“There was no reason to mention it.” He addresses the thought in my mind. “The past is just that—past. Over. There’s no reason to revisit. I much prefer to concentrate on the present, right now, this moment in time.” His face lifts a little, as his dark eyes light upon mine.

Glinting with the promise of a brand new idea, he makes a move in my direction, hoping I’ll agree to the distraction.

His progress soon halted when I say, “You don’t seem to mind revisiting the past when we go to the pavilion.” And when I see the way he flinches, I chide myself for not being fair.

The pavilion, the beautiful gift he manifested for my seventeenth birthday, is the only place where we can truly be together—well, keeping within the confines of the events of the time. But still, it’s the only place where we can truly enjoy skin-on-skin contact, free of the fear of him dying, free of any worries of invoking the DNA curse that keeps us separated here on the earth plane. We just choose a scene from one of our past lives, merge into it, and enjoy getting swept away by the lush, romantic moment. And I fully admit to loving it every bit as much as he does.

“I’m sorry,” I start. “I didn’t mean—”

But he just waves it away. Having reclaimed his position at the windowsill when he says, “So what is it you’d have me do, Ever?” His gaze making up in kindness what the words seemed to lack. “Just where would you have me take it from here? I’m willing to tell you anything you want to know about my past. I’ll gladly draw up a timeline of every name I was ever known by, including the reason I chose it. We don’t need some crazy old lady for that. It’s not my intention to hide anything from you, or deceive you in any way. The only reason we haven’t gone over it before is because it just seemed so unnecessary. I much prefer to look forward than back.”

The silence that follows has him rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn, and a quick peek at his bedside clock reveals why—it’s still deep into the middle of the night. I’ve kept him from sleep.

I reach out, offering my hand as I pull him close to me, toward the bed. Smiling at the way his eyes light up for the first time since he awoke to me thrashing and kicking my way out of a horrible nightmare. Quickly overcome by the swarm of his warmth, the tingle and heat only he can provide. His arms sliding around me as he pushes me back—back onto the blankets, the rumpled pillows and sheets, his lips sweeping the ridge of my collarbone before dusting my neck.

Mine at his ear, nipping, tugging the lobe, voice barely a whisper, I say, “You’re right. This can wait until morning. For now, I just want to be here.”

Chapter three

After two solid weeks of waking up in Damen’s bed, wrapped in Damen’s arms, you’d think I’d have grown used to it by now.

But nope.

Not even close.

Though I could get used to it.

I’d like to get used to it.

Used to the solid assurance of his body snuggled tightly around mine, the warmth of his breath at my ear…

But as of now, I’m nowhere near.

I’m always a little disoriented at first. Requiring a handful of moments to piece it together, take stock of this new set of circumstances.

Determine my location, my situation, and just how I came to find myself here.

And it’s always that last part, that how-I-got-here part, that never fails to deflate me.

Which is never a good way to greet a new day.

“Buon giorno,” Damen whispers, his voice a little scratchy, unused. Choosing to start each morning with one of the many languages he speaks, today settling on his native Italian, pushing his face into the curtain of long blond hair that spills down my neck, while inhaling deeply.

“Buon giorno, yourself,” I say, the words muffled, spoken straight into the plush, down-filled pillow my face is burrowed into.

“How’d you sleep?”

I roll onto my back, push my hair out of my eyes, and enjoy a nice, long moment of simply admiring him. Realizing that’s yet another thing that I’m still not quite used to—the look of him. The pure and startling beauty of him. It’s a pretty awe-inducing sight.

“Okay.” I shrug, stealing a moment to close my eyes so I can manifest some minty fresh breath before I continue, “I mean, I don’t remember it, so that must be a good sign, right?”

He lifts himself off the sheet, settling his weight onto his elbow while resting his head against his palm to better see me. “You don’t remember it? None of it?” he asks in a voice that’s ridiculously hopeful.

“Well, let’s see…” I fake ponder, index finger tapping my chin. “I remember you turning off the lights and sliding in beside me…” I sneak a peek at him. “I remember your hands… or at least the almost feel of your hands…” His gaze blurs ever so slightly, a sure sign he’s remembering too. “And I seem to vaguely remember the almost feel of your lips… but, like I said, the memory’s pretty vague so I can’t be too sure…”

“Vague?” He grins, eyes flashing in a way that makes it all too clear just how willing he is to refresh my memory.

I return the smile, though it soon fades when I say, “Oh, and yeah, I seem to remember something about a late-night/early-morning impromptu visit to Summerland, and the crazy old lady where we buried Haven’s belongings, and how you, somewhat reluctantly, agreed to help me uncover the meaning of her crazy, cryptic message.…” I meet his gaze again, and yep, it’s just as I thought. He looks as though I’d opened a spigot and dumped a load of cold water right onto his head.