Синяя Луна

He shakes Sabine's hand and heads out the door, his fingers entwined around mine, sending a warm wonderful thrum through my body. "Sorry about the whole di

He presses his lips to my cheek, then slides into his car. "She cares about you. Wants to make sure I'm good enough, sincere, and not out to hurt you. Believe me, we've been through this before. And though I may have come close once or twice, I don't remember ever failing inspection." He smiles.

"Aw yes, the strict Puritan father," I say, figuring he's the perfect description of an overbearing parental type.

"You'd be surprised." Damen laughs. "The wealthy landowner was much more of a gatekeeper. And yet still, I managed to sneak by."

"Maybe someday you'll show me your past," I say.

"You know, how your life was before we met. Your home, your parents, how you became this way ..." My voice trails off, seeing the flash of pain in his eyes and knowing he's still unwilling to discuss it. He always shuts down, refuses to share, which only makes me even more curious.

"None of that matters," he says, releasing my hand and fiddling with his mirrors, anything to avoid looking at me. "All that matters is now.”

"Yeah, but Damen —" I start, wanting to explain that it's not just curiosity I'm after, but a closeness, a bond, wishing he'd trust me with those long-ago secrets. But when I look at him again, I know better than to press.

Besides, maybe it's time I extend a little trust too.

"I was thinking ..." I say, my fingers fiddling with the hem on my shirt.

He looks at me, his hand on the clutch, ready to shift into reverse.

"Why don't you go ahead and make that reservation."

I nod, my lips pressed together, my gaze focused on his. "You know, for the Montage or the Ritz?" I add, holding my breath as his beautiful dark eyes graze over my face.

"You sure?"

I nod. Knowing I am. We've been waiting for this moment for hundreds of years, so why delay any longer? "More than sure," I say, my eyes meeting his.

He smiles, his face lighting up for the first time all day. And I'm so relieved to see him looking normal again after that strange behavior from before —his remoteness at school, his inability to make the portal appear, his not feeling well —all of it so unlike the Damen I know. He's always so strong, sexy, beautiful, and invincible—immune to weak moments and bad days. And seeing him vulnerable like that has left me far more shaken than I care to admit. "Consider it done," he says, filling my arms with dozens of manifested red tulips before speeding away.

CHAPTER 8

The next morning when I meet Damen in the parking lot, all my worries disappear. Because the moment he opens my door and helps me out of my car, I notice how healthy he looks, how devastatingly handsome he is, and when I look in his eyes, it's clear that all of yesterday's weirdness is over. We are more in love than ever.

Seriously. All through English he can barely keep his hands off of me. Constantly leaning toward my desk and whispering into my ear, much to Mr. Robins's a

Usually when he acts like that, it's partly out of love, and partly to tone down all of the noise and energy —all of the random sights, sounds, and colors that constantly bombard me. Ever since I broke the psychic shield I'd made a few months back, a shield that shut everything out and made me as clueless as I was before I died and came back psychic, I've yet to find a way to replace it that will allow me to cha

But today, all of those sweet murmurings aren't just to shield me —they're mostly about our upcoming plans.

The suite he booked at the Montage Resort. And how he's yearned so long for this night.

"Do you have any idea what it's like to wait for something for four hundred years?" he whispers, his lips nipping at the curve of my ear.

"Four hundred? I thought you've been around for six hundred?" I say, pulling away to get a better view of his face.

"Unfortunately a couple of centuries had to pass before I found you," he whispers, his mouth making its way from my neck to my ear. "Two very lonely centuries, I might add."

I swallow hard. Knowing the loneliness he refers to does not necessarily mean he was alone. In fact, quite the contrary. But still, I don't call him on it. In fact, I don't say a word. I'm committed to moving past all of that, getting over my insecurities and moving forward. Just like I promised I would.

I refuse to think about how he spent those first two hundred years without me.

Or how he spent the next four hundred getting over the fact that he'd lost me.

Nor will I even begin to consider the six-hundred-year head start he has on studying and practicing the —um—sensual arts.

And I will absolutely, positively, not dwell on all of the beautiful, worldly, experienced women he knew over the span of those years.

Nope.

Not me.

I refuse to even go there.

"Shall I pick you up at six?" he asks, gathering my hair at my nape and twisting it into a long blond rope. "We can go to di

"Except we don't really eat," I remind him.

"All, yes. Good point." He smiles, releasing my hair so that it flows back around my shoulders and drops down to my waist. "Though I'm sure we can find something else to occupy our time?"

I smile, having already told Sabine that I'm staying at Haven's and hoping she doesn't try to follow up. She used to be so good about taking me at my word, but ever since I was caught drinking, got suspended, and basically stopped eating, she's been prone to following through.

"Are you sure you're okay with all this?" Damen asks, misreading the look on my face as indecision, when it's really just nerves.

I smile and lean in to kiss him, eager to erase any lingering doubts (mine more than his), just as Miles tosses his bag on the table and says, "Oh, Haven, look!

They're back. The lovebirds have returned!"

I pull away, my face flushing with embarrassment as Haven laughs and sits down beside him, her eyes sca

"He was in homeroom." Miles shrugs, removing the top from his yogurt and hunching over his script.

And he was in history, I think, remembering how I ignored him all through class, despite his numerous attempts to get my attention, and how after the bell rang, I hung back, pretending to look for something in my bag. Preferring the weight of Mr. Munoz's penetrating stare and his conflicted thoughts about me (my good grades versus my undeniable weirdness) to dealing with Roman.