With my face numb from the cold and goose bumps all over my body, I made a beeline for the kitchen. A tall latte just on the edge of being scalding was exactly right to warm me up. It didn’t do much, however, to calm my raging thoughts.

Until that moment, I’d been, for the most part, okay with the idea of letting Morgan take his time. It wasn’t like I had had anything to do other than wait, after all. I had thought there was something between us and that it wasn’t only coming from me and that eventually he’d realize as much, or admit it to himself. And with any luck ‘eventually’ would have been before I left the mansion.

Now that I could leave, however, things had taken on a whole new urgency. Morgan didn’t know I could go, but I imagined that, sooner rather than later, he’d ask either Irene or Miss Delilah to release me again, only to be told I was already free to go. Would he kick me out, then? Would he be upset that I hadn’t left as soon as I could? I didn’t particularly want to find out.

So, I couldn’t wait anymore. I had to do something. I had to break past Morgan’s defenses. I had the idea that if I could only get him to admit that, yes, I did know what I was feeling, I wasn’t making it up under the stress of being trapped in the mansion with him, then it’d be a first step toward a lot more. And even if it wasn’t, I needed him to believe me. I could accept him not loving me—even if I was sure he felt at least something for me—but his denial of my feelings, that I could not and would not accept.

I thought up a battle plan.

Or, to be more precise, I remembered a battle plan.

I looked back on our first fantasy ‘date’: a nice dinner, dessert in the sun room, making out, then going back to his bedroom… A risky proposition, I was sure, and one that was likely to end with another argument or with Morgan fleeing yet again. But I had to try. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try.

Maybe it was a bit fast for a real first date, but we did have a history, even if it was mostly imaginary. And anyway, I couldn’t be sure how things would go. I could just plan and hope.

I’d been hoping a lot in the past few weeks. It hadn’t helped so far. Maybe tonight would be different.

I still didn’t want to eat in the dining room, but I had an idea about that. I worked on it first. It took a little while, but I got everything just the way I wanted it, then came back to the kitchen. I thought I remembered how Stephen had prepared the frittata, so I started gathering ingredients. No salmon this time, but I found some bacon and thought it would work.

I was in the middle of it all when Stephen walked in, carrying grocery bags and still wearing a coat and hat. He arched an eyebrow at the counter, which was littered with egg shells, splatters of milk, and bits of the fresh herbs I’d chopped and thrown in. His disapproval all but burst out of him, even if he didn’t say a word.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean up after myself,” I said, a little annoyed at how easily he could make me feel like I was five and had been caught making a mess.

He didn’t acknowledge my words and started to put away what he’d bought.

“I would have made dinner for you, Miss Angelina. Didn’t you see my note?”

“I did. And as I told you before, I don’t mind cooking for myself.”

I tried to think as I looked at the bowl and the mixture I was whipping. What else should I put in? Was I forgetting anything?

I was: salt and pepper. I realized it when Stephen, without a word, set the two grinders in front of me on his way to the door.

“Thanks,” I said as I added a bit of both to the bowl. “And Stephen?”

He glanced back at me, and I felt heat creeping up my cheeks. I had no reason to be embarrassed. It wasn’t like he’d guess everything I had in mind just from one innocent question. And still, there I was, scarlet and not quite able to meet his eyes.

“How do you warm up Morgan’s food?”

After a beat, he asked, “You mean, blood?”

“Yes. That.”

‘Completely and utterly mystified’ was a rather interesting look for Stephen. Unusual, but interesting.

“Why?”

“I just thought I’d ask him to have dinner with me,” I said, feeling even more uncomfortable. “And forcing him to eat food he has no interest in felt a bit rude, so…”

He started to shrug out of his coat.

“Have you already asked him?”

“Not yet.”

“Ask him first.”

“You think he’ll say no?”

His smile touched his lips but not his eyes.

“I hope I’m wrong, but yes, I think he’ll say no.”

“I won’t let him. I’m tired of letting him hide from me. We’re having dinner together even if that means I plop myself on his lap to eat a sandwich.”

