

### Eternal Eden

by

Nicole Williams

Copyright 2011

Smashwords Edition

### CHAPTER ONE

### HAUNTED

A mark of destiny.

That's what Mom called the star-shaped birthmark on the inside of my left wrist. She said it was destiny's way of marking me so the world would know to have something big planned for yours truly. I'm sure if she were still here today she would have changed her mind and believed what I did now—my mark of destiny was more like a magnet for tragedy.

Mark or magnet aside, _something_ had led me to Corvallis, Oregon—home of Oregon State University—several days before winter quarter was scheduled to commence. I hovered beside the only remaining companion in my life, unable to muster up the courage to take my first step in this new phase of life.

The monstrosity before me would be serving as "home sweet home" for the next seven months, and if it had a chain-link fence topped with curls of barbed wire, it could have been mistaken for a penitentiary instead of a dorm.

I took a good look at the brick and mortar face of the change I'd selected for myself, and an air of finality settled upon me; confirming what I'd known, but tried so hard to overcome. No matter where I went, I could never leave my past behind. It would always haunt me.

With this cheery thought, I sucked in a deep breath and got after that first step. The next thing I felt was the toe of my sneaker stumble over something—as if a foretelling of what was to come—and I flailed my arms forward, preparing to break my fall.

"Whoa, there." A set of arms reached out and stopped me before I got up close and personal with the sidewalk. "Curb check."

I righted myself and brushed aside the mess of hair that had fallen over my face. "Thanks," I said, blowing aside the final strands. "Those curbs must have some sort-of vendetta against me."

"Not your first run-in, huh?"

"Not the last either," I said, finally able to see who was responsible for sparing me a set of scraped palms.

He was the kind of guy who would turn a lot of women's heads—he had that high-school star of the football team quality—and there was something in his eyes that led me to believe he was fully aware of this.

"Paul Lowe," he said, extending his hand. "Junior, Captain of the basketball team, and heroic curb slayer."

I placed my hand in his, attempting to stifle my smile. "Bryn Dawson. Sophomore, Scrabble player extraordinaire, and thankful to the mighty curb slayer," I said with mock seriousness.

"Nice to meet you, Bryn. So you're new here?"

My smile waned. Great . . . was it that obvious? All I wanted was to fade into the crowd. That's what I'd managed to do my whole life, why couldn't I do it now when it actually mattered to me?

I'd always been that girl you could have seen at graduation and wondered if you'd gone to school with her for the past four years. Back then, it was a curse, now I craved anonymity like a socialite craved the limelight.

I cleared my throat. "How did you know?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Several things tipped me off: one—the sweet car," he began, pointing his turquoise colored eyes in the direction of my vintage Camaro. "Two—the cardboard boxes in the back seat. Three—you look more lost than a Delta Gamma in a study session, and four . . ."—he laughed a few notes and stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans—"actually, I'll keep four to myself. The first three reasons should be convincing enough."

"Another girl throwing herself at you, Paul?" A female student walked up behind him and circled her hands around his arm, giving me a look that had enough firepower behind it to decimate the campus and surrounding community.

"Hey, Amy," Paul said, his eyes narrowing.

"Who's your new friend?" she asked him while looking me over top to bottom, no attempt to disguise that she disapproved of every millimeter of my 5 foot 10 inch frame.

"This is Bryn. She's new here," he said, winking at me as if sharing some secret, before tilting his head to the girl glommed to his arm. "This is Amy Kirkpatrick."

She was that girl in school all the girls would have died to look like, and all the boys would have died to go out with. Her legs were as bronze as they were long and the denim skirt that adorned them didn't leave much leg to the imagination.

"His girlfriend," she said promptly, the warning in her voice more severe than the look on her face.

Paul raised his eyebrows at her. "I wasn't aware that's what we were still calling it."

