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Below you’ll find an exclusive extended epilogue – a wedding night scene set after the events of the main novel!

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✨ EXCLUSIVE BONUS SCENE ✨

The Conservatory

A Wedding Night Epilogue

⚠️ This is an extended, explicit epilogue set after the events of The Foundation. Intended for mature readers only.

The reception was still in full swing when Silas’s hand found Layla’s waist and pulled her close.

“Dance with me,” he murmured against her ear, his breath warm and promising.

“We’re already dancing,” she pointed out, though she melted into him anyway. They’d been on the makeshift dance floor in the ballroom for the past twenty minutes, swaying to music that Briggs had somehow convinced a local band to play.

“Not like this.” His hand slid lower, settling on the curve of her hip in a way that was definitely not appropriate for public. “Not the way I want to.”

Heat flooded through her. “Silas Crane, are you trying to sneak away from our own wedding reception?”

“Absolutely.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “I’ve been watching you all day. Watching you walk down that aisle. Watching you say your vows. Watching you in this dress—” His fingers traced the lace at her waist. “—and all I can think about is getting you out of it.”

“We have guests,” she protested, but her voice came out breathy.

“We have a house full of people who can entertain themselves.” He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the heat in his eyes made her stomach flip. “And I have a wife I’ve been waiting all day to claim properly.”

Wife.

The word sent a thrill through her. She was his wife now. Layla Crane. Bound to this man in every way that mattered.

“Five minutes,” she said. “Let me make the rounds, say goodnight to people—”

“Three minutes.” His hand tightened on her hip. “And then I’m throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you out of here whether you’re ready or not.”

The image made her laugh. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” But he released her, his fingers trailing down her arm as he stepped back. “Three minutes, Mrs. Crane. Then you’re mine.”

She watched him walk away—broad shoulders in a perfectly fitted suit, moving through the crowd with easy confidence—and felt anticipation coil tight in her belly.

She made her rounds quickly. Hugged Sloane, who whispered, “Go. We’ve got this covered.” Kissed Daphne’s cheek while her friend made lewd gestures about wedding nights. Squeezed Willa’s hand while the soft woman smiled knowingly.

“Two minutes,” Silas called from across the room, checking his watch with exaggerated precision.

Briggs whooped. “Someone’s eager!”

“Someone’s been waiting six months for this,” Silas shot back. “And I’m done waiting.”

The crowd laughed, and Layla felt her face heat. But she didn’t care. Let them laugh. Let them know that her husband wanted her with an urgency that made her feel desired and precious and utterly claimed.

She was crossing the ballroom when strong arms scooped her up.

“Time’s up,” Silas said, lifting her bridal-style to the cheers and catcalls of their guests.

“Silas!” She laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I was coming!”

“Not fast enough.” He headed for the door, nodding at Vance who held it open with a knowing smirk. “Night, everyone. Don’t wait up.”

“Like we could sleep through what’s about to happen!” Briggs called.

“Soundproofing!” Sloane yelled after them. “Remember the soundproofing we installed!”

But Silas was already carrying her down the hallway, his stride purposeful, his grip possessive.

“Where are we going?” Layla asked, though she suspected she knew.

“The conservatory.” He kicked open the door—they’d oiled the hinges just yesterday—and stepped into the glass-walled room. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. About having you here, in this space we built together, under the stars.”

The conservatory was breathtaking at night. Moonlight streamed through the restored glass panels, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. Someone—probably Willa—had strung fairy lights through the potted plants, creating a soft, romantic glow. And the air smelled like jasmine and roses and possibility.

Silas set her on her feet carefully, his hands lingering on her waist.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi.” She smiled up at him. “Husband.”

“Wife.” He cupped her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “My wife. My partner. Mine.”

“Yours,” she agreed. “Always yours.”

He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough. Not the chaste kiss they’d shared at the ceremony, but something darker. Hungrier. A promise of what was coming.

When he pulled back, they were both breathing hard.

“Turn around,” he said, his voice rough.

She obeyed, presenting her back to him. Felt his fingers find the delicate buttons that ran down her spine.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he murmured, working the first button free. “About undressing you. About taking my time with you. About making you come so many times you forget your own name.”

“Ambitious,” she managed.

“I’m a man of goals.” Another button. Another inch of skin exposed. “And right now, my only goal is to make sure my wife knows exactly how much I want her.”

He worked methodically, button by button, until her dress gaped open down her back. Then his lips found her spine, trailing kisses down each vertebra as he revealed it.

“Beautiful,” he murmured against her skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

He pushed the dress off her shoulders, and it pooled at her feet in a waterfall of silk and lace. Leaving her standing in nothing but white lingerie—a lace bralette, matching panties, and the garter belt he’d insisted on because he wanted the pleasure of removing it.

