I swallow hard and move toward him, part of my brain shouting: Tell him! Tell him what really led you to this conclusion. What happened with Roman—just how dark and twisted you got!

While the other part, the part I choose to listen to, says: You’ve said plenty enough already—time to move on! The last thing he wants are the disgusting details.

He moves toward me, reaches for my hands and pulls me close to him, answering the question in my gaze when he says, “I forgive you, Ever. I’ll always forgive you. I know your admitting to all this wasn’t easy, but I really do appreciate it.”

I swallow hard, knowing that now is my chance, my very last chance, that it’s far better he hear it from me than from Roman. But just as I’m about to, he runs his hand down my back and the thought melts away, until all I can focus on is the feel of him, the warmth of his breath on my cheek, the soft almost feel of his lips at my ear, the amazing sensation of tingle and heat that courses all the way from my head to my toes. His lips finding mine, pushing, pressing, as that ever-present shield hovers between us. But I’m done with resenting it, done with paying it any notice at all. I’m determined to celebrate things just as they are.

“Wanna go make out in Summerland?” he whispers, only half joking. “You can be the muse and I can be the artist, and—”

“And you can kiss me so much you never actually finish that painting?” I pull away and laugh, but he just pulls me back to him.

“But—I’ve already painted you.” He smiles. “The only painting of mine that truly matters.” Then seeing my quizzical look, he adds, “You know, the one that’s somewhere in the Getty as we speak?”

“Ah yes.” I laugh, remembering that magical night, when he painted a version of me so beautiful, so angelic, I was sure I didn’t deserve it. But I’m done thinking like that. If what Ava says is right, if like attracts like and water really does seek its own level and all that, then I’d much rather reach for Damen’s level than Roman’s, and here’s where I start. “It’s probably in some underground lab, in some high-security, windowless basement, where hundreds of art historians are gathered for the sole purpose of studying it, trying to determine who painted it, and where it could’ve possibly come from.”

“You think?” He gazes into the distance, obviously enjoying the idea.

“So,” I murmur, pressing my lips to his jaw, as my fingers play at the silky collar of his robe. “When do we get to celebrate your birthday? And how will I ever possibly top the present you gave me?”

He turns his head and sighs, the kind of sigh that comes from somewhere down deep, and I don’t mean physically, but emotionally. It’s a sigh filled with sadness and regret. It’s the sound of melancholy.

“Ever, you don’t need to concern yourself with my birthday. I haven’t celebrated a birthday of mine since—”

Since his tenth. Of course! That horrible day that started off so good and ended with him being forced to watch his parents get murdered. How could I forget?

“Damen, I’m—”

I start to apologize, but he waves it away, turning his back and heading for the Velázquez painting of him astride the rearing, white stallion with the thick, curly mane. Fiddling with the corner of the oversized, ornate, gilt frame as though it desperately needs adjusting even though it’s clear that it doesn’t.

“No need to apologize,” he says, still unwilling to look at me. “Really. I guess marking the years doesn’t feel quite so important after you’ve lived through so many of them.”

“Will it be that way for me?” I ask, having a hard time not caring about a birthday, or even worse, forgetting which day it falls on.

“I won’t let it be that way for you.” He turns, face lighting up as he takes me in. “Every day will be a celebration—from here on out. I promise you that.”

But even though he’s sincere, even though he means just exactly that, I still look at him and shake my head. Because the truth is, as committed as I am to clearing my energy and only focusing on the good, positive things that I want, life is still life. It’s still tough, complicated, and more than a little messy, with lessons to be learned, mistakes to be made, triumphs and disappointments to be had, and not every day is meant to be a party. And I think I finally realize, finally accept that that’s perfectly okay. I mean, from what I saw, even Summerland has its dark side, its own version of a shadow self, a small dark corner in the midst of all that light—or at least that’s how it appeared to me.

I look at him, knowing I need to tell him, wondering why I haven’t mentioned it yet, when my phone rings, and we look at each other and shout, “Guess!” A game we sometimes play to see whose psychic powers are stronger, faster, and we’re only allowed one second to answer.

“Sabine!” I nod, logically assuming she woke up, found my bed empty, and is now calmly going about discovering whether I’ve been abducted or left of my own free will.

But less than a fraction of a second later Damen says, “Miles.” But his voice isn’t at all playful, and his gaze goes dark and worried.

I pull my phone from my bag, and sure enough, there’s that photo I took of Miles in full-on Tracy Turnblad drag, striking a pose and beaming at me.

“Hey, Miles,” I say, met by an earful of buzz, hum, and static, the usual transatlantic phone call soundtrack.