Now, Stephen’s smile became real.

“I’d like to see you try that. Let me put my coat away. I’ll be right back.”

I barely had time to put the frittata in the oven before he came back. His first words were, “What time do you intend to have dinner? We don’t want to warm up the blood too early.”

He had an excellent point, especially seeing how my food needed to cook, and I still needed to get dressed and talk to Morgan. So, instead of showing me how to prepare Morgan’s dinner, Stephen took it upon himself to prepare dessert for us. When I realized he was making chocolate mousse, I could have just about kissed him. Except, you know, I’d much rather have kissed Morgan. Stephen was…

I was about to say, Stephen was too old for me. Because, clearly, fifty-ish was too old, but four hundred was not. Welcome to my life.

“Will you be taking dinner in the dining room, then?” he asked after he’d fluffed the mousse to airy perfection.

“Nope. I told you, I’m done with that room. I set things up in the sun room.”

A quick worried glance told me he had something to say about that, but I never found out what it was. Instead, he suggested that I go and get Morgan and he’d finish preparing the meal and take it upstairs. I hadn’t meant to create more work for him, and I told him so, but he waved my concerns away with a dismissive gesture.

“I thought by now you’d have realized none of it is a burden,” he said. “Honestly, Miss Angelina. My job can get a little… dull. Your presence has made things more interesting.”

That was quite possibly the nicest thing Stephen had said to me since my arrival. And I felt a tiny, niggling feeling of guilt because I’d soon be leaving and his job would go back to being dull. Should I tell him? Miss Delilah had forbidden me from telling Morgan, but not Stephen. For that matter, I could have told Stephen and asked him to let Morgan know since I couldn’t. Then Morgan would know I was still there because I truly cared about him. Loved him.

But what if he made me leave before we could work things out between us?

It was that thought that kept me quiet. I simply thanked Stephen and went to get ready.

My dress options were becoming rather limited. Morgan had not packed my suitcase with the thought of me going on dates, that much was obvious. And all right, if I’d packed for myself, date-worthy clothes would not have been my priority, either—not back then.

I was hyperaware, once again, that I could leave the mansion and fix this small problem. If I hopped in a cab, I could be at my apartment and back in half an hour, tops. Unless, of course, I spent a couple hours rifling through my closet and trying to pick something.

Maybe this was best, after all. I had one proper date dress, and I’d only worn it in a fantasy so that didn’t really count. Besides, I could make it different with the shoes. On that point, at least, I had many options, and I must have tried half my collection before settling on white high heels with silver accents. As an aside, I tried the thigh-high leather boots with the dress. It looked… all right. ‘Badass’ is not a word I’d readily use to describe myself, but in this case it definitely applied. A bit too much for our date, but I didn’t despair of finding an occasion for them sooner or later, as well as the proper outfit to go with them, too.

I kept my make-up to a minimum, left my hair loose on my shoulders, put on the ruby ring my parents had given me for Christmas, and took a good look at myself in the mirror.

“He likes you. Don’t let him pretend otherwise.”

So, maybe I wasn’t the queen of pep talks. But a bit of encouragement was very much needed at that moment, and it wasn’t like anybody else would oblige. For all of Stephen’s assurances about Morgan being worth it, it hadn’t escaped my notice that he had yet to offer any actual advice on how to deal with Morgan’s aloofness. Was it because he thought I didn’t need the advice, because he thought it wasn’t his place to intervene any more than he already had, or because he had no helpful advice to give? Hard to tell.

With my heart in my throat and my hands clenched at my sides, I walked to Morgan’s room as though marching to battle. I knocked on his door twice, and as I waited, I was taken by the most horrible thought: what if he wasn’t there? I dismissed the idea right away. I’d seen him walk in that morning, and he’d looked exhausted, mentally as well as physically. He had to be there. He had to be.

He was.

