Shadowland (The Immortals #3)(67)
My vision goes blurry, throat hot and tight. Surely he can’t mean what I think?
Can he?
Gazing upon him as he stands before me, my perfect soul mate, the love of my lives, the one person I was sure was my shelter now leaving my side.
“I’ve no right to barge into your life in the way that I have. Never giving you the chance to choose for yourself. And you know what the worst part is?” He looks at me, eyes filled with such self-loathing I’m pressed to look away. “I wasn’t even noble enough, wasn’t even man enough, to play fair.” He shakes his head. “I used every trick in the book, all the powers at my disposal to annihilate the competition. And while I’ve no way to change the past four hundred years—nor the immortality I’ve forced upon you—I’m hoping that now—by stepping aside—I’ll allow you some smidgen of freedom in allowing you to choose.”
“Between you and Jude?” I gape, voice rising to the point of hysteria, wanting him to say it. Just say it. Quit dancing around it and get to the point.
But he just continues to stand there, world-weary gaze focused on mine.
“Well, there is no choice! No choice at all! Jude is my boss—he’s not the least bit interested in me—or I in him!”
“Then you fail to see what I see,” Damen says, as though it’s a fact—some large, solid object parked right before me.
“That’s because there’s nothing to see. Don’t you get it? All I see is you!” I gaze at him, vision blurry, hands shaky, feeling so awful and empty as though each breath just might be my last.
But as soon as I’ve said it, Damen highlights the painting again. Causing it to glow in a way that can’t be ignored. But even though he thinks it’s significant, that girl is a stranger to me. My soul may have once occupied her body, but it’s no longer home.
I start to speak, wanting to explain that, but no words will come. Only a long piercing wail that courses from my mind to his. A sound that means please and don’t—a sound without end.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, immune to my plea. “I’ll always be close, somewhere nearby. Able to sense you, keeping you safe. But as for the rest—” He shakes his head, voice defeated, sad, but determined to be heard. “I’m afraid I can no longer—I’m afraid I’ll have to—”
But I won’t let him finish, can’t let him finish, cutting right in when I cry, “I’ve already tried a life without you, when I went back in time, and guess what? Fate sent me right back!” Gaze blurred by tears, but I don’t turn away. I want him to see it. Want him to know exactly what his misguided altruism is costing me.
“But, Ever, that doesn’t mean you were meant to be with me, maybe you were sent back to find Jude, and now that you have—”
“Fine,” I say, refusing to let him finish, not when I have plenty more evidence proving my case. “Then what about the time you held your hand close, making me focus on our tingle and heat, claiming that’s exactly how it feels between soul mates? What about that? Did you not mean it? Are you taking it back?”
“Ever—” He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. “Ever, I—”
“Don’t you get it?” I shake my head, sensing his energy, knowing it won’t make the least bit of difference but continuing anyway. “Don’t you see that I only want you?”
He brings his hand to my cheek, fingers so soft and loving—a cruel reminder of what I’ll no longer have—his thoughts traveling the distance from his head to mine, pleading with me to understand, to give it some time.
Please don’t think this is easy for me. I had no idea how painful it is to act without the slightest hint of self-interest—maybe that’s why I never tried before? He smiles, attempting a bit of levity that I refuse to accept. Wanting him to feel as awful and empty as me. I robbed you of ever seeing your family again—put your very soul at risk—his gaze narrows on mine—But, Ever, you’ve got to listen, you must understand, it’s time for you to choose the one thing you still can—without interference from me!
“I’ve already chosen,” I say, voice wooden, weary, too tired to fight. “I chose you and you can’t take it back.” I look at him, knowing my words are useless, he’s fixed on his plan. “Damen, seriously, so I knew him hundreds of years ago in a country I haven’t visited since. Big deal! One life—out of how many?”
He looks at me for a moment, then closes his eyes, voice barely a whisper as he says, “It wasn’t just one life, Ever.” Fading the gallery though keeping the windmills and tulips as he manifests a whole world before me—several worlds in fact—Paris—London—New England—all lined up in a row, placed right in the middle of Amsterdam where we both stand. Worlds that stay true to their time—the architecture, the clothing—all indicative of their period—yet devoid of their citizens—populated only by three.
Me in all of my guises—a lowly Parisian servant—spoiled London society girl—daughter of a Puritan—with Jude always beside me—a French stable boy—a British Earl—a fellow parishioner—each of us different, changing, though the eyes are the same.
And I watch, focusing on one vignette at a time, the scene playing before me like a well-staged play. My interest in Jude always waning the moment Damen comes on the scene—just as magical and mesmerizing as he is today, using all of his tricks to steal me away.