Evermore (Immortals 1)

And when I open my eyes to meet his, something about his expression, something about the intensity of his gaze seems so familiar. But just as the memory begins to form, it's erased by the sound of Haven's voice.

"That's exactly how it starts." She nods. "I mean, I didn't pass out until later, but still, it definitely started with a major dizzy spell."

"Maybe she's pregnant?" Miles says, loud enough for several passing students to hear.

"Not likely," I say, surprised by how much better I feel, now that I'm wrapped in Damen's warm, supportive arms. "I'm okay, really." I stagger to my feet and move away.

"You should take her home," Miles says, looking at Damen.

"She looks awful."

"Yeah." Haven nods. "You should rest, seriously. You so don't want to catch it."

But even though I insist on going to class, nobody listens to me. And the next thing I know, Damen's arm is wrapped around my waist and he's leading me back to his car.

"This is ridiculous," I say, as he pulls out of the parking lot and heads away from school.

"Seriously, I'm fine. Not to mention that we're totally gonna get busted for ditching again!"

"No one's getting busted." He glances at me briefly, before focusing back on the road. "May I remind you that you fainted back there? You're lucky I caught you in time."

"Yes, but that's the thing, you did catch me in time. And now I'm fine. Seriously. I mean, if you're really so worried about me, then you should've taken me to the school nurse. You didn't have to kidnap me."

"I'm not kidnapping you," he says, clearly annoyed. "I just want to look after you, make sure you're okay."

"Oh, so now you're a doctor?" I shake my head and roll my eyes.

But he doesn't say anything. He just cruises up Coast Highway, passing right by the street that leads to my house until eventually stopping before a big imposing gate.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, watching as he nods at a familiar attendant, who smiles and waves us right through.

"My house," he mumbles, driving up a steep hill before making a series of turns that lead into a cul-de-sac and a big empty garage at the end.

Then he takes my hand and leads me through a well appointed kitchen and into the den where I stand, hands on hips, taking in all of his beautiful furnishings, the exact opposite of the frat-house chic I expected.

"Is this really all yours?" I ask, running my hand over a plush chenille sofa as my eyes tour exquisite lamps, Persian rugs, a collection of abstract oil paintings, and the dark wood coffee table covered in art books, candles, and a framed photo of me. "When'd you take this?" I lift it off the table and study it closely, having absolutely no memory of the moment.

"You act like you've never been here before," he says, motioning for me to sit.

"I haven't." I shrug.

"You have," he insists. "Last Sunday? After the beach? I've even got your wet suit hanging upstairs. Now sit." He pats the sofa cushion: "I want to see you resting."

I sink down into the overstuffed cushions, still clutching the photo and wondering when it was taken. My hair is long and loose, my face is slightly flushed, and I'm wearing a peach colored hoodie I'd forgotten I had. But even though I appear to be laughing, my eyes are sad and serious.

"I took that one day at school. When you weren't looking. I prefer candid shots, it's the only way to really capture the essence of a person," he says, removing it from my grip and retuning it to the table. "Now; close your eyes and rest, while I make you some tea."

When the tea is ready he places the cup in my hands, then busies himself with the thick wool throw; tucking it in all around me.

"This is really nice and all, but it's not necessary," I say, placing the cup on the table and glancing at my watch, thinking if we leave right now; I can still make it to second period in time.

"Seriously. I'm fine. We should get back to school."

"Ever, you fainted," he says, sitting down beside me, his eyes searching my face as he touches my hair.

"Stuff happens." I shrug, embarrassed by all the fussing, especially when I know nothing's wrong.

"Not on my watch," he whispers, moving his hand from my hair to the scar on my face.