“Christ.” His hands spanned her waist, holding her in place. “Look at you.”

“You picked these out,” she reminded him, glancing over her shoulder.

“I know.” His hands slid up to cup her breasts through the lace. “And I’ve been fantasizing about taking them off you ever since.”

He turned her to face him, and she watched his eyes go dark as he took her in. She’d never felt more desired, more wanted, more seen.

“My turn,” she said, reaching for his tie.

She stripped him slowly, savoring each reveal. The tie came off first, then the jacket. She unbuttoned his shirt with deliberate care, spreading it open to expose the chest she’d mapped a hundred times. Ran her hands over warm skin and hard muscle, felt him shudder under her touch.

“Layla.” Her name came out strained. “You’re killing me.”

“Good.” She unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his pants. “Payback for making me wait all day.”

“I was standing at that altar waiting for you—” He sucked in a breath as her hand wrapped around him through his boxer briefs. “Fuck. You’re playing dirty.”

“You love it when I play dirty.”

“I do.” He caught her wrist, pulled her hand away before she could destroy his control completely. “But if you keep that up, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.”

“Can’t have that.” She pushed his pants and underwear down, freeing him completely. “I plan on taking my time with you.”

“Yeah?” He kicked off his clothes, standing before her in nothing but moonlight and want. “What exactly do you plan to do, Mrs. Crane?”

She took his hand and led him to the chaise lounge they’d placed in the corner—a restored Victorian piece that Daphne had insisted would be “perfect for reading.”

It wasn’t designed for reading.

“Sit,” she commanded.

He obeyed, sprawling on the chaise with the easy confidence of a man who knew exactly how good he looked. His cock stood hard and ready, and she couldn’t help but admire the view.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, amused.

“Very much.” She knelt between his legs, maintaining eye contact. “Now be a good husband and let me worship you.”

His breath caught. “Layla—”

She took him in her mouth before he could finish the sentence.

He groaned, his hand fisting in her hair—not controlling, just anchoring himself as she worked him with lips and tongue and just enough teeth to make him gasp. She’d learned his body well over the past months, knew exactly what made him curse, what made him beg, what made his control fracture.

“Baby, I can’t—you need to stop—” His hips lifted involuntarily. “I’m too close—”

She pulled off with a deliberate pop. “Good.”

“Good?” He looked wrecked, pupils blown wide, chest heaving. “You want me to come down your throat? Want me to lose control that fast?”

“I want you desperate.” She licked a stripe up his length that made him shudder. “I want you so far gone that when you finally fuck me, you can’t be gentle. Can’t be controlled. Just need.”

“Christ.” His head fell back against the chaise. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“That’s the plan.”

She took him deep again, hollowing her cheeks, using every trick she’d learned. His hand tightened in her hair, and she felt him tense, felt his control hanging by a thread—

She pulled off.

“Layla!” His eyes snapped open, wild and desperate. “What the fuck—”

“Not yet.” She stood, hooked her thumbs in her panties, and slowly—torturously—slid them down her legs. “I want you inside me when you come.”

He moved faster than should be possible, surging up from the chaise and backing her against the glass wall of the conservatory. The cool surface pressed against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body against her front.

“You want me desperate?” His hand slid between her thighs, finding her wet and ready. “Congratulations. You succeeded. Now I’m going to fuck my wife against this glass wall until everyone in the house can hear her screaming my name.”

“The soundproofing—”

“Won’t be enough.” He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist, and positioned himself at her entrance. “Hold on, baby. Because I’m done being gentle.”

He thrust into her in one hard stroke that made them both cry out.

“Yes,” she gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. “God, yes—”

He set a brutal pace, driving into her with a force that rattled the glass at her back. There was nothing controlled about it, nothing civilized. Just raw need and possession and the kind of claiming that left no doubt about who she belonged to.

“Mine,” he growled against her throat. “My wife. My woman. Mine.”

“Yours,” she sobbed, pleasure building with devastating speed. “All yours—”

His hand found her clit, rubbing tight circles that sent her spiraling. “Come for me. Come on my cock. Show me you’re mine.”

She shattered, her cry echoing through the glass room, and felt him follow her over the edge with a groan that sounded like her name and prayer and triumph all at once.

They stayed like that for a long moment, both trembling, both trying to remember how to breathe.

“Holy shit,” she finally managed.

“Yeah.” He pressed his forehead to hers, still buried deep inside her. “That was…”

“Intense.”

“I was going to say ‘a good start.'” He grinned, wicked and satisfied. “Because we’re nowhere near done.”

“Silas, I can barely feel my legs—”

“Then it’s a good thing I can carry you.” He withdrew carefully, lowering her feet to the floor while keeping an arm around her waist for support. “Bedroom. Now. I have plans.”