The door opened, just enough for me to see that his hair was tousled and he was shirtless and wearing pajama pants. The impression of déjà vu was accentuated even more when he said my name in a very grumpy tone of voice.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I said, sticking to the speech I had rehearsed. “I didn’t realize you’d still be asleep, seeing how it’s almost dinner time.”

“Was there something you needed?” he asked, punctuating the question with a yawn he hid behind his hand.

“Actually, yes,” I said, trying to be as resolute as I could manage. “Company. I’m tired of taking my meals alone. I’d appreciate it if you had dinner with me.”

He still looked a little sleepy, but his voice sounded fully awake when he said, “I thought Stephen was keeping you company for meals.”

Ah. Right. I hadn’t expected that line of objection. So much for my careful planning.

“Sometimes,” I said. “But he still calls me ‘Miss Angelina,’ and I have a feeling he sees it more as part of his job than something he enjoys doing. I’d rather not impose on him.”

Which wasn’t entirely true—the part about Stephen seeing me as a chore, I mean. He’d been a lot more pleasant, and the ‘Miss Angelina’ thing was more habit than a desire to keep me at arm’s length. Or at least, that was what I believed.

“So… what you’re saying is… you don’t want to impose on Stephen by having dinner with him, so you come and wake me up to ask me to keep you company instead. When you know I don’t even eat the same food you do.”

If not for the light—very light, barely even there—tone of amusement in his words, I would have started to worry right about that time.

“Well, we did warm up some blood for you.” Look at me, not even tripping on the word, like I talked about warming blood every day. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but unlike Stephen, you actually enjoy my company.”

His mouth opened. Then it closed again without uttering a sound. I thought I was safe in my assessment that I had won this point. It was nice to have the last word sometimes…

He moved back, muttering, “Give me a minute.” He did not, however, close the door.

I suppose it’d have been polite to give him some privacy. I must have misplaced my politeness, however, because rather than pulling away, I actually poked the door with a fingertip, causing it to slide open wider. There wasn’t much light, but I could still see Morgan standing by his dresser. He pulled something from a drawer, then glanced back at me, just long enough to meet my eyes, an eyebrow arched as if to ask, ‘what are you doing?’ When I didn’t retreat, he faced the dresser again and, in one smooth, elegant movement, pushed his pajamas down.

He was not wearing underwear.

My throat went dry as my eyes slid along Morgan’s backside.

It was a very, very pretty backside. Tight and toned, smooth pale skin, and even though I’d never really touched it—never touched him—I knew just how silky it’d feel under my fingers.

Far too soon, Morgan stepped into a pair of black boxers. He left the pajamas on the floor and retrieved something from a different drawer. This time, he turned fully toward me, and I perused his lovely abs as he slipped on a white shirt and started to do up the buttons, starting from the bottom.

“Enjoying the show?” he asked, that same eyebrow arching again.

“Are you enjoying giving it?”

His answer was only a twisted half-smile before he turned away again, this time to hunt for pants in the closet. He was now behind the door and I couldn’t see him anymore, so I let my eyes wander around the room. I liked the minimalistic decor, although it clashed with the rest of the mansion. Same thing for the clean, simple lines of the wooden furniture: it seemed to be of excellent quality, but it didn’t match anything else, be it the style of the other bedrooms or even the heavily carved desk and shelves in Morgan’s office.

I’d seen the room before, and while I’d been surprised at how different it was from the rest of the mansion, I hadn’t asked about it. I’d been too distracted at the time by my possible impending death to care much. Now was my chance to satisfy my curiosity.

“Is that your style?” I asked. “I mean, the style of this room. The rest of the mansion is practically a museum, but this room is different. Modern.”

The rustling of fabric ceased, and for a second or two the silence was eerie.

“Not that modern,” Morgan finally said. “The furniture in here is twenty years old.”

It was an oddly specific number. After talking to Stephen and hearing him mention the things Morgan hadn’t been doing for twenty years, the connection drew itself in my mind. This wasn’t how I’d meant to start the evening. Actually, even as I asked, I realized that this could very well end the evening before it started if Morgan retreated into one of his sour, grouchy moods. But still, I couldn’t stop myself.

