“Should I join you?” she asks, her voice lowered, seductive, leading straight into something I so don’t want to witness.

“Nah, it’s pretty cold out here. Hold the thought and I’ll meet you inside,” he answers, much to my relief.

He gives us a thorough once-over. His lips parting as if to say something more, but I just shake my head, close my eyes, and quickly manifest a bouquet of daffodils I urge him to give her.

“What am I supposed to tell her? What should I say?” he whispers, casting a cautious glance toward the window.

“I’d prefer you not say anything, not mention it at all,” I tell him. “But, if you feel you have to, then just tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused, and to not spend another moment feeling guilty about anything she might’ve said out of frustration and anger. I know it sounds cold, and probably pretty awful from your point of view, but please just try to trust me when I say that it’s better this way. We can’t see each other again. It’s impossible, she won’t accept it, and there’s just no way to explain.”

Then before Munoz can react, before he can take a stance, make a promise one way or another, Damen squeezes my hand, pulls me along the stone path, and out the side gate.

The two of us fading into the night until Munoz can no longer see us.

The two of us refusing to look back, knowing it’s better to look forward, toward the future, than to long for a past that’s gone forever.

Chapter eleven

Since it’s our last night together—or at least our last night for an indeterminate amount of time anyway—I’m hoping to do something special.

Something memorable.

Something that Damen can look back on with a smile.

And yet, it probably shouldn’t be too memorable since I can’t afford for him to catch onto the fact that I’m withholding something I’m not quite willing to mention just yet.

While I made up my mind to set off on Lotus’s journey not long after having left Summerland, Damen’s not exactly clued in to that fact.

And since getting him clued in will no doubt lead to an argument of mammoth proportions, I’m hoping to keep the news to myself until I have no choice but to share it with him.

So while he busies himself with the business of brushing his teeth and getting ready for sleep, I slip between the sheets and try to come up with something with which to surprise him. But a moment later, when he pauses in the doorway looking like a glorious vision wrapped in blue silk, the best I can do is gulp, stare, and manifest a single red tulip that floats from my hand to his.

He grins, closes the distance between us in less than a handful of steps, and slides in beside me. His fingers softly tracing the line of my brow as he pushes my hair from my face, gathers me into the crook of his arm, and settles me snugly against him. My cheek pressed hard against his chest as I close my eyes and lose myself in the hum of his heartbeat, the almost feel of his lips, the way his hands play across my skin. Tossing my leg over his, I anchor him to me, concentrating on his essence—his energy—his being—determined to brand every last detail of this moment onto my brain so it never slips away.

And even though I want to speak, to say something meaningful and significant, something to make up for anything bad that might’ve passed between us earlier, with the way his hands smooth and soothe—with the way his voice is reduced to a faint murmur that plays at my ear—it’s not long before I’m lulled away from my waking state and into a deep dreamless sleep.

I wait until midmorning to tell him.

Wait until the showers are taken, the clothes donned, and we find ourselves downstairs in his kitchen, sitting at the breakfast table, enjoying some chilled bottles of elixir while Damen scans the morning papers.

I wait until I have no more excuses to delay what I know must be said.

It’s cowardly, I know, but I do it anyway.

“So, what is this? Day two or three of your week of research?” He looks up, folds his paper in half, and flashes me an irresistible smile as he tilts the bottle to his lips. “Because I think I lost track.” He wipes his mouth with his hand, then his hand on his knee.

I frown, tipping my bottle from side to side, watching the elixir spark and flare as it races up to the rim then back down again. Gnawing my lip, trying to figure out just where to start, then deciding it’s better to dive in, that there’s no reason to delay the inevitable when all paths ultimately lead to the same destination. I discard the usual preemptive pleas of: Please don’t be mad, or, just as ineffective: Please hear me out, in favor of the cleanly stated truth, saying, “I’ve decided to go on that journey.”

He looks at me, face lifting, eyes brightening, the sight of it filling me with instant relief—a relief that’s short lived, vanishing the moment I realize he mistook my use of the word “journey” for the vacation he’s planning.

“Oh, no, not… not that,” I mumble, feeling about this big when I see his face drop. “I meant the journey that Lotus referred to. Though if things go as I well as I hope, then we should have plenty of time for that too.” My hands flop in my lap as I try to force a smile onto my face, but it doesn’t get very far. It’s a false move on my part, and he knows it too.

He turns away, seemingly speechless at what I just said. But by the way his fingers grip his elixir, by the way his jaw tightens and clenches, I know he’s at no loss for words, he’s merely attempting to gather and sort them. He won’t stay silent for long.