Shadowland (The Immortals #3)(7)

“I mean, I know we can’t risk any accidental palm sweat exchange or anything like that, but still, don’t you think it looks kind of—odd?” I whisper, the second we’re alone again.

“I don’t care about that.” His gaze open, sincere, and fixed right on mine. “I don’t care what other people think. I only care about you.”

He squeezes my fingers and opens the door with his mind, leading me right past Stacia Miller as we head for our desks. And even though I haven’t seen her since Friday when she woke from Roman’s spell, I’m sure her hatred for me hasn’t dampened a bit. But while I’m fully braced for her usual ploy of dropping her bag in my path in an attempt to trip me—today she’s too distracted by Damen’s new look to play that tired old game. Her unhurried gaze traveling the length of him, from his head to his toes, before starting all over again.

But just because she ignores me doesn’t mean I can relax or trust that it’s over. Because the truth is, it’s never over with Stacia. She’s made that abundantly clear. If anything she’s probably more charged up and vicious than ever—making this little reprieve nothing more than the calm before the storm.

“Ignore her,” Damen whispers, scooting his desk so close the edges practically overlap.

And even though I nod as though I am, the truth is—I can’t. As much as I’d love to pretend she’s invisible—I can’t do it. She’s in front of me now and I’m completely obsessed. Peering into her thoughts, wanting to see what, if anything, happened between them. Because even though I know Roman’s responsible for all of the flirting, and kissing, and cuddling, I had no choice but to watch. Even though I know for a fact that Damen was completely deprived of free will—that doesn’t change the fact that it happened—that Damen’s lips pressed against hers while his hands roamed her skin. And even though I’m pretty sure it didn’t go any further than that, I’d still feel a heck of a lot better if I could just get some evidence to back up my theory.

And despite how crazy, hurtful, and completely masochistic it is—I won’t stop until her memory gives, and every last horrible, painful, excruciating detail is finally revealed.

I’m just about to delve deeper, travel to the very core of her brain, when Damen squeezes my hand and says, “Ever, please. Stop torturing yourself. I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to see.” I swallow hard, gaze fixed on the back of her head, watching her gossip with Honor and Craig, barely listening as he adds, “It didn’t happen. It’s not what you think.”

“I thought you couldn’t remember?” I turn, overcome with shame the instant I see the pain in his eyes as he looks at me and shakes his head.

“Just trust me.” He sighs. “Or at least try to. Please?”

I inhale deeply, gazing at him, wishing I could, knowing I should.

“Seriously, Ever. First you couldn’t get over the past six hundred years of my dating, and now you’re obsessed with last week?” He knits his brow and leans closer, voice urgent, coaxing, as he adds, “I know that your feelings are unbelievably hurt. Really, I do. But what’s done is done. I can’t go back, I can’t change it. Roman’s done this on purpose—you can’t let him win.”

I swallow hard, knowing he’s right. I’m acting ridiculous, irrational, allowing myself to veer way off track.

Besides, Damen thinks, switching to telepathy now that our teacher, Mr. Robins, has arrived. You know it’s meaningless. The only one I’ve ever loved is you. Isn’t that enough?

He brings his gloved thumb to my temple, gazing into my eyes as he shows me our history, my many incarnations as a young servant girl in France, a Puritan’s daughter in New England, a flirtatious British socialite, an artist’s muse with gorgeous red hair—

I gape, eyes wide, never having seen that particular life before.

But he just smiles, gaze growing warmer as he shows me the highlights of that time, a quick clip of the moment we met—at a gallery opening in Amsterdam—our first kiss just outside of the gallery that very same night. Presenting only the most romantic moments and sparing my death, which always, inevitably, comes before we can progress.

And after watching all of those beautiful moments unfold, his unabashed love for me laid bare to see, I gaze into his eyes, answering his question when I think: Of course it’s enough. You’ve always been enough.

Then closing them in shame when I add: But am I enough for you?

Finally admitting the real truth—my fear that he’ll soon tire of the gloved hand-holding, the telepathic embrace, and seek out the real thing in a normal girl with safe DNA.

He nods, gloved fingers cupping my chin as he gathers me into a mental embrace so warm, so safe, so comforting, all of my fears slip away. Answering the apology in my gaze as he leans forward, lips at my ear as he says, “Good. Now that that’s settled, about Roman . . .”





four


As I make my way toward history class I’m wondering which will be worse—seeing Roman or Mr. Munoz? Because while I haven’t seen or spoken to either of them since last Friday when my whole world fell apart—there’s no doubt I left them both on a pretty strange note. My last contact with Munoz consisting of me going all sentimental and not only confiding my psychic powers—which is something I never do—but also encouraging him to date my aunt Sabine—which is something I’m seriously beginning to regret. And as awful as that was, it’s only rivaled by my last moments with Roman when I aimed my fist at his navel chakra, determined not just to kill him but to obliterate him completely. And I would have too—except for the fact that I totally choked and he got away. And even though in retrospect that probably worked out for the best, I’m still so angry with him, who’s to say I won’t try again?