She shot him a look that would have crippled me, before glaring back at me. I crossed my arms tight into my stomach, wondering yet again why girls like Amy sought me out as a target for their games of malice. "Always the comedian. You have to watch out for him, Bryn. If you're not careful he'll have you hanging on his every word and believing he's the unofficial prince of OSU."

I wasn't sure how to respond, and I didn't want to get in the middle of some lover's quarrel on my first day, so I plastered on a smile and turned to retrieve one of the boxes in my car.

"Let me help you get situated," Paul said, taking a step forward and pushing up his sleeves. He reached for the box I was pulling from the back seat.

"I'll do it," Amy said, striding forward and adhering herself to Paul again. I glanced down at the four inch heels on her boots and wondered how she could walk, let alone carry a box that easily weighed half her body weight. "Hey Melanie!" she yelled across the courtyard.

A female who was the brunette equivalent to Amy turned her head from the group of girls who looked like they were dressed for some high-fashion magazine photo shoot. Wasn't I in Oregon, home of Birkenstocks and polar fleece? My jeans, sneakers and plainness were clearly going to stick out here as much as they had back home.

"Come help me get the new girl situated. You can catch up on your daily gossip later."

"Really, I'll be alright," I said, dreading being sandwiched in a tiny dorm room with her and her friend.

Amy raised her hand at my face, silencing me, before turning to Paul. "You can't afford to miss Organic Chem if you want to pass the MCAT's this spring."

Paul shrugged his shoulders. "I can skip."

"Don't be silly," Amy interrupted, grabbing the box he had in his hands. She pinched it with the tips of her fingers and curled her nose. "This way Bryn will have a chance to make a couple new girlfriends."

Paul's eyebrows peaked; mine followed suit.

"Grab a box, Mel," she instructed, once her friend sauntered her way to us. Amy shoved Paul with her hip. "Off you go."

"Alright, alright" he said, taking a step back and looking at me as if still undecided. "I'll catch up with you later, Bryn."

"Okay," I said, knowing the only time I'd see him again would be in passing. Guys like Paul didn't seek me out. They avoided me like ordinary was contagious. "Thanks for saving me from this nasty curb," I said, stubbing my foot against it.

"Anytime," he said, making an exaggerated bow. "At your service."

Amy rolled her eyes, her back now to Paul.

I pretended not to notice and headed over to the passenger side to pull out another box. When I turned around, Amy was right in my face, her eyes sparking with anger. She took a step forward and crossed her arms. "You must think you're so clever."

My face contorted with its confusion. I didn't understand how I'd offended this girl so much just by showing up today. She couldn't possibly think I was a competitor in the dating arena she traversed. She was a ten, I was a five . . . maybe a six on a good day.

"It takes a heck of a lot more than some lousy damsel in distress act to hook Paul Lowe."

I was too bewildered to respond, but something told me she wasn't interested in whatever my response would have been.

"Take a number and get it line," she sneered, her eyes narrowing into slits before she dropped my box at my feet.

"Like the rest of us." Melanie giggled. Amy spun on her heel and grabbed her friend's hand as they marched off together, leaving behind their warm welcome.

"Thanks for the advice," I whispered, stooping down to pick up the box, reminding myself that I wasn't here to make friends.

I was here because I'd stood over an atlas of the United States that last night in my Ivy League dorm room, and with my eyes closed, crashed my finger down on some fortuitous location. When I opened my eyes, I found my index finger crushing the state of Oregon, right over the top of Corvallis, home of the OSU Beavers.

I was here to waste away a few years of my life, until I had to go onto something else where I would waste away a few more years. This was all just some crappy cover—I already knew who I was and what I'd done. I didn't need the whole college experience to better define me.

### CHAPTER TWO

### WILLIAM

Professor Roberts slid last week's quiz facedown and patted my desk, as if trying to ease the shame of the grade circled in red pen. If I was lucky it would be a D, but since I was never lucky, it was likely an F; F for flunking, failure, forget-about-law-school.

