“I made you that list we talked about.” He nods, responding to Miles’s blank look when he adds, “The list of places you should check out in Firenze—places you won’t want to miss. It’s a long one.” He shrugs. “Should keep you busy for the next several weeks.” His gaze meets Miles’s, looking at him in a way that’s calm, placid, devoid of any hints at ulterior motives, meant to convince. But I know better. Know without being told that he’s bent on steering him away from the list Roman gave him a few weeks before—but what I don’t know is why.
The last time I asked, he completely clammed up and refused to talk about it. All I know is that Roman is urging Miles to visit some out-of-the-way place that claims to host some rare antiquities and it’s got Damen worried. Though I can’t imagine why, since all of his paintings perished in a fire that he himself set over four hundred years ago—a fire that destroyed everything in his collection, including—for all intents and purposes—him.
Miles looks it over, eyes sweeping from top to bottom before folding it back up and shoving it into his shirt pocket. “Trust me, after seeing the grueling schedule they sent yesterday, I’ll be lucky to find time to sleep. They’re pretty serious about us spending every spare second improving our craft, you know, like an actual acting camp, and not quite the freewheeling Italian holiday I was expecting.”
Damen nods, a flash of relief playing across his face so quickly you’d miss it if you blinked. But I didn’t blink. I saw it. And if I wasn’t so preoccupied with thoughts of Roman, I might pull him aside to ask why. But instead I just stand there, unable to ignore the fact that his usual tingle and heat is completely obliterated by the insistent pulse that now throbs in its place.
A pulse that’s not the least bit deterred by the sight of Jude heading toward us.
He pauses, granting me a brief nod of acknowledgment before focusing on Damen. The two of them stiffening, straightening, squaring their shoulders, and expanding their chests in a way so primitive I’m reminded of what Jude said the other night—about the two of them being locked in a primal competition over me.
Two gorgeous, smart, gifted, talented guys, fighting over me. And all I can think about is the one in the next room. The one dating my friend. The one who’s as evil as he is irresistible.
Damen motions toward Jude’s bandaged arms, and says, “That’s gotta hurt.”
And the way he said it, the inflection in his voice, coupled with the look on his face, well, I can’t help but wonder if he meant it in a physical way or an emotional one, since we all know I’m the one who made him that way.
Jude shrugs, a casual rise and fall of his shoulders that causes his dreadlocks to spill down his arms, gazing at me when he says, “Well, I’ve been better. But Ever’s doing her best to make up for it.”
Miles glances between us, nose and forehead all scrunched when he says, “Wait—are you saying Ever did that to you?”
I glance at Jude, having no idea how he might answer, and stopping just short of heaving an audible sigh of relief when he shakes his head and laughs.
“She’s helping out in the store.” He shrugs. “That’s all I meant—nothing sinister—nothing nearly as embarrassing as getting smacked down by a girl.”
And the second it’s out, I laugh. Partly because everyone’s so silent, caught up in a web of tension so thick you could chop it with an axe—and partly because I’m so highly wound, so twitchy and edgy, I can’t think of what else to do. But unfortunately it happens to be one of those awful laughs. The loud, garish, horribly desperate kind that only manages to magnify just how truly awkward the moment really is.
Damen stands beside me, stoic, conflicted, determined to do what’s right for us—for me—though not always sure what that is. And I feel so bad for causing this mess, for being such a terrible girlfriend, for longing for the one person who’s made our lives nothing but difficult, that I shut my eyes briefly and send him a flood of telepathic red tulips in an attempt to make up for it. But instead of the flowers I intended, he receives a sputtering, drippy, malformed blotch of red on squiggly green stems. The lamest bouquet ever created.
