His breath fogs up the glass, prompting him to swipe a finger across it, then clear it with the scorched palm of his smoldering hand.

Drina Magdalena, you are Poverina no more. So please go. Be free. You have other places to be. I was never meant to be your destiny.

He taps the crystal to the glass, drags it down each side, a bit across the top. Encouraging it to shatter into long, thin strips that fall to the ground before breaking into much small er pieces that crumble at his feet.

I brace myself. Brace for just about anything. Expecting an angry whirl of energy that, if history is any indication, will most likely hurl itself straight at me.

Which is why I’m surprised when she chooses to seep out slowly.

Her energy hovering before us, expanding, stretching, at first forming into a brief image of herself as my cousin Esme that lasts only a few seconds before she settles into her last incarnation as the gloriously beautiful, red-haired, green-eyed Drina—a beauty so startling even death cannot mar it.

She floats closer to Damen, her gaze moving over him, drinking him in as a quiet communication passes between them. And even though I can hear it, even though neither one of them tries to hide it from me, I still turn away, try to grant them their privacy. Catching only about every third word, leaving their dialogue sounding something like:

Sorry—forgive you—forgive me—wrong—wasted—misguided—regretful—then back to sorry again.

She reaches toward him, cups his face between her fingers, her mouth tugging down at the corners when he involuntarily flinches at the feel of her—her gaze saddening at the bottomless pool of regret she finds in his eyes.

And when she turns to me, it’s not at all what I expected. The usual score of hate, taunts, and threats has been replaced with a soft lilting reverence.

I should’ve known the first time I killed you, she thinks. I should’ve realized back then that even without your presence beside him, your love never died. I may have succeeded in borrowing him for a time, but he was never really mine, and it was never very long before he went searching for you again. Throughout all of these years, from the very first moment he met you as Adelina, his heart was claimed for good. He belongs only to you. You and Damen are meant to be. And I’ve been a fool for interfering. She sighs, shakes her head, reaches forward as though to touch me, but then, remembering Damen’s reaction, she thinks better, returns her arm to her side.

And I’m not sure who’s more surprised, her, Damen, or me, when I choose to step forward—when I choose to reach for her hand and grasp it in mine. Suddenly knowing why Damen flinched the way he did, it’s not so much the cold, it’s more the buzz of her energy—the sheer, vibrating intensity is hard to get used to.

The words streaming into my head when she thinks: If you can forgive me, then soon, I’ll be leaving.

I gaze into the eyes of the person who killed me time and time again. Trying to rid herself of me, rid the world of me, only to find that she couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried, I kept coming back. And I’m amazed to find I can no longer think of her as the enemy. Now that I know the truth, know that we’re connected, that I’m as much a part of her as she is of me, I can no longer hate her. And even though this seems like the end, this good-bye is probably only temporary. I’ve no doubt we’ll someday meet again. I just hope she can manage to hold on to some of the wisdom she’s gained.

She smiles, her face lighting up in a way that leaves her looking positively radiant, and at first I think it’s a response to what I just thought, only to see her eyes moving over me, motioning for Damen to look too.

Look—you’re glowing! Her expression changing to confusion when she adds: But… how can that be? Immortals don’t glow. You never glowed. But now you do. It’s so odd—what do you suppose that it means?

Damen squints, unable to see what I see—what she sees—the faint trace of purple that emanates from me, all around me.

She pauses, waiting for me to explain, but since I don’t even know where to begin, I just lift my shoulders and quirk my mouth to the side.

And Roman—have you sent him here too? She looks straight at me.

I pause, wanting to stress that it wasn’t me who killed Roman—that, contrary to some people’s opinions I’m not some crazy immortal killer. But soon realize that two out of three is hardly a record worth bragging about, much less defending, I gulp down the words and nod toward the last two remaining cubes.

And just like when Damen approached hers, when she approaches Roman’s, all activity halts as he senses her presence and cries out for her. And the second Damen cracks it open, Roman whirls out in a furious storm of energy that expands and forms, spending a few seconds as the handsome, rakish Rhys before he settles on the way he looked as the even more handsome, even more rakish Roman. Complete with golden tousled hair, piercing blue eyes, suntanned skin, faded jeans that hang dangerously low, and an unbuttoned white linen shirt that showcases his finely sculpted abs.

But even though Damen and I stand right there before him, ready to explain, defend our actions, do whatever it takes to ease what could very easily become a precarious situation—just like in life, his sole focus is Drina.

She’s all he can see.

Though unlike the past six centuries, Drina can finally see him.

The two of them drawn to each other, gazing at each other for so long, Damen clasps my hand in his and starts to move away, nearing the last remaining block when Roman calls: Brother.