it without looking. “They look disgusting.”

He snorts. “That’s demon-speak for happy.”

“Whatever it is,” I murmur, swirling the drink, “it’s loud.”

Julian’s got that look on his face—like he found the last piece of a puzzle he didn’t know was missing. And Ophelia… Ophelia looks like she finally remembers who she is.

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