I pull away, eyes wide, gazing into his, as my fingers explore my soft, swollen lips, the place on my cheeks left raw and tender from where his stubble has grazed them. No energy field hovering between us, no protective veil of any kind. Nothing but the glorious feel of his skin on mine.

He smiles, fingers moving over my cheeks, down my neck, along my collarbone, and quickly replacing his fingers with his lips. It’s real, he thinks. No shield is necessary. There is no danger here.

I look at him, my mind racing with the possibilities. Is it—is it really possible that we can be together—now—here? Hoping against hope that it is.

But he takes a deep breath and joins his fingers with mine, touching me in a way we haven’t experienced for months when he thinks: I’m afraid this is merely a theater of the past. You can edit the script, but you’re not allowed to change it, ad-lib it, or add experiences that never occurred.

I nod, saddened by the news but eager to begin again, pulling him back to me and pressing my lips against his, determined to be happy with whatever is allowed, for however long it can last.

And so we kiss at the servants’ door—he in his fine-woven black waistcoat and I in my plain servant’s wear.

We kiss in the stables—he in full English hunting attire and I in my tight riding breeches, sharply tailored red jacket, and shiny black boots.

We kiss by the waterside—he in the plain white shirt and black slacks of the day and I in grossly unflattering Puritan wear.

We kiss in a field of tulips so red, they’re a nearly perfect match for my blaze of thick, wavy hair. He in a filmy white shirt and loose trousers, I in a blush-colored slip of silk, strategically knotted and tied. Taking the occasional break so he can continue to paint me, adding a stroke here, a dab there, only to throw down his brush, pull me back to him, and kiss me again.

All of my lives so different, and yet somehow playing out almost exactly the same—the two of us finding each other and falling quickly, only to have Damen, determined to not act rashly, to gain my full trust before feeding me the elixir, hesitate for so long it gave Drina enough time to catch on and eliminate me.

And that’s why you wasted no time when you found me after the accident, I think. Cradled in the warmth of his arms, my cheek pressed tightly to his chest, seeing the moment from his perspective—how he’d found me when I was ten (thanks to a little help from Romy and Rayne and Summerland)—and how he spent the next several years biding his time until enough years had passed and he moved to Eugene, Oregon. Having just enrolled in my high school when the accident happened and destroyed all his plans.

I watch him at the scene—see how he hesitates—nervously fretting—begging for guidance. Panicking when the silver cord that attaches the body to the soul became so tense, so stretched, it snapped yet again, instantly forming his decision to press the bottle to my lips and force me to drink, forced me back to life, to become immortal like him.

Any regrets? He gazes at me, urging me to be honest, no matter what.

But I just shake my head. Smiling as I pull him back to me, back to that blazing red field of that long-ago day.

twenty-three

“You ready?”

Damen’s fingers graze over my lips, the almost feel of them infusing me with the memory of a kiss so real, so tangible, I’m tempted to drag him right back to Summerland and start up all over again.

Only I can’t. We can’t. We already committed to this. And though it can never compare to the birthday celebration Damen just gave me, everyone’s waiting and there’s no turning back.

I take a deep breath and gaze at the house just before us. Its façade simple, attractive, in that cozy, welcoming way, despite that fact that it’s hosted some of the very worst scenes of my not-so-long-ago past.

“Let’s go back to Paris,” I murmur, only half joking. “You don’t even have to edit out the nasty parts. Seriously. I’d much rather put on the crunchy brown dress and scrub the latrines—or whatever they called them back then—than face this.”

“Latrines?” He looks at me and shakes his head, the sweet tinkle of his laugh flowing over me as his dark eyes glint. “Sorry, Ever, but there were no latrines back then. No restrooms, or bathrooms, or water closets even. That was the time of chamber pots. A sort of, well, ceramic pot, kept under one’s bed. And trust me, that is one memory you do not want to relive.”

I grimace, unable to imagine how completely gross that must’ve been to use such a device, much less to have to empty it. Visibly wincing when I say, “See? If I could only explain to Munoz that the real reason I’m just not that into his class is because history tends to lose its appeal for those who were actually forced to live it.”

Damen laughs, head thrown back in a way that makes his neck so inviting, so enticing, it’s all I can do not to press my lips hard against it. “Trust me, we’ve all lived it. Most of us just don’t get the chance to remember it, much less relive it.” He looks at me, his face gone serious when he says, “So, are you ready? I know it’s awkward, and I know you’re still a long way from ever trusting her again, but they’re waiting, so at the very least, let’s just stop in and allow them the pleasure of shouting Happy Birthday, okay?”

He looks at me, gaze warm, open, and I know if I said no, showed the slightest bit of resistance, he’d go with it. But I won’t. Because the truth is, he’s right. I have to face her again eventually. Not to mention how I’d really like her to look me in the eye as she tries to convince me of her highly unlikely story.