“Was it her style, then, rather than yours?”

He appeared in front of the door again, his fingers tucking in his shirt into his black slacks. A face carved from marble would have held more expression than Morgan’s right then.

“Whose style is that supposed to be?” he asked coldly.

I could practically hear the danger alarms warning me that this was a perfect way to wreck my plans. Could I stop there, though? I’d already said too much and yet not enough. I might as well continue on that path and see if it ended as abruptly as I expected it would.

“You tell me. But I’m guessing, the woman you used to buy shoes and dresses for. The woman Stephen used to cook for. Before you stopped having guests here or even friends.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, and rather than combing it, he made it look a little wilder—and a lot sexier. There was something to be said about the just-out-of-bed look and how it could make innocent passersby—namely, me—go a little out of breath and weak in the knees. Honestly, I never had that kind of problem before I met Morgan.

“You ask too many questions,” he said in a rumbling voice. “Do you know that? Yesterday you seemed to understand that being forced to talk about… about my past was painful, so why are you trying to emulate Irene now?”

I had a hard time suppressing a wince. Emulating Irene was quite possibly the last thing I wanted to do. And yet… I was pushing him, the same way she had, so I couldn’t deny that he was right.

“Because I think I figured out why she told me that name,” I said quietly. “Why she wanted me to ask you.”

At his blank look, I continued.

“Because you need to talk about it. Maybe you should have talked about it four-hundred years ago but she made you forget instead, so you still haven’t healed from it. And God knows what else is buried inside you, festering and spoiling every bit of happiness you could feel if you only forgave yourself.”

I meant it, I meant every word, but I hadn’t intended to say it quite so soon or even in such an abrupt manner. And I certainly didn’t expect him to answer like he did.

“I don’t deserve happiness.”

He said it in such a matter-of-fact way that it shocked the breath right out of me. I needed a couple seconds to catch on and find an answer.

“Of course you do.” My voice sounded shrill enough that I winced and tried to control myself before I continued. “Everyone does. Why would you say—”

“Come in here,” he interrupted me.

He hadn’t moved from where he was standing by the bed, but he looked at me and held out his hand. I swallowed hard and walked in, taking his hand. His fingers closed gently over mine, and he tugged me after him into the bathroom, where he turned on the lights. I went quickly from startled to confused when he stood in front of the sink, facing the large mirror above it, and made me stand right next to him. He let go of my hand and pointed at the mirror as he said, “What do you see?”

Frowning, I looked from him to the mirror. What I saw first was my own confusion, but I doubted that was what he wanted to hear. I shifted my focus to his image. For all that I’d just watched him get dressed in front of me, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was handsome—more than handsome—even if he wasn’t smiling.

“I see you,” I said. “I see the stubborn man who refuses to believe I love him.”

His jaw tensed briefly. Our eyes met in the mirror. I’d seen many things in those deep, dark eyes, but I’d never seen self-loathing there before.

“Do you want to know what I see?” he asked very low. “I see a monster. And I’m not talking metaphorically. I am literally seeing something different from what you see.”

He picked up the bar of soap on a small porcelain dish and raised it to the mirror. As he spoke, he drew lines over his reflection.

“Larger teeth.”

Long triangles appeared as white lines over his mouth, like a child’s depiction of a shark’s teeth.

“Bone ridges on my cheeks and forehead.”

Zigzags now, and those seemed more abstract, like an odd scar or tattoo.

“Skin the color and texture of aged parchment. Bone protrusions on my head.”

They didn’t look exactly like horns, but it was a close call. He pressed his left hand to the glass and drew spikes from the tip of each finger.

“Claws instead of nails.”

He dropped the soap in the sink and looked at his hands in front of him, then at his reflection. When he clenched his fists, it felt as though they were tightening over my heart.

“How is that possible?” I murmured, looking at the lines superimposed over his image. Even with his description of what each line was, I had a hard time imagining what he was seeing. But then, did I really want to imagine it?