I'd squeaked through winter quarter an eighth of a grade point above academic probation, but only two weeks into spring quarter, I doubted I'd make it another two before having my student file tagged with the dreaded term. Wouldn't be the first time.

"You're on the Welcome Wagon Committee, right?" Professor Roberts asked, drawing my attention from the quiz where I was still debating if I should turn it over to inspect the damage.

"Yep," I answered automatically. I was on every and any committee, team, group, or club that would have me. I was desperate to fill every waking second with something to keep my thoughts from wandering to that night nearly six months back, and since my academic aptitude had taken an extended vacation, I'd signed up for three intramural teams with varying degrees of a ball and racket, an outreach program for disadvantaged children at a local elementary school, chess club (I didn't know how to play and was the only female, but the guys at least didn't treat me like I was a mutated form of the bubonic plague), and I mucked out stalls twice a week at a local horse rescue shelter.

"I was just assigned a new student who is starting next week and requested a tour of the campus." Professor Roberts was my academic advisor too, although since he hadn't even known how many credits it took to graduate when I'd ask him, I'd consider the title _advisor_ a stretch.

"No problem," I said, shoving my quiz in my bag without peeking at the grade. If I didn't look, I could live in a state of denial that I'd outdone myself by earning a C. "I've got Monday afternoon open."

"Actually,"—he cleared his throat—"the student requested the tour for this evening."

I stood up and swung my bag over my shoulder. "It's Friday, there's three dozen parties taking place tonight if the new student wants to get a feel for college life at OSU." I, however, hadn't taken part in any of these college rites of passage yet. I was a bonafide freak-of-nature by my college-aged peer's standards. "I'm sure it's not that big of a deal if we wait until Monday." I was irked someone would think they were so important to need a tour on a Friday night with a few hours notice, and even more irked I didn't have anything planned to have an excuse to fall back on.

Another clearing of his throat, and not in the I-need-a-lozenge-kind-of-way. "The student's family made a considerable donation to the school"—nothing like the all-powerful buck to bend people over backwards—"and I already told him we'd have no problem getting a tour arranged for tonight."

A him—perfect. Just what the world needed; another entitled, rich, man-boy skating through life on his daddy's designer coat-tails.

"Of course if you're not available tonight I can do some checking to see if someone else is available," he said, as a gesture. We both knew there was no one but me on the committee—at the whole university—who would be free on a Friday night.

"I'll do it," I sighed under my breath. "No problem."

His shoulder's fell. "Great, thanks Bryn." He stepped aside and let me pass by. "He said he'd be at the MU commons at seven tonight."

Mr. Money-Bags had already set a time and location before anyone had agreed to it. How typical. He was feeding into every stereotype of a rich boy I had.

"Name?" I called out over my shoulder, shoving the auditorium door open.

"William," he hollered, the name rolling down the aisle and blowing over me. I got a sudden chill. "William Winters."

"How am I supposed to find him in the MU?" The building was huge and packed to overflowing with bodies around the clock.

"If it's anything like when I met him for breakfast this morning in the cafeteria"—he scratched his head, chuckling—"he'll be surrounded by a throng of women."

Super—a rich, entitled, womanizer. My favorite kind of human beings to be around.

I crunched through the wintered grass towards the MU a little past seven, kicking a pinecone in an effort to release some tension. I was still irritated I'd been conned into this, and more irritated I'd gone through two outfits before settling on the fitted cashmere sweater and dark skinny jeans I had on. I tried convincing myself that my indecision had nothing to do with the new student I'd be playing tour guide for tonight, but the only other time I'd gone through several wardrobe changes had been . . . never. Not even on a first day of school.

I sent another pinecone sailing into the slithering fog, contemplating turning around and changing into a mismatched pair of baggy sweats and throwing my freshly straightened hair under a baseball cap. I didn't need—or want—the approval of the new guy. As a matter of fact, I hoped he didn't approve of me at all.

