Still, it’s time to move on, I’m sure of that now, so I force a smile onto my face, one that starts to feel real the moment I see the freshly picked tulip Damen holds in his hand. His face lights up with a grin that grows in intensity as he moves closer to me, covering the distance in less than a handful of steps, his body appearing like a rapid dark blur until the next thing I know he’s placing the tulip onto my lap, settling in beside me, and glimpsing the remote I still grasp.

“Did you find Jude?” I ask, wanting to cover the serious aspects before we get too distracted by our pasts.

He nods, scooches closer, allows his arm to slide around me.

“And? Did he find anything?”

Damen looks at me, the slight shake of his head the only answer I need.

But even though it leaves me feeling somewhat deflated (okay, maybe more than somewhat), I don’t sigh or groan or anything of the sort. In fact, I don’t do much of anything to let on just how the news affects me.

Part of me knowing it’s all for the best—just when Damen and I are doing so well, fully committed to each other like never before—just when he’s ready to whisk me away on some wonderful, exotic, romantic (still undetermined) vacation—well, the last thing I need is to throw a wrench into our current state of bliss—especially after all that we went through to find ourselves here.

The last thing we need is for me to lead us all off on some crazy wild-goose chase, steadfastly ignoring the obvious, the glaring, impossible-to-ignore fact that all signs clearly point to me being wrong. Well aware that this is one of those times when it’s best to be wrong, that being right would only end in a batch of extreme unpleasantness.

Yep, part of me knows exactly that.

And, as for the other part, well, it’s just gonna have to learn to cry uncle.

“So, which one will it be?” Damen asks, wasting no time in stealing the remote.

I narrow my eyes, frowning at him in a playful way. Remembering the last time he didn’t swipe it in time, allowing me to push a series of buttons that revealed a tragic yet ultimately hopeful slave life he’d hoped to keep hidden.

“It’s not because of that,” he says, misreading the frown and trying to hand it right back. Wanting me to know, in no uncertain terms, that I really, truly have seen it all, witnessed all of my lives, no matter how bad.

But I’m quick to wave it away, everything I’ve tried so far has failed, so I’m happy to let him take over from here.

My gaze level on his, unable to keep the flush from rising to my cheeks when I say, “How about London?” I blush. I can’t help it. No matter how frivolous and shallow I might’ve been, I’m really quite fond of the life I once lived as the beautiful, dark-haired, spoiled daughter of a British land baron. I guess because I was so untroubled back then, so free of burdens. My untimely demise at Drina’s hands was the only dark spot on that entire horizon.

Damen squints, fingers poised over the buttons. “Are you sure? London? Not Amsterdam?” He looks at me with an irresistible puppy dog gaze.

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 all that time I spent boring him to death in the Great Halls 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 usually 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 usually 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 all around me, precariously held together by a loose knot tied at the back of my neck, well, 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, gracefully, 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 cloud-streaked sky, pretending to be preoccupied, captivated by the bounty of nature that surrounds me, when really I’m just waiting for the inevitable moment when he’ll abandon the painting for me.