Damen gazes at Roman, jaw clenched, lids narrowed, striving for a calm, even tone when he says, “Can’t say that I do.”
But Roman just squints, head cocked to the side as he slips into a thick cockney brogue. “You sure ’bout that, mate? Coulda swore I sawr you in thar b’fore?”
“Doubtful,” Damen says, the word hard, final, the challenge clearly displayed in his gaze.
But Roman just laughs, hands raised in surrender and turning toward me when he says, “Ever.”
And that’s all it takes. The mere mention of my name on his lips and I’m liquid.
Pure molten liquid.
Willing to follow wherever he leads.
I move toward him, lured by his steely blue gaze. Each small step bringing me closer to the images now unfolding in his head—the ones he’s placed there for me. The exact kind of thing that would’ve disgusted me before—make me want to punch out his chakras and be done with all this. But not now.
Now I’m so breathless and heated I can’t get there quickly enough.
Damen reaches toward me—both mentally and physically—trying to send me a message, trying to pull me back to him, but it’s no use. His thoughts are mumbled, jumbled, making no sense at all. Just a long string of words I’ve no interest in.
Roman’s the only thing that interests me now.
He’s my sun, moon, and stars and I happily revolve all around him.
I take another step, my hands shaking, body aching, yearning for the chill of his touch on my skin. No longer caring who sees—what they’ll think—only wanting to feed the hungry monster within me.
And just as I’m about to do it, about to take that final leap forward, he sweeps right past me and saunters outside to his car. Leaving me unsteady, uncertain, breathless, and confused—as Miles stands by, unsure what to do—and Damen looks on with concern.
Summoning every ounce of his will to hold it together, to keep things on track, at least while Miles is present, and going right back to where we left off when he says, “Roman’s taste in art is pedestrian at best. Stick with my list and you can’t go wrong.” His face appearing composed, relaxed, but I know it’s anything but. The energy that emanates off him tells a whole other story.
And I wish I could care in the way I’m supposed to—in the way that I eventually will once this pulse starts to fade and the impact of what I’ve just done comes reeling back at me. But that’s a horrifying moment reserved for the future. Right now, all I can think about is him.
Where he’s going.
If she’s with him.
And what I can do to stop them.
Miles glances between us, wishing he could just board that jet and be done with all this. Nervously clearing his throat when he says, “So, now that that’s over, you wanna join the rest of the party? The cast is up in the game room and we’re about to perform the highlights of Hairspray pretty soon.”
Damen starts to shake his head no, but I override him. Even though I want to do pretty much anything but take part in a show-tunes sing-along, if I’ve any hope of salvation, I need to stay here. Right here in this house where it’s safe. If I go outside, I’ll go after him, and from that moment on, there’ll be no turning back.
Besides, I need the distraction. I can’t bear to see Damen’s questioning gaze, the look of hurt on his face. I need some time to calm and center myself, so I can eventually explain the strange, awful truth of what’s happening to me.
I grasp his hand tightly and lead him upstairs, hoping the energy veil that hovers between us will mask my clammy, cold skin, as I enter the game room with a smile and wave.
Remembering the secret Miles once told me about acting—that it’s all about projecting—projecting—projecting—believing the lie so fervently the audience buys it too.
thirteen
“Damen—I—” I try to tell him—try to force the words from my lips, but they won’t come. My throat’s gone all hot, tight, and crowded again. As though the beast knows my agenda and refuses to comply.
Damen looks at me, his growing concern clearly stamped on his face.
“Let’s—let’s go to Summerland,” I croak, amazed I could even say that. “Back to Versailles.” I nod, swiveling in my seat until I’m fully facing him, begging him with my eyes to go along with my plan.
“Now?” He brakes at a light and looks at me, his eyes narrowed, forehead scrunched—the telltale signs I’m being scrutinized.
I press my lips together and shrug, striving to appear relaxed, nonchalant, as though I’m really not all that attached to the outcome, when the truth is I’ve been twitchy and itchy from the moment we got to Miles’s to the moment we left, and the only thing that will cure it, the only thing that will enable me to confide in Damen and ask for the help that I need is to get to Summerland ASAP. Here on the earth plane, I’m no longer in control of me.