The fog gave way to the hazy shape of the MU building, its windows glowing like a beacon light. Eager to be rid of the winter chill still hanging in the damp Oregon air, and wishing even more I had a sweatshirt to cover the thin sweater, I jogged the remaining distance and heaved the glass entry door open. I crossed my arms, rubbing them together to create some heat, as I scanned the room.

It took me two blinks to find him—although I couldn't exactly _see_ him. Professor Robert's had underestimated when he'd said a throng of women. I'd call it more of a gaggle; a strutting, eyelid-fluttering, glossy gaggle of female co-eds about five deep.

Now I was even angrier with myself for caring so much about what I looked like tonight because I'd come down to their level. That level being where one's worth came from whatever a man thought of them, and pathetically, my best attempts didn't even register with the sparkling, twirling gaggle of spinners before me.

I turned to leave, knowing I'd owe Professor Roberts a huge apology on Monday, when a voice cut through all the commotion. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone here, but she's already ten minutes late."

I spun on my heels, that quick-trigger Irish anger rising up. Here I was, taking time out of my life—on a Friday night, no less—to roll out the welcome carpet for him and he had the audacity to announce to his fan club that I was running late. So maybe I wasn't going to write him off until I gave him a piece of my mind.

I felt my eyes narrowing as I took a step forward like a charging bull, when the sea of girls parted, and there he was. His eyes found me without searching the room, as if he knew exactly who I was and where I'd be.

I shivered—no doubt because I was still chilled—and tried to turn my eyes away. They wouldn't be deterred, something was overriding my system and keeping them grounded on him. A smile that was slow and smooth—too smooth—crept over his face, and with each millimeter it inched up, my heart jacked up exponentially.

Great, now not only was I trying to dress the part, I was acting the part of the bewitched women surrounding him.

He waved his hand, and began weaving through the sardined bodies in my direction, while a tried again to look away. I couldn't do it—and the most frustrating thing about it was that I didn't have a clue why I was staring all moon-eyed at the new guy. I didn't have a type, but I knew it wouldn't have been him. Everything about him looked polished and finely tuned, in that I'm-so-out-of-your-league-we're-not-even-playing-the-same-game way.

I took a step back, and then another, something inside knowing I should turn around, run in the opposite direction and forget I'd ever seen him. It was like fate was whispering it to me.

He waved at me again, gesturing for me to wait. I was drowning in indecision when he took his final step in front of me, escape no longer a possibility.

"I've been waiting for you," he said, taking a step closer. The most peculiar shade of pale blue eyes stared back at me—the color of arctic glaciers. It was out of place given his copper skin and hair that was a shade or two shy of black.

I glared as much as I could. "Just how long have you been waiting?"

He crossed his arms, looking as if my half-hearted glare amused him. "Too long," he said with exaggeration. "I've been waiting for you far too long." His voice was that deep, smooth tone that no matter what was said, it made everything seem like it was going to be alright.

"You looked like you were well attended to while you had to wait a whole ten minutes for me," I said, eyeing the dozens of eyes glaring my direction.

"Yeah, but they're not you," he said. "My very own tour guide for the night, or for however long it takes." He smiled again, sending me into a spiral of reactions that could have been bad lines plucked from a cheesy romance novel: everything blurred around him, my breath got caught in my throat, and I felt tingly all the way down to my toes.

I'd waited my whole life to react this way to someone, why—when the monumental moment finally arrived—did it have to be in response to a guy like him? A guy that would, on any other day had I not been the only one available to be at his beckon call, would pay more attention to the beige-colored walls behind me than a girl like me.

"I'm sure your fan club would have no problem giving you a tour of our illustrious campus," I said dryly. "Perhaps even an in-depth study in the classroom anatomy is taught."

He weaved his fingers through the long tufts hair, his face curving around an expression that screamed amusement. "You're feistier than I thought you'd be."

"Sorry to disappoint," I replied, trying to look everywhere but into his eyes.

"On the contrary. I'm pleased."