“More plans?”

“So many plans.” He scooped up her dress, his clothes, leaving a trail as he carried her through the house. “It’s our wedding night. I plan to make good use of every surface in our bedroom.”

They made it as far as the staircase before he stopped, pressing her against the bannister.

“Silas—”

“Can’t wait.” He turned her around, bent her over the polished wood. “Need you again. Need to make sure you know you’re mine.”

“I know—oh God—” Her words dissolved into moans as he entered her from behind, slower this time but no less intense.

This was different from the desperate claiming against the glass. This was thorough. Deliberate. Each stroke hitting deep, making her feel every inch of him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, running his hands up her sides. “Bent over our staircase. Fuck, Layla, you’re so perfect like this.”

“Someone could see—”

“Let them.” He increased his pace. “Let them know I’m claiming my wife in every corner of our house. Let them hear how good I make you feel.”

His hand slid around to work her clit, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming.

“Don’t,” he commanded. “Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

So she let go, let herself be loud, let the pleasure build until it consumed her completely.

When she came this time, it was slower but no less intense—a rolling wave that left her boneless and gasping.

Silas followed her with a groan, collapsing over her back, both of them struggling to breathe.

“Bed,” she gasped. “We need to make it to bed or we’re going to traumatize the morning cleaning crew.”

He laughed against her shoulder. “Fair point.”

This time they actually made it to their bedroom—the master suite they’d restored together, with its clawfoot tub and original crown molding and the massive bed that Briggs had insisted on building custom because “your man is huge and he needs space.”

Silas laid her on the bed like she was precious, following her down, caging her in with his arms.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi.” She smiled up at him. “Husband.”

“Still not tired of hearing that.” He kissed her, gentle this time. Sweet. “I love you, Layla Crane.”

“I love you too.” She cupped his face. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving me. For loving me. For giving me a home.” Her voice caught. “For making me feel safe enough to be brave.”

“Baby, you were always brave.” He pressed kisses across her face—her forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. “I just gave you space to show it.”

“We gave each other space,” she corrected. “That’s what partners do.”

“Partners.” He smiled against her lips. “I like that.”

They made love again, slower this time. Exploring each other like they had all the time in the world, because they did. This wasn’t desperate or frantic. This was savoring. Worshipping. Promising forever with every touch.

When they finally finished—both exhausted, both thoroughly satisfied—Silas pulled her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth, cleaning her gently, pressing kisses to every mark he’d left on her skin.

“Are you sore?” he asked, concerned.

“A little.” She smiled. “The good kind of sore.”

“Good.” He tossed the washcloth toward the bathroom—it landed somewhere in the vicinity—and climbed back into bed, pulling her close. “Because I plan on making you sore a lot over the next few days.”

“Days?”

“Days.” He nuzzled her neck. “I told everyone we’re taking a week off. No construction. No phone calls. Just you and me and this bedroom.”

“A week?”

“A week.” His hand slid possessively over her hip. “I’ve been patient for six months. Waiting for you to heal. Waiting for us to be ready. Waiting to make you my wife. Now that I finally have you? I’m going to enjoy every second.”

She rolled to face him, studied his features in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “I’m really your wife.”

“You really are.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How does it feel?”

“Right.” She pressed a kiss over his heart. “It feels right.”

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, both drifting in that pleasant space between waking and sleeping.

“Silas?” she said quietly.

“Mm?”

“Thank you for being patient with me. After everything with Travis. After the betrayal. You gave me time to heal, and you never pushed.”

“You’re worth waiting for.” He kissed her forehead. “Always.”

“I’m healed now,” she said. “Or healed enough. I still have nightmares sometimes, but they’re getting better. And when I wake up scared, you’re always there.”

“Always will be,” he promised.

She believed him.

They fell asleep tangled together, skin to skin, breathing in sync.

Layla woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the feel of Silas’s mouth between her thighs.

“Good morning,” he said, lifting his head just long enough to give her a wicked grin before returning to his task.

“Oh God—” Her hands fisted in his hair. “What are you—”

“Waking you up properly.” He licked a long stripe that made her arch off the bed. “Now be a good wife and come for me.”

She did, because how could she not? His mouth was sinful, his hands knew exactly where to touch, and the morning light painted him in gold as he worked her into a frenzy.

When she finally came down from the high, he crawled up her body and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“Morning,” he said again, grinning.

“That’s one hell of a wake-up call.”

“I’m an overachiever.” He settled between her thighs, already hard again. “Now let’s see if we can make you come again before breakfast.”

They could.

They did.

Twice more, actually, before they finally stumbled out of bed in search of food.

