I nod with a jerky motion as adrenaline surges through me. Ten miles. I could walk if I had to. My body tenses at the thought and I’m grateful I won’t need to.

“Bags?” the driver asks, gesturing to the bus.

I shake my head. I have nothing but my backpack, and I grip its straps even tighter when the driver offers to take it. The journals are in there—my journal and Quinn’s—the few pages of the files I managed to save, the gold, the money, the necklace. No one’s taking my connections to my past away from me—not for a second.

He opens the back door and I slide into the cool vehicle. He starts the car and more chilly air flows from vents on the ceiling, hitting my face like a slap that sends goose bumps across my skin. As he pulls out of the lot, the cold air chills the nervous sweat on my body, and I shiver.

The driver notices and turns down the AC—which I appreciate—but it doesn’t matter. It’s nerves.

Every minute, every moment that ticks by brings me closer to him. I’ve embraced the feelings I once fought against. Let the attraction—Rebecca’s love—come through. I don’t care anymore than it’s not my choice. Who can fight fate, really?

I was stupid to try. I wish I had listened to Elizabeth. About everything. Maybe she and Sammi and Mark would still be alive if I had.

But even without Elizabeth’s words, I should have known.

Humans and goddesses. That never ends well; I’ve read the stories. I belong with my own kind.

I belong with Logan. He needs me.

Maybe … maybe this is what I want.

I wish I didn’t have to work so hard to convince myself of that. It’s Benson and Quinn all over again—except that the lingering feelings I wish I didn’t have are for Benson this time.

Focus, focus on how much they all love Quinn.

Leaning forward as far my seat belt will allow, I study the meter. The driver glances at me from the corner of his eye. He sees how fixated I am on the ticking red numbers and probably thinks I’m worried about the fare; now he’s afraid I can’t pay.

He couldn’t be more wrong. I’m willing the red numbers to scroll up higher, faster. Wish the driver would speed a little more.

I hear a turn signal click and sit up straight, staring out the front windshield. The driver pulls off the main road and into a quiet neighborhood. Not fancy, but nice.

Unfortunately, it’s also the kind of neighborhood where a taxi will be noticed.

“Hey.” I lean forward. “Can you drop me off like a block from the address?”

“Of course,” he says, then adds in a grumble, “You’re the boss.”

He pulls over about ten seconds later in front of a two-story stucco and brick house, and as he circles the cab to come open my door, I’m frozen in terror. Terror? No, it’s not precisely that. It’s fear and nerves and giddiness all mixed together and it glues my feet to the floor. Then the door is open and warm sunlight pours in, thawing my skin and somehow melting my paralysis. I move slowly, but at least I move.

The cabbie is looking at me with real worry in his eyes now. “That’s twenty-nine eighty,” he says, obviously assuming I can’t pay. I don’t blame him—I look like I can’t pay. But I peel two twenties from a small wad of bills in my pocket and hold it out to the driver, my eyes already traveling up the street toward my ultimate destination. He says something, but I don’t hear. I make a noncommittal sound and step away from the car.

The driver almost runs back to his seat—probably afraid I’ll ask for change—but I don’t have the energy to pay attention to him. I’m barely managing to breathe. I can feel my chest starting to convulse and have to make myself take a breath and hold it for three seconds to keep from hyperventilating.

Again.

Again.

My heart is still racing—my pulse deafening in my ears—but at least I’m not light-headed. My feet move, carrying me up the street.

I don’t have a plan. Four days of thinking about Logan and I still don’t have a plan.

It’s Saturday. He should be around. It’s still early afternoon—too early for dates and parties.

What if he has a girlfriend? My mouth dries up. I hadn’t even considered that.

A smile hovers at the corners of my mouth. Just one more hurdle. If there’s anything the last week has taught me, it’s that I can jump hurdles.

I’m here.

What now?

Ring the doorbell? That seems a little awkward. Hang around like a stalker? Probably not the best idea, but I have nowhere else to go.

I’m hesitating there in front of his house—probably looking like a moron—and as though he can sense me, the front door opens, then slams shut and a tall guy comes out of the house. My breath is ragged as my eyes drink him in, but his head is down and he’s peering at a cell phone. All I can see is his golden hair.

Quinn’s hair.

It’s got to be him.

My throat is too dry to make a sound even when I realize he doesn’t see me and is about to plow me over.

He’s almost on top of me before he lifts his head and jumps to the side. “Whoa!” a low, quiet voice says. “I’m so sorry. Texting—I’m a total jerk. You okay?”

His eyes meet mine and my lingering doubts flee.

It’s Quinn. My Quinn, with shorter hair, more muscle on his arms and shoulders, and a quick smile.

And in that moment I realize I can’t wait to discover this person, who he is now—what the last two hundred years have turned him into. Warmth steals through my body, and the reality that I’ve found him fills me up and overflows. My lips smile, and I can’t make them stop.