Seemingly arriving out of nowhere, just like he has in all of my previous lives, only this time he spares no time for a prolonged courtship, or even a few pleasantries of any kind, his intentions are far too urgent for that.
He’s determined to buy me. To free me from a painfully harsh life of brutality and servitude, in exchange for one so opulent, and so privileged, and so opposite of everything that I’m used to, I’m convinced that he’s lying, that it’s a trick, that there’s no way it could possibly be true.
So sure that my life has just taken such a major turn for the worse that I cry out for my mother, my father, strain my fingers toward Jude’s—wanting him to hold me, protect me, not let me go to wherever it is I’m about to. Convinced I’m being ripped away from the only form of happiness I ever could know for something far worse, I’m terrified, caught in a state of overwhelming turmoil and fear. Deeply suspicious of this new, soft-spoken master who whispers to me gently, who treats me respectfully, and who gazes upon me with the kind of reverence I’ve never known before, that I’m sure isn’t real.
Carefully setting me up in my very own room, in my very own wing of a house far bigger and fancier than the one I was made to clean. Faced with no task more demanding than sleeping, eating, dressing, and dreaming, with no threat of demeaning chores or painful beatings.
He gets me settled in, pointing out the features of my quarters—my own private bath, a canopied bed, a wardrobe full of beautiful dresses, a vanity lined with the finest imported creams and perfumes and silver-handled brushes—telling me to take all the time that I need, that supper will hold until whenever I’m ready.
Our first meal together spent in absolute silence as I take the seat just opposite him, dressed in the finest gown I ever have seen. Focusing on the soft feel of the fabric, the way it eases against my subtly scented skin, as I pick at my food and he sips his red drink. Staring off into the distance, occasionally peering at me when he thinks I don’t notice, but mostly distracted by the thoughts in his head. His brow furrowed, his mouth grim, his gaze telling, heavy, and just conflicted enough to tell me he’s struggling with something, some kind of choice he must make.
And though I wait for the other shoe to drop, it never comes close. I simply finish my meal, bid him good night, and return to a room that’s warmed by a well-tended fire and the finest cotton sheets.
Waking early the next morning and rushing to the window just in time to see him riding off on his horse, my eyes following anxiously, sure that this is it, that he’s brought me all this way only to abandon me to someone who will find me and beat me ’til my death in some kind of sick, twisted game.
But it turns out I’m wrong, he returns that very same evening. And though he smiles when he greets me, his eyes betray a tragic story of devastating defeat.
Torn between telling me the truth and not wanting to upset me or scare me any more than I already am, he decides to keep the news to himself, to bury the awful truth he just learned, figuring there’s no reason for me to ever know, it won’t do me any good.
But even though I never learned the truth in that life, Shadowland generously reveals everything that he failed to.
Showing me exactly what happened when he rode off that day, where he went, who he saw, who he spoke to, the whole sordid scene.
He returned to the plantation, fully intent on buying my mother, my father, Jude, and all the rest of them and bringing them back to the house to enjoy their freedom, offering an exorbitant amount of money, a sum completely unheard of even among the very rich in those parts, only to have it refused. Taking no time to consider it, before he was quickly sent away. So eager to be rid of him, a foreman was sent to escort him off the property.
A foreman who, I can tell at first glance, isn’t at all what he seems.
It’s in the way he moves, the way he lives in his skin—overconfident, overly perfect, in every single way.
He’s an immortal.
Though not the good kind—not Damen’s kind—he’s a rogue. Long before Damen even realized Roman still existed, that he’d made his own elixir and was freely turning people. Still, I can see by the worried look in his eyes that he senses it too.
Not wanting to cause any problems, not wanting to make a scene or make it any worse for my family or Jude, Damen leaves. Tuning in to my fear at being alone in the mansion, he’s eager to comfort me, while vowing to revisit the plantation later, under the cover of night, when he plans to sneak them all out.
Having no way of knowing it’ll be too late by then.
Having no way to see what I see—Roman lurking in the background while the master’s away, running the entire show, sight unseen.
Having no way of knowing that the fire was purposely set long after he left, when it was already far too late to stop it, far too late to rescue anyone.
The rest of the story unfolding just as he said—he takes me to Europe, proceeding slowly, cautiously, allowing me all the time and space that I need until I eventually learn to trust him—to love him—to find true, but fleeting, happiness with him.
Until Drina finds out and quickly does away with me.
And suddenly, I’m aware of what I should’ve known all along:
Damen’s The One.
Always has been.
Always will be.
A fact made even clearer as I relive the scenes from my most current life.
Watching as he finds my body by the side of the road, just after the accident. Not just witnessing but also feeling, experiencing the full impact of his grief at having lost me yet again. His pain becoming my pain, the full brunt of his sorrow leaving me gasping, as he begs for guidance, as he grapples with the choice of whether or not he should turn me like him.
Completely consumed by his gut-wrenching loss, the day I shout at him, reject him, tell him to go away, to leave me alone, to never speak to me again, just moments after he’s finally found the courage to reveal