Silas pulled on sweatpants but nothing else. Layla stole one of his shirts—a soft flannel that hung to mid-thigh on her—and they made their way downstairs.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

“Where is everyone?” Layla asked.

“I may have bribed them to stay scarce for a few days,” Silas admitted. “Sloane took everyone to that bed and breakfast in town. Told them we needed the house to ourselves.”

“Silas!” She swatted his arm. “You kicked out our family so you could have marathon sex with me?”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘giving us privacy for our honeymoon.'” He pulled her into the kitchen, backing her against the counter. “And it’s working beautifully so far.”

He wasn’t wrong. They’d had sex four times in less than twelve hours, and she could already feel her body responding to his proximity.

“Food first,” she said firmly. “I need fuel if you’re planning to keep me in bed for a week.”

“Fair point.” He released her reluctantly and headed for the fridge. “Willa left us supplies. Apparently she anticipated this.”

They cooked together—eggs and bacon and toast, simple food that tasted like heaven when you were starving. Ate standing at the counter, stealing kisses between bites.

“I can’t believe this is my life,” Layla said, watching him crack eggs. “A year ago I was running from Travis. Living in fear. And now I’m married to you, in this house we restored, with a family I love.”

“Best year of my life,” Silas said simply.

“Mine too.” She set down her coffee. “Even the hard parts. Even the scary parts. Because they led me here.”

“To me.”

“To you.” She moved into his arms. “To us.”

He kissed her, soft and sweet, tasting like coffee and promise.

“Come on,” he said, lifting her onto the counter. “Breakfast can wait.”

“Silas, we just—”

“Don’t care.” He was already pushing up her borrowed shirt, spreading her thighs. “Need you again. Always need you.”

So they christened the kitchen counter. And then the dining room table. And then the couch in the library.

By the time they made it back to bed that night, Layla was exhausted, thoroughly satisfied, and more in love than she’d thought possible.

“This has been the best day of my life,” she said, curling into his side.

“Just wait.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “We have six more days. And a lifetime after that.”

“A lifetime,” she repeated, testing the word. “I like the sound of that.”

“Good.” His arm tightened around her. “Because you’re stuck with me now, Mrs. Crane.”

“Stuck with you,” she echoed. “I can live with that.”

They fell asleep wrapped in each other, the moonlight painting silver across their entwined bodies.

Outside, the Victorian stood solid and proud. The house they’d saved. The home they’d built. The foundation they’d laid for a future neither of them had dared to dream of a year ago.

And inside, two people who’d been broken and had healed together slept peacefully, knowing that whatever came next, they’d face it side by side.

Forever.

Epilogue to the Epilogue

Three days into their “honeymoon week”

Layla was making coffee—actually making coffee this time, not using it as foreplay—when her phone buzzed with a group text.

Sloane: Hope you two are having fun. We’re coming home tomorrow whether you’re decent or not.

Daphne: Speak for yourself. I’m giving them the full week. Some of us respect boundaries.

Briggs: Some of us want our house back. I’ve been sleeping on a lumpy B&B mattress for three days.

Vance: The mattress is fine. You’re just complaining because Daphne won’t let you share hers.

Briggs: VANCE.

Daphne: BRIGGS.

Sloane: Can we not do this in the group chat?

Willa: I miss you guys. But take your time. Holt and I are enjoying the quiet. 😊

Holt: .

Layla: You know that doesn’t actually count as words, right?

Holt: .

Silas: We’ll be ready for company by tomorrow. Probably.

Briggs: “Probably” he says. Like we don’t know exactly what you’ve been doing for three days.

Daphne: BRIGGS OH MY GOD

Sloane: I’m muting this chat. See you all tomorrow at noon. Bring food. We’re having a family meeting.

Layla: What kind of meeting?

Sloane: The vault kind. We got the final appraisal back. We need to talk about what happens next.

Layla set down her phone and looked at Silas, who’d been reading over her shoulder.

“The vault,” she said.

“Sounds serious.” He pulled her back against his chest. “But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Today, you’re still my wife on our honeymoon.”

“We’re technically past the honeymoon phase—”

“Don’t care.” He turned her in his arms. “We have—” He checked his watch. “—approximately twenty-three hours before everyone invades. I plan to make good use of them.”

“More sex?”

“So much more sex.” He lifted her onto the counter—again—and settled between her thighs. “Starting right now.”

She laughed and pulled him down for a kiss. Tomorrow they’d face whatever the vault appraisal meant. Tomorrow they’d deal with family and reality and the future.

But today? Today she was going to enjoy every second of being Silas Crane’s wife.

And based on the way he was kissing her, he had the exact same plan.

The Victorian stood around them, solid and safe and full of possibility.

Home.

Forever.

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