Everlasting (The Immortals #6)(13)

My lips quirk in response, knowing exactly why Damen always wants to revisit Amsterdam, despite his claim that it’s because he gets to paint (art being a love that trails second to me), I know better. I know it’s because he gets to paint me as a barely clothed, very flirtatious, completely immodest, titian-haired artist’s muse.

I nod my consent, thinking it’s the least I can do after al that time I spent boring him to death in the Great Hal s of Learning. And it’s just a matter of seconds until the screen flashes before us and he grabs hold of my hand, rising from the couch as he quickly leads me to it.

But just like I usual y do, I skid to a stop right before it. From where I stand, it appears to be a hard, heavy, foreboding slab—the kind that would gladly reward you with a major concussion for being foolish enough to even try to merge into it. Giving no visible sign that it’s something that yields enough for one to slip into.

And, just like he usual y does, Damen looks at me and says, “Believe. ”

So I do. Taking a deep breath and closing my eyes as though I’m about to dive into a very deep pool, I press my body against it, continuing to push until we’re clear on the other side—until we’re one with the scene.

The first thing I do is bury my hands deep into my hair. Threading my fingers through the strands and smiling at the soft silky feel of it. I love this hair. I know it’s vain, but I can’t help it, I do. Its color consisting of the most beautiful blazing red, like a riotous sunset with just a hint of gold traipsing through. And when I gaze down at my dress, or, more accurately, the barely there slip of flesh-colored silk that drapes and swirls al around me, precariously held together by a loose knot tied at the back of my neck, wel , I’m always newly amazed by the amount of confidence it takes to wear something like this. When I’m here, dressed as her, I don’t feel the slightest bit shy.

But then I’m no longer seventeen-year-old Ever

—she’s been replaced by nineteen-year-old Fleur—

a beautiful Dutch girl with no doubt of her beauty, no doubt of herself.

No doubt of the bottomless love shining in the eyes of the darkly handsome artist who stands at his easel and paints her.

I move through the field of tulips, graceful y, easily, enjoying the feel of the soft, silky petals and stems brushing against me, stopping in just the right spot and turning toward him, holding the pose he’s asked me to keep.

My gaze moving among the flowers to the cloudstreaked sky, pretending to be preoccupied, captivated by the bounty of nature that surrounds me, when real y I’m just waiting for the inevitable moment when he’l abandon the painting for me.

I al ow my eyes to light onto his, permitting only a ghost of a smile when I see the way his brush trembles—a sure sign that it’s just a matter of seconds before he ditches the pleasure of capturing me on canvas for the pleasure of capturing me in his arms. I can see the hunger, the smoldering blaze of desire that flares in his gaze.

And it’s not long before he sets his brush aside and makes his way toward me. His gait slow, control ed, but completely deliberate, the fire in his eyes heating to where I can feel their warmth from eyes heating to where I can feel their warmth from where I stand. Pretending to be so absorbed in the pose I’ve yet to notice his nearness, the tingle and heat that flows through me, into me, al around me—

a flirtatious game we both like to play.

But instead of taking me into his arms, he stops just before me, face uncertain, fingers quivering as he reaches into his pocket for the smal silver flask. The one containing the strange, red, opalescent brew he often drinks. His eyes continuing to burn into mine, though along with the usual blur of need, there’s something new lurking behind it—something as impossible to read as it is to deny.

His fingers shake as he grasps the flask, lifts it in offering. His body urging me to take it, to taste it, as his tormented gaze tel s a whole other story. Belying a secret battle that wages within, until final y, overruled by an unnamed fear, his expression changes to one of a bitter resolution so brutal, he returns the flask, and reaches for me instead. His arms circling, clasping me tightly to his chest, his body emitting such love, such reverence, I close my eyes and sink into him. Sink into the feel of his touch, of his lips meeting mine—lost in the wonderful, floaty, weightless feeling of being with him. Like skimming through clouds, surfing over rainbows—we are gravity defying, boundless. The two of us locked in the kind of deeply lingering soulful kiss we can no longer manage back home on the earth plane.

Kissing in a way that, while much better than what we’re capable of back home, also bears the restrictions of what transpired before.

His fingers creep upward, slipping into the flimsy silk knot at my neck. Just about to release it, release me, when I (she!) make a smal sound of protest and push him away. And, wel , at that moment, I can’t help but curse her.

Stupid Fleur.

Stupid girl I used to be.

I mean, if she was so dang confident—so carefree and sure of herself—then why did she stop him just when they got to the good part, just when they were about to…

Overcome with annoyance that the decisions I made then continue to haunt me today—determining what we’re capable of, just how far we’re permitted to go—my frustration grows so great, the next thing I know I’m hurled right out of the scene.

Right out of character.