My heart stopped and jumped started at the same time. I wanted to flog myself for reacting this way to him, and that's what responded, "I can die knowing I fulfilled my calling in life," I said, crossing my arms. "I've pleased a man, my life's sole mission." The words spilled out before I realized the double meaning. My blush was as instant as my embarrassment.

He didn't miss it, either. "Pleased a man indeed," he said, a glint in his eye, although his cheeks colored in a way that made me wonder if all his swagger was nothing but a show.

I rolled my eyes and looked away from him.

"Shall we?" he said, sweeping his hand towards the door I'd just come through.

"Why don't we head to the cafeteria first so we can go over what classes you're taking," I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing. I'd lost my mind, quite literally. Had he asked me to show him to the gym or science lab, I couldn't have, my mind was a complete blank. "We can do the tour after," I said, hoping to buy some time to put the pieces of my mind back in place.

"You're the expert. I'm just along for the ride."

I turned and headed for the cafeteria, a chorus of sighs following us down the hall.

"It's brutal to lift their hopes only to let them down," I said when he shouldered up next to me, nodding back at his admirers who looked fanatical enough to sport t-shirts with his face on them.

He looked at me like he didn't have a clue what I was talking about.

"Surely you didn't miss the effect you had on every one of those girls back there," I said, no inflection of a question in my voice.

His eyebrows knitted tighter together, before a smile—that was all swagger—ironed them back to normal. "Did I have the same effect on you?"

I looked straight ahead as I answered, "It takes more than a smile and a schmooze to make my heart go pitter-patter."

"That," he said, all matter-of-fact, "I did expect."

He'd apparently arrived with as many preconceptions of me as I had of him.

"You know," I said, flipping my hair over shoulder. "This whole egomaniac thing you're trying to sell doesn't fool me."

" _Ego-maniac?"_ he repeated in a tone that suggested he'd never heard the phrase.

I'm so sure.

"E-G-O-maniac as in cocky, conceited, full of oneself, afraid to show the teensiest bit of vulnerability," I said, flashing my hands in front of me, "so on and so forth."

He exhaled. "Isn't that what women want? It seems I've heard somewhere that nice guys finish last. Besides, you're one to talk," he said, his voice elevating. "With your quick witted answer to everything. You had a chip on your shoulder before you even met me from whatever preconceived ideas you had of me. So, who exactly do you want me to be?" He sounded serious—scary serious—but I knew he was likely trying to bait me. I wasn't going to be hooked so easy.

"You could _never_ be anything like what I want," I lied, weaving through the bustling hall lined with students discussing their plans for the weekend.

A flicker of hurt registered in his eyes before it was gone, replaced by his signature swagger. "So you must be one of those people who believe in soul mates, love-at-first-sight, that whole bit, right?" He didn't wait for me to reply. "That lovely rose-tinted glasses idea that there is only one person out there made just for you." This time he paused and looked over at me, waiting for an answer. I pulled my lips into a tight line of resolve. "Stop me if I've got it wrong."

I lowered my eyes, letting my silence answer.

Keeping stride with me, he tilted his head down until his gaze met mine. For the first time I saw an emotion in them that didn't make me want to roll my eyes. "Lucky for us, I'm one of those people too."

I roared to a stop, my mouth dropping ever so slightly against my best intentions. What was rich boy's diagnosis . . . other than stupefying me?

He sauntered up to the end of the line of students waiting for food that was more nitrate than nutrition, watching me with unyielding eyes while I made my way up to him once I unfroze myself. I turned my attention away from him, too flustered to know what to say or do next.

I drilled holes into the student's head in front of me, willing it to move so I could be done with this night, until I realized we were at a standstill. I peeked to the side, where I caught sight of the culprit for the hold-up.

A student with an overflowing backpack was flustered red, fumbling in his pockets. The others behind him were growing impatient, tapping fingers over crossed arms.

"I got it." I pulled a bill from my backpack's zipper pocket and rushed to the front of the line. I curled the money in the cashier's hand without another word and ducked back to my place in line.