He turns, squinting at me with concern as Jude takes the moment to say, “Listen, I’m gonna—vamanos. So, Miles—” His cast meets the center of Miles’s palm, resulting in something between a slap and a shake. “And, Ever—” He turns toward me, his gaze lingering for just a few seconds too long, long enough to make me squirm, long enough for everyone to notice. And I can’t help but wonder if he did it on purpose, so Damen will know I chose Jude over him in my time of need, or if he really is that bad a liar and is struggling to hide the secret we share. Switching his gaze to Damen as the two of them exchange a loaded look I can’t read, turning away only when Miles ushers him out the front door. And that’s all it takes to convince me to do the right thing. To stop pushing Damen away, come clean, and finally accept the help he’s already offered to me.
I turn, grasping his arm as my eyes seek his, ready to spill the whole sordid tale, but my throat squeezes tight, halting my words and practically cutting off my air supply, turning what was meant to be a confession into a red-faced, sputtering, coughing fit.
And when Damen slides his arm around me and asks if I’m okay, it’s all I can do not to push him away. But I don’t, I summon all my strength to pull it together as best as I can. Bowing my head, closing my eyes, and waiting for the outburst to die down. Knowing I’m no longer in charge, of me, of anything. The monster is rising, now wide awake, and it’s not about to let Damen come between Roman and me.
Miles closes the door behind Jude and turns to us and says, “Nope, nothing awkward about that.” Glancing between us as he sighs and shakes his head.
I reach inside my bag, frantically fishing around until I find what I want. The small, sane part of me knowing I need to move this along, hand over the gift and make my way out of here before it’s too late, before this strange magick takes over completely and forces me to do something I’ll surely regret. Roman is getting closer. I can feel him drawing near. And I need to get out of here while I still can.
“We can’t stay long, but I just wanted you to have this,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremor in my hands when I hand over the leather-bound journal I picked up at the store. Concentrating on taking slow deep breaths, determined to keep the beast at bay, watching as he runs his hand over the front before flipping through the rough-edged pages inside. Trying to rid my voice of its edginess when I say, “I mean, I know you’ll probably blog your whole journey, but just in case you don’t have Internet access, or you want to keep some stuff private, I thought you could write it down here.?
??
Miles grins, looking at me when he says, “First a party and now a gift? You spoil me, Ever!”
And though I respond with a smile, the truth is, his words barely register. Everything is upstaged by the simple fact that Roman is here.
The second I see him, the invader takes over, effectively smothering whatever small glimmer of me managed to hang on for this long, and instantly replacing it with an insistent thrum that grows increasingly bolder.
A thrum that won’t stop until Roman and I join as one.
Damen’s arm tightens around me, aware of the change in my energy, clearly on edge. Poised and ready for just about anything, as first Misa, then Marco and Rafe, say good-bye to Miles, as Haven, clad in a purple velvet dress that brings out the sheen of her perfect, pale skin, looks on. Her glinting eyes sweeping over me, as her heavily ringed fingers tap ominously against her hips. And if she still had an aura to view, there’s no doubt I’d be gazing into a solid wall of the darkest, most blazing red.
But it’s not like I need to read her energy to know how she’s feeling or what she’s thinking. She’s exactly like me now—immortal—myopic—with only one goal in sight—Roman. Willing to do whatever it takes to stake her claim.
Her gaze rakes over me, working its way from my head to my toes. So sure of her powers, so overconfident in her fledgling abilities, I’m quickly dismissed with a casual shrug.
She leans in toward Miles, giving him a brief hug good-bye, quickly slipping out of the way when Roman grasps him in one of those brief, back-slapping man hugs, hand still gripping his shoulder when he says, “Now don’t forget, just after you’ve crossed the Ponte Vecchio, head down the alley, take a left and then another, and it’s the third door on the right. Big red door—can’t miss it.” Eyes gleaming in a billion points of light when he glances at Damen and sees the way the color just drained from his face. “It’s worth the trip, mate, trust me on that.” He turns toward Miles again. “Hell, ask Damen—wouldn’t you say it’s worth the trip? Surely you know the place?”