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “How are vampires possible? Where do we come from? How can we exist for so long on nothing but blood?” He sighed, then repeated, lower now, “I don’t know. But I know that this is the real me.” He pointed at the mirror. “This monster is the real Morgan. So when you say you love me…”

When he turned to me and smiled, I thought my heart would break. How could anyone carry so much pain inside and not be utterly crushed by it?

“You can’t, Angelina. You can’t love someone you don’t really know, and how could you know me when you can’t see what I am?”

I laid a hand on his cheek. As gentle as I tried to be, he still flinched as though I had slapped him.

“I do see you,” I said, and tried to put all my strength and conviction in both my voice and eyes. The first time he’d called himself a monster, I hadn’t had the chance to respond, but this time I wasn’t going to let it go. “I see all of you. That image…” I glanced at the white lines on the mirror; I’d never been all that fond of abstract art. “I don’t know what it means, but I know what it doesn’t mean. It doesn’t mean you’re a monster. Things you do, that’s what makes you who you are. And the things you do make you the very opposite of a monster as far as I am concerned.”

He shook his head, but I kept my hand where it was.

“You don’t know all the things I’ve done,” he said roughly.

That was true, certainly. I didn’t know all that he’d done, and I probably didn’t want to know. I’d had a lot of time to think about what it meant that he was a vampire. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt me, said he didn’t kill anymore, but he hadn’t shied away from admitting that he used to kill. That ‘used to’ was what made all the difference to me.

“You’ve killed people,” I said calmly. “You’ve even killed the woman you loved. But you said yourself that was an accident. And you also said you don’t kill anymore. I’m less concerned about what you did four centuries ago than I am about what you do today. Every day. What you decide to do or not do. That’s the Morgan I know. And whether you believe me or not, that’s the Morgan I love.”

I finished by giving him a light kiss, just a brush of my lips against his mouth. He didn’t reciprocate, but that was all right. He still looked shaken up. Hopefully he’d feel better soon. I definitely planned to do my best to help with that, if only he’d let me.

“Dinner?” I whispered, hoping with all my might that I hadn’t ruined it all.

He blinked several times before answering. Was he actually seeing me? What else was he seeing, if it wasn’t me?

“If you’re going to ask questions the entire time, I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

That wasn’t a no…

“I won’t,” I said hurriedly. “I promise.”

Apparently, that was enough for him. He made a small nod and allowed me to take his hand and guide him out of the bedroom. In the hallway, he freed his hand, but I didn’t have time to wonder what it meant before he tucked my hand under his arm. It took me a little while to notice he was barefoot. Between that, his uncombed hair, and the cuffs of his shirt, rolled halfway up his forearms, he hardly matched my careful preparations. I really couldn’t have cared less. He was there; that was enough.

When we reached the dining-room door, he made as though to open it, but I shook my head.

“Not in there. I’m not having dinner in there ever again. Just so you know.” At his confused look, I added, “I’m pretty sure that room is bad luck.”

He let out a quiet snort but didn’t say anything and let me guide him to the staircase up to the sun room. Right about that time, I started to worry. What if he didn’t like what I’d set up? What if it was too much, too fast?

Looking back, I can’t help but think that if anyone had been as pushy with me as I was with Morgan, I might have sought a restraining order. I kept saying I was pushing his boundaries, but I didn’t see what else I could do to change the status quo. And I thought it spoke to how starved he was for contact that he allowed me to keep pushing. Sure, he snapped back sometimes, but he had yet to tell me he wanted me to stop.

A lot had changed in the almost three weeks I’d spent in the mansion. Only three weeks… It certainly felt like a lot longer than that. I’d never fallen in love that fast, but then, I’d never been that close to anyone, either. I’d never even lived with any of my boyfriends. And there I was, rushing things along because my time with Morgan was coming to an end and I didn’t want it to.

“We’re having dinner up here?” he asked, sounding a little taken aback, as we walked down the path.