"Thanks," the student called back to me, barely catching a textbook as it toppled from his bag. "Thanks a lot."

"Don't mention it," I answered, trying to draw as little attention as possible.

William was reviewing me, waiting for me to say something. I didn't have a clue what he was expecting.

"What?" I asked finally, peering at him from the side.

"Do you know him?"

"No." I shrugged.

He paused. "Then why did you pay for him?"

"Wouldn't you have?"

"You can't answer a question with a question," he said, as we took a few steps forward. Finally making progress.

"It was only a few bucks," I said, retrieving another bill from my backpack.

"Exactly. Anyone of the dozen people in front of us could have done the same thing, but didn't." He cut in front of me and handed the cashier a crisp bill before I could pay. "Why did _you_?"

"Are you this persistent with everything?"

"Most things," he said, a wide grin lighting up his face.

"More people should come to each other's rescue," I said looking away. "That's it. Is that explanation enough for you?"

He looked at me again in that unapologetic, unheeding way, as if he didn't care anything about holding up the line or what those people standing in line behind us would think of the way he was staring at me.

"Come on." He winked, nodding to the cafeteria entrance "I'm famished."

I didn't miss the inflection in his voice, and what was worse, I liked it.

"Are you getting ready to hibernate?" I said, eyeing the heaps of food that resembled an edible model of the Rocky Mountains.

He grinned, hooking a chair with his foot and scooting it next to me. "It seems arguing with you gives me quite the appetite."

He took a seat and inched the chair closer to me, so close our elbows nearly touched, and despite a sliver of air and a couple of garments separating us, there was a current sparking—coming from his skin or mine, or both, I couldn't tell.

I had my campus map and highlighter at the ready, pretending to focus my attention on the poorly xeroxed copy and took a swig of my coffee, which would be serving as my dinner tonight since, unlike William, the knots in my stomach induced by the man beside me had taken away my appetite.

I took another sip of the coffee while he terrorized a piece of pizza dotted with oil-pooled pepperoni.

I curled my nose. "Is that good?"

"Not really," he answered, sawing off another bite.

"Then why are you eating it?"

He swallowed, then took a long drink of soda—a calculated attempt at stalling. "Because I'm nervous, and I eat when I'm nervous," he said, looking at me from the side.

Despite the loose dark-wash jeans and charcoal canvas jacket he was wearing, I could tell the body wrapped within was lean and muscled, leading me to assume he was rarely nervous.

"Why are you nervous?" I asked, trying not to think about his body.

Another long drink of soda before his eyes looked hard into mine. " _You_ make me nervous. I can't seem to say the right thing, or do the correct thing. It seems anything I do only makes you madder, and I want you to like me. I really want you to like me."

My stomach flipped, then flopped, and repeated, before I had a chance to process everything. Guys like him didn't like girls like me, I knew that. Everyone knew that—it was a pubescent right of passage learning the etiquette for what kinds of people could date other kinds of people, and nowhere on this planet would I date him. Not that I wanted to anyways . . .

I could tell he was staring at me, straight through me again, and I knew I'd be done if I let my eyes meet his. My wall of indifference and façade of irritation would crumble and I would be revealed for what I really was: a girl who felt destiny climbing up her legs like a tangle of ivy. A girl who wasn't only falling hard for the man sitting next to her, but wasn't fighting the free-fall, despite knowing she should.

I distracted myself by looking across the room, immediately regretting it. A set of eyes caught mine—mascaraed, lined and narrowed with the expertise of a true mean girl.

Amy stumbled theatrically across the cafeteria, falling into the arms of the nearest male, whose face lit up like he'd hit the jackpot. Her followers looked back at me, laughing through their nibbles of lettuce, one forming an L with her hand she held to her forehead. Could I fall any deeper down the rabbit hole tonight?

