Shadowland (The Immortals #3)(37)

And the way he smiles, the way he gazes into my eyes and smooths my hair off my face makes it impossible to stay mad, impossible to waste any more time on a topic like this when my body’s so close to his.

“Five years is nothing, when you’ve already lived for six hundred,” he says, lips at my cheek, my neck, my ear.

I snuggle closer, knowing he’s right, despite the fact that my perspective’s a little different from his. Having never spent more than two decades in any one incarnation makes five years spent babysitting the twins seem like an eternity.

He pulls me to him, arms locked tightly around me, comforting me in a way I wish could last forever. “Are we good?” he whispers. “Are we finished with this?”

I nod, pressing my body hard against his, having no need for words. The only thing I want now, the only thing that’ll make me feel better is the reassuring feel of his lips.

I shift my body so it’s covering his, conforming to the bend of his chest, the valley of his torso, the bulk near his hips. Hearts beating in perfect cadence, vaguely aware of the slim veil of energy pulsating between us as I lower my mouth to his—pressing and pushing and kneading together—weeks of longing rising to the surface—until all I want to do is infuse my body with his.

He moans, a low primal sound coming from deep within, hands clutched at my waist, bringing me closer ’til there’s nothing between us but two sets of clothes that need to be shed.

I fumble at his fly as he pulls at my tee, breath meeting in short, ragged gasps as our fingers hurry as fast as they can, unable to complete their tasks quickly enough to satisfy our need.

And just as I’ve unbuttoned his jeans and start to slide them down, I realize we’ve gotten so close, the energy veil was pushed out.

“Damen!” I gasp, watching as he leaps from the bed, breath coming so heavy and fast, his words are clipped at the end.

“Ever—I’m—” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry—I thought it was safe—I didn’t realize—”

I reach for my tee and cover myself, cheeks flushed, insides aflame, knowing he’s right, we can’t take the risk—can’t afford to get caught up like that.

“I’m sorry too—I think—I think maybe I pushed it away and—” I bow my head, allowing my hair to fall into my face, feeling small and examined, sure I’m to blame.

The mattress dips as he returns to my side, the veil fully restored as he lifts my chin and makes me face him again. “It’s not your fault—I—I lost focus—I was so caught up in you I couldn’t maintain it.”

“It’s okay. Really,” I say.

“No it’s not. I’m older than you—I should have more control—” He shakes his head and stares at the wall, jaw clenched, gaze far away, eyes suddenly narrowing as he turns back to me and says, “Ever—how do we know if this is even real?”

I squint, having no idea what he means.

“What kind of proof do we have? How do we know Roman’s not just playing us, having a bit of fun at our expense?”

I take a deep breath and shrug, realizing I have no proof at all. My eyes meeting his as I replay the scene from that day, all the way to the end where I add my blood to the mix and make Damen drink, realizing the only proof I have is Roman’s extremely unreliable word.

“Who’s to say this is even legit?” His eyes widen as an idea begins to form. “Roman’s a liar—we’ve no reason to trust him.”

“Yeah, but—it’s not like we can test it. I mean, what if it’s not a big game, what if it is legit? We can’t take the risk—can we?”

Damen smiles, rising from the bed and heading for my desk where he closes his eyes and manifests a tall white candle in an elaborate gold holder, a sharp silver dagger, its blade pointy and smooth, its handle encrusted with crystals and gems, and a gold-framed mirror he sets down beside them, motioning for me to join him as he says, “Normally I would say ladies first—but in this case—”

He holds his hand over the glass and raises the knife, placing the edge to his palm and tracing the curve of his lifeline, watching his blood flow onto the mirror, pooling, coagulating, before closing his eyes and setting the candle aflame. The wound already healed by the time he passes the blade through the blaze, cleansing, purifying, before handing it to me and urging me to do the same.

I lean toward him, inhaling deeply as I quickly slice through my flesh. At first wincing at the sharp stab of pain, then watching fascinated, as the blood pours from my palm and onto the mirror where it slowly creeps toward his.

We stand together, bodies still, breath halted, watching as two ruby red splotches meet, mingle, coalesce—the perfect embodiment of our genetic makeup joining as one—the very thing Roman warned us against.

Waiting for something to happen, some sort of catastrophic punishment for what we’ve both done—but getting nothing—no reaction at all.

“Well, I’ll be damned—” Damen says, eyes meeting mine. “It’s fine! Perfectly—”

His words cut short by the sudden spark and sizzle as our blood begins to boil, conducting so much heat a huge plume of smoke bursts from the mirror and fills up the air—crackling and spitting until the blood evaporates completely. Leaving behind only the sheerest layer of dust on a burnt-out mirror.