I didn’t reply and let him take in the setting I’d prepared. In that central spot in the middle of the sun room, I’d pushed the armchair and chaise lounge to the side. The solid wood table had proved too heavy for me to move, but its placement seemed planned now, with three candles gleaming in the middle of it, no doubt set there by Stephen. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat next to the candles. The comforter I’d brought up from my suite, folded in two since it was so wide, was spread out on the floor next to the table, with two pillows at one end, and a tray with our dinner in the middle. Stephen had turned my attempt at a picnic into ‘romantic chic,’ and judging from Morgan’s wide eyes, I wasn’t the only one who was impressed.

“Is this all right?” I asked when, after a few seconds, he’d made no movement toward the improvised picnic blanket.

“I… sure. All right. Yes.”

He continued to be just as quiet until we’d settled down, facing each other and propped up on one elbow, Ancient Rome-style. Morgan’s blood was in a tall, insulated metal cup. My own dinner, a generous slice of the frittata, had been kept warm by a metal dome. I took a couple of bites while Morgan sipped from the cup.

“You tricked me,” he said all of a sudden. “You said you wanted company for dinner because you’re lonely. You didn’t say this was a date.”

I don’t know how I managed to keep a straight face when I asked back, “What makes you think this is a date?”

He let out a little amused huff.

“It certainly looks like one.”

“So? Would it be that bad if we were having a date?”

My forced casualness didn’t fool him for a minute, that much was painfully clear.

“I don’t appreciate that you tricked me,” he said slowly.

“How was it tricking you, exactly? I’ve told you how I feel about you. And then I ask you to have dinner with me. Are you telling me you can’t add two and two? And if you really want to talk about tricking people, you’re not going to win that argument. Fair warning.”

His lips twisted on a little half smile. He sat up and poured wine in both glasses, all the while saying, “You’re a dangerous woman, Angelina.”

He held out one of the glasses to me, and I took it with a nod.

“And I don’t even have fangs,” I said with as much of a straight face as I could manage.

The half-smile bloomed, and I even got a chuckle as we clinked our glasses together. The wine was excellent, as always. White and light, it complimented the frittata perfectly. If Stephen tired of being a butler, he could start a second career as sommelier in a fine restaurant.

We went back to our respective food, and after taking another bite, I had to ask, “Can I ask you a question?”

Morgan set down his cup and laid back on the pillow, sighing deeply as he closed his eyes.

“Didn’t you promise you wouldn’t?”

I put down my fork and watched him. He was so close, just an arm’s length away on the other side of the tray. I wanted to reach out to him and smooth out the small frown marring his brow. I didn’t dare and picked up my wine glass instead, moistening my lips.

“This isn’t about that,” I said. “It’s just… You asked what I’ll do when I can leave. What about you?”

He turned his face toward me and opened his eyes.

“What about me? What do you mean?”

“What will you do? Get back to your normal routine? Stay away from people unless they happen to work with you or for you?”

‘Be alone and lonely again’ was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t dare say it aloud.

“I was thinking of taking a small trip, actually,” he answered after a short pause.

My stomach plummeted at the thought of him leaving town. Which, granted, was stupid, seeing how I’d told him that I’d be getting out of New York once I was finally free to leave the mansion, so it wasn’t like I’d expected to come see him or anything.

“Oh? Where to?”

I don’t know what he heard in my voice, but his frown deepened as he observed me.

“I don’t know,” he said.

I reacted before I was even aware of it and threw a quiet, “Liar,” at him.

He didn’t deny the accusation, which I thought was interesting. Instead, he turned onto his side and uncovered the bowl of chocolate mousse that had been waiting on the side of the tray.

“Why do you call me a liar?” he asked, not meeting my eyes as he picked up a spoon and scooped up a bit of mousse.

I watched his lips part and a hint of tongue peek through as he tasted the delicacy. He was very distracting. I picked up the second spoon and dug in as well, even though I’d hoped he’d feed me dessert like he had once in a fantasy.

“Because,” I managed to say, “when people start planning a trip, they have a destination in mind. If you hopped on a plane without planning it, I could believe you, but you just said you are thinking about it.”

