“When? Now? Are you serious?” He looks at me, brows merged, gaze locked on mine in a way that gives me pause for concern.
I square my shoulders and fold my arms across my chest, meeting his gaze when I say, “Why? You planning to follow me so you can try to stop me?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, not even pausing when he adds, “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes to—what exactly?” I cock my head, challenging him with my gaze.
“Keep you safe. Keep you from him.”
I take a deep breath and look at him, and I mean really look at him. Starting from the top of those dreadlocks and moving all the way down to his waist where, because of the counter, my view of him ends. “And why would you do that?” I finally say, gaze returning to meet his. “Why would you even think of trying to interfere with my plan? I thought you wanted me to be happy—even if that means my being with Damen? Or at least that’s what you told me.”
He rubs his lips together and shifts on his seat, a move so awkward, so clearly uncomfortable, I feel bad for saying it. I went too far. Just because we’ve spilled our hearts in the past, sharing more than we probably should have doesn’t mean I have the right to question him or to exploit what he told me. Doesn’t mean I should insist on an answer when the question obviously pains him. But still, something about the way he just shifted, not just physically, but energetically too, leaves me wondering, guessing—leaves me just the tiniest bit unsure . . .
I turn, heading for the door as he follows behind, around to the alleyway out back where we’ve both parked our cars.
“I’m meeting up with Honor later—you want to drop by? You can bring Damen if you want, I won’t mind.”
I stop and look at him.
“Well, I might mind, but I’ll put on a good show—scout’s honor.” He raises his right hand.
“So, you’re hanging with Honor?” I say, watching as he opens the driver’s side door of his old black Jeep and climbs in.
“Yeah, you know, your friend from school, the one who came to your birthday party?”
I start to tell him that she’s not my friend, that from what I saw that day on the beach, the energy she gave off, she’s probably anything but—but when I see the expression on his face, see the amusement that creases his brow, I decide to keep it to myself.
“She’s not so bad, you know?” He inserts his key and starts the engine in a series of sputters and spurts. “Maybe you should give her a chance?”
I look at him, remembering what I said to him that very first day, before I even really knew him, long before I knew about us. Something about him always falling for all the wrong girls and wondering if he’s falling once again. But when I see the way his gaze shifts, the way his aura sparks and flames, I know that that wrong girl is still me. Honor’s not even in the game. And I’m not sure what bothers me more—the realization of that or the sudden flood of relief that it brings?
“Ever—”
He gazes at me in a way that halts my breath. His face so conflicted, it’s clear he’s struggling with what comes next, but in the end he just squints, rubs his lips together, and takes a deep breath when he says, “You gonna be okay? You sure you know what you’re doing?”
I nod, climbing into my car, feeling more confident and empowered than ever before. The darkness is gone, conquered by light, and there’s no way this can go wrong. Closing my eyes and bringing my engine to life, then looking at Jude as I say, “Don’t worry. This time, I know what I’m doing. This time, everything’s gonna be different. You’ll see.”
thirty-three
When I get to Roman’s, it’s quiet.
Just as I’d hoped.
Just as I’d planned.
When Haven told me she was going to a concert with Misa, Marco, and Rafe, I knew it was the perfect opportunity to catch Roman on his own, undisturbed, so I could approach him in a peaceful, reasonable manner and calmly plead my case.
I stand outside his door, taking a moment to close my eyes and be still. Drawing my attention deep down inside myself, unable to find even the slightest trace of the monster in there. It’s as if by letting go of all my anger and hatred for Roman, I’ve deprived the dark flame of the oxygen it needed to survive—and I am what’s left in its place.
And it’s only after I’ve knocked a few times and he still fails to answer that I let myself in. Knowing he’s in there, and not just because his cherry red Aston Martin is parked in the drive but because I can feel him, sense his presence, but oddly enough he doesn’t seem to feel or sense mine or surely he’d already be here.
I head down the hall, peeking into the den, the kitchen, through the window to the detached garage in the back, and when I see that it’s dark, with no sign of him, I head for his bedroom, calling his name and moving much louder than necessary, preferring not to surprise him or catch him in the middle of something embarrassing.
Finding him lying on the middle of a large, elaborate, canopied bed, one with so many drapes and tassels it reminds me of the ones Damen and I enjoy in our Summerland version of Versailles. Clothed in an unbuttoned, white linen shirt and faded old jeans, his eyes shut tight, with a pair of earphones clamped to his head, and a framed picture of Drina clutched to his chest. And I stop, wondering if I should maybe just turn around and leave, catch him another time, when:
“Oh, fer chrissakes, Ever, don’t tell me you knocked the bloody door down again?” He sits up, tossing the earphones to the side and carefully placing the photo of Drina back in the drawer of his nightstand. Seemingly not the least bit embarrassed at being caught in such a private, sentimental moment. “This whole act of yers is gettin’ a little overplayed, don’tcha think?” He shakes his head and rakes his fingers through those golden waves, pushing them back into place. “Seriously, darlin’, can’t a bloke get a little privacy around here? Between you and Haven—” He sighs and swings his bare feet to the floor as though he’s about to stand, only he doesn’t, he just remains sitting like that. “Well, I’m feelin’ a little tapped out—you know what I mean?”
I look at him, knowing I probably shouldn’t say it, but I’m far too curious to let it go. “Were you—were you meditating?” I squint, never having pictured him as the type to go in, go deep, and try to connect to that universal force.