“What?” I asked softly.
“I never mourned them,” he said. “My parents. My sister… I watched them die and buried the grief until Ashtaroth found it. I blamed him for turning me into what I’d been, but I did that.” A trembling smile broke through his grimace. “She was so beautiful, my sister. Aria. Her name was Aria…”
I pulled him close. I kissed his jaw, his cheek, his temple. He raised rich brown eyes to me, so free of the pain that had lived in them when they’d been amber, that my heart broke at his beauty.
“Can I kiss you now?” he asked roughly. “Or if you want to start over…? Start slow?”
I shook my head. “I want you to kiss me. I want everything…”
He bent his head and pressed his li
ps to mine, hard yet sweet, with a small groan of relief stemming from his throat. I let out an answering cry, my own lips parting, and kissed him deeply. Surrendering to the moment, the completion. Four thousand years of lost love flowed back and forth between us, filling in all of our broken and empty places, making us whole at last.
We kissed and then simply held each other, my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. I let my fingers trace his jaw, his neck, then down. There should’ve been a scar on his throat, but his olive-toned skin was smooth. I tugged the collar down a little.
“No scars,” I said. “They’re gone.”
“But one.” He pulled his shirt down, showing the silver dollar scar over his heart. “So that I never forget the gift I’ve been given. You, Lucy. I’m here because of you. You’re my heroine. You saved me.” He took my hand and put it over the scar. “You made me whole again.”
Before I could speak, he kissed me again, and we went to bed. Our bodies fell into each other, and I drew him inside me, so beautifully perfect. He never stopped kissing me, so I couldn’t tell him he saved me too. He pulled the walls down around my little life and showed me how wide and vast it truly was. How much I had in me and how much I had to give.
But we had time now. I didn’t know how much—nothing was guaranteed. But I vowed to honor every day, every moment, with the love of my life.
This life and the next, and every lifetime to come.
Epilogue
I
One year later…
I unlocked the door to my little apartment and pushed it open. Moving boxes crowded the kitchen, though I didn’t think we had enough stuff to warrant so many of them. I picked my way through the living room, bypassing more boxes, and hung my coat up in our tiny, over-stuffed closet.
I smiled at Cas’s clothes brushing up against my dresses, the scent of his cologne mingling with my perfume. The bedsheets smelled like both of us.
This is heaven.
Except moving. Moving sucked. But thanks to Cas’s promotion, we’d been able to afford that magical Manhattan miracle—a decent place that wasn’t going to break the bank. In three days, we’d move to nearly seven hundred square feet in Midtown with a tiny view of the Park all to ourselves. No more trash-strewn back lot or rickety stairs; we’d actually be able to enter our apartment building through the front door like normal people.
Normal people. Is that what we are?
I smiled and glanced at the clock. A little after four. Cas would be done with his classes soon. NYU’s newest associate professor of Ancient Civilizations was also the youngest person to ever hold the post. The board of trustees had been ready to dismiss his application, having no résumé, no teaching experience, and no credentials of any kind. But whoever had given Cas back to me, had given us a little help, too. On that rainy morning, we found a wallet in his jeans pocket with a thousand dollars in cash and a social security card with his name on it.
“The money’s from Ambri,” he’d said, smiling fondly. “I was going to pay you back with it. And this…”
The social security card was his passport to this lifetime.
With my help, we put together a presentation that left NYU slack-jawed at his expertise. To explain his uncommon talent, he told them his family had taken great care to pass down the traditions of his heritage, generation after generation. It was a weak explanation at best, but while some archeologists and linguists could speak Sumerian, Cas was fluent. He unlocked doors to pronunciation and context that had been mysteries for thousands of years.
Now, major museums across the globe were sniffing out NYU’s prodigy, calling on him to translate broken or faded tablets, identify and date artifacts, and generally fill in the missing pieces of Mesopotamian history with information no one could’ve possibly known…unless they’d lived it.
Outside, the November sky was leaden and gray. It was going to be cold tonight, the perfect night to cuddle up on the couch and watch Schitt’s Creek, wrapped securely in Cas’s arms. Then he’d take me to bed. We’d bring each other to one crashing orgasm after another, then lie tangled up together, whole and perfect.
I was at the window, watering Edgar Junior, when it came over me…that overwhelming feeling of being so impossibly happy, it was almost scary. Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe I’d wake up from this crazy dream to find it was no different than waking from the dreams of Japan or Russia. My bed would be empty, and that sense of incompletion would swoop in…
I heard Cas come in, muttering a curse at the boxes near the door.
“Hey,” I called without turning, making my tone as light as possible. “How was your day? Did you—?”