It was his turn to watch me eat a spoonful of chocolate scrumptiousness. I could practically feel his eyes on my mouth the entire time.

“And you are thinking too much, my dear Angelina.”

That little catch when he said my name told me I wasn’t the only one affected.

“I think too much, but I’m not wrong,” I challenged.

He sighed again and set the spoon down before he rolled onto his back, his hands linked behind his head.

“No, you’re not wrong,” he admitted with another sigh. I had enough time to eat three spoonfuls of heaven before he finished his thought. “It’s been a while since I went to Hawaii. I thought maybe after you leave, I would go back.”

“Did you just visit,” I asked, “or did you actually live there?”

I was done with the food; I picked up the tray and set it behind me so nothing would stand between me and Morgan anymore. Lying down on my side, I watched him, still so close and yet his voice sounded incredibly far—all the way in Hawaii, maybe.

“I lived on Kauai for a couple of years,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”

“How long?”

I made a mental bet for twenty years—

“Twenty-five years or so.”

—and lost by a few years.

How odd it still was to hear him talk about the span of my life or just about as though he were talking about a trip he’d taken a few months ago…

“Wouldn’t it be strange if you got there and met people who knew you then and they realized you still look the same?”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“There’s no one left who knew me then.”

“Does that mean—”

His head snapped toward me as he cut in.

“Why do you keep prodding, Angelina?”

Why, indeed. What was I waiting to hear from him? Nothing in particular, at least I didn’t think so, but he was right that I kept asking questions when I’d said I wouldn’t.

“Because I care about you,” I whispered. “Because I want to know more about you. So when I say I love you again, you’ll actually believe me.”

Very slowly, I brought my hand up and touched his elbow. I’d have touched his hand if both hadn’t been tucked under his head. When he flinched at the contact, I pulled back.

“You heard Irene,” he said in a cold voice. “I killed the first woman I ever loved. Made her lose herself. Lose her mind. And then I had to kill her again, this time on purpose, and this time for good. Is that the kind of monster you want to love?”

I battled with myself, then. He’d flinched at my touch, but words weren’t enough. I needed to show him I wasn’t afraid of him, or repelled, or anything of the sort. I lifted my hand again, and this time rested it right in the center of his chest.

“You mean the kind of man who made a mistake once when he was very young and who still flagellates himself for it? Yeah, I’d really have to be stupid to fall in love with someone who’s not perfect. Let me just go out and find the first absolutely perfect guy I meet in the street; I’m sure he’ll make me much happier than you do.”

What did make me happy at that moment was the startled look on his face. He liked to be in control, and seeing him taken aback like this was pretty sweet.

“What… what do you mean, I make you happy?” he stammered. “You argue with me all the time!”

I raised myself up to see him better, and doing so I slid a little closer to him on the blanket. Of its own accord, my thumb started to stroke gently back and forth on his chest.

“Only because you argue with me first,” I said, unable to stifle a grin. I was playing the ‘you started it! No, you did!’ game with a man who’d seen the dawn of four centuries. When he looked utterly nonplussed, I had to roll my eyes. “Why won’t you just believe that I know what I want, and what I want is this?”

On the last word, I leaned over him and kissed him. My hand slipped up to hold his face in place when he started to turn away. He stilled and even parted his lips when I pushed my tongue against them, but he didn’t kiss me back. More than a little annoyed, I nipped at his mouth. Not very hard; it wasn’t exactly a bite. But yes, my teeth did rake over his lips.

He jerked back, startled. When he touched his bottom lip with two fingers then looked at them, I felt like he expected to find blood. I hadn’t bitten that hard!

“You bit me,” he said, his eyes wide when they came back to me. He sounded completely perplexed.

“Yes, I did.” If I hadn’t been a mature young woman I’d have stuck my tongue out at him. Instead, I asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

What he did was stare at me as though I’d just sprouted wings. And when he was done staring, he framed my face in his large hands, drew me to him, and finally kissed me back.

 

*