Amy righted herself and slid her hands down her silver dress. She looked more like she was ready to attend the Oscar's than pretend to eat her dinner of celery and lemon wedges. The way she swayed caught the lights in the cafeteria and made her sparkle like a disco ball. Why was it the meaner the girl, the more she sparkled?

William turned his head to see what had my attention, just in time to see Miss Sparkle come to a stop behind him, hitching a hand on her hip. "What have we here," she said, looking him over like she was imagining him without his clothes, and enjoying every square inch of it.

"I'm Amy Kirkpatrick—your express ticket to the front of the line here at OSU." She extended her hand palm facing the ground, as if expecting him to kiss it. She waited, but when William didn't take it, or even look at it, she drew it back and ran it through her hair. "And you are?" she asked, smiling in a way I imagined had been passed down to the gorgeous girls around the world for generations. That, demure, interested-but-not-too-interested, luscious kind of smile that was equal parts lip and teeth.

William turned away from her and shoved his tray across the table. "Not interested."

Her smiled waned for one heartbeat before it was back in all its former splendor. "I like when a man plays hard to get. It's a breath of fresh air from dimwits throwing themselves at your feet." Despite William's back to her, she tossed her hair, releasing the scent of perfume that was sweet—too sweet. Like artificial sweetener. "Why don't you sit with me and my friends? I promise we won't leave you disappointed."

"No," he answered instantly. "I'm going to sit with Bryn and her friends when they arrive."

"Bryn flies solo," she laughed, as if it was obvious. "Other than the time she threw herself at Paul, I haven't seen her show interest in anyone."

William's shoulder's tensed. "Paul? Is he your boyfriend?" he asked, looking at me.

"No," I answered, shaking my head a little too emphatically.

"She wishes. She couldn't even tempt him enough for a one night stand." Her eyes regarded me like I was a harlot. "I know all about you California girls."

"Is Oregon the lone state of purity now?" I snapped back, having a hard time keeping my mouth shut.

She rolled her eyes and looked away from me like she'd already wasted too much time on me. "When you change your mind, here's my number." She placed a folded piece of pink embossed paper next to him, before strutting away from us. I imagined peacock feathers coming from her butt to lighten my mood. It worked, at least until I saw William's hand close over Amy's parting gift.

Somehow, that made me more angry than anything else had tonight.

"I know your type," I said, shoving my chair a few feet away from him. Hoping space would get me away from whatever hypnosis I'd fallen under with him. I wasn't that girl—that girl that batted their eyes and laughed in all the right spots.

He scooted in, erasing the space I'd found to separate us. "You do, huh?"

"Yep." I crossed my arms and inched back, right into the empty table behind me. "Rich, single child, a girlfriend for every night of the week, drives some fancy sports car, majoring in girls and drinking." My tone was acid, and it felt like it rising out of my throat.

He didn't scoot any closer, but he squared his body so it was facing me. "I'm a middle child in a family of five, never had a girlfriend, I drive a '68 Bronco, and I'm majoring in pre-med." His voice was calm, patient.

"What about the rich?" I said, his calm only fueling my anger, and did he really expect me to believe he'd never had a girlfriend? He could have told me he'd been born on Pluto ten-thousand years ago and I would have accepted this easier.

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking chagrined. "I shouldn't be penalized for having worked hard."

"Ha! You're what, 21 . . . maybe 22?" I snapped. "You've had such a long time to work so hard, also known as Daddy's trust fund."

His forehead creased. "You're one to point your finger. That car of yours doesn't come cheap. And you've got single, pampered child written all over your face."

"How do you know what kind of car I drive?" I said, bristling from his single-child comment. I had no say in my parent's choice to be a one-child family.

He paused for the shortest moment, before his answer rolled out, "It's kind-of hard to miss a vintage piece of American heavy metal in mint condition on a college campus."

"So you think you have me all figured out because of the car I drive?" I shouted.

"Kind of like you think you know me because I've got a little more cash in my bank account than the next guy?" His voice was still calm. Infuriatingly calm.

"I do know who you are, and I'm not about to be fooled by your attempts at slumming it with the middle class students like me." I jolted up. "And the car? It was part of an inheritance."

"Some inheritance," he said, looking at me in a knowing way. "Rich grandparents?"

"Nope," I answered, my voice ice. "Just dead parents."

His face fell until a look that was either pity or understanding filled his eyes. I didn't wait around long enough to find out which it was.

I shoved out of my chair and rushed out of the cafeteria, leaving him behind with the campus map, my half-drank cup of coffee, and the desire to see him again so much I knew I never should.

### CHAPTER THREE

### SPARKS

Since storming away from him a week ago almost to the hour, I hadn't seen him once, and it wasn't for lack of looking. I told myself I didn't care, but I wasn't very convincing.

The crowd erupted behind me, thousands of OSU basketball fanatics hollering, stomping and snarling. I pitied the poor referees who should have come prepared with body guards and armored tanks if they wanted to leave the campus unscathed.

Home team was down by fifteen, and one of the refs had just doled out a technical to our top scorer, or at least that's what I'd heard a couple of guys complaining about when they passed by the ticket booth, also known as the haunt I got to spend a few hours at just about every week thanks to the volunteer sheet I'd signed at the start of winter quarter.

The other students who worked the booth got paid, some sort of work study thing, but since I'd been naïve enough to sign the "volunteer" sheet, I was basically a modern day indentured servant. I was pretty much convinced by now I had the word _sucker_ tattooed on my forehead.

Other than the foul stench that led me to the conclusion the walls were shellacked with sweat and stale hotdogs (I kept a cinnamon scented candle burning under the counter to keep it bearable), and the endless stream of people shoving their crumpled bills at me like I was a malfunctioning change machine, it wasn't a bad gig.

Someone had to man the booth until halftime (again, the sucker always got conned into it), and once the seas had parted and the fans were directing their attention at someone else, I used the time to catch up on some homework or doodle until my mind was empty. Those were precious moments for me that didn't come often.

Knowing my Business Ethics book would look like it was printed in hieroglyphics—as it had all quarter—I'd spent the last half hour sketching whatever my subconscious directed my hand to. I surveyed the current masterpiece just as I finished topping the layer cake with candles.

My mind went from nothing to brimming.

The pen fell from my hand as the memories came back, each one hitting me like a boulder until the avalanche crippled me. I crumpled the sheet and tossed it in the direction of the garbage can, like it was a game of hot potato and I couldn't get it away from me fast enough.

"Let me guess," a voice spoke, pricking goose-bumps on my arms. "Mrs. William Winters written a hundred times with little hearts dotting the _i_ 's."

His smile was relaxed, mimicking the positioning of his body leaning against the booth, a crumpled piece of paper in hand.

He crinkled it open. "Nope," he said. "Just some bad drawings. Some _really_ bad drawings," he said, playing trombone with the paper.

"Do you mind?" I said, reaching for the paper. "That is private property."

He dodged away from my reach, holding the paper above his head like a worm on the end of a hook. "No it's not. You we're discarding it," he said, eyeing the garbage can. "Therefore, your former piece of private property is now, by default, a very public piece of property." His eyes glinted. "Me being the public."

"You being the annoying," I said, blowing aside a piece of hair. "So how did your first week go? I didn't see you around." It took some effort to sound indifferent.

"It was a great week. I was busy observing, studying," he said, his face amused. "You know, college stuff?"

Taking advantage of his temporary distraction, I heaved against the counter, jumping to reach the paper. Not even close. He was a solid half a foot taller than me, and his arms seemed disproportionately large the way they were towering above me.

"You've got the height, but I think you need to work on your jump shot if you want to play for the lady Beavers," he said, sounding delighted with himself.

"Grow up." I gave up trying to retrieve my doodle sheet and crossed my arms.

"I've wasted too much time being grown up," he said, his mouth curling up on one side. "I want to act my age, if for once in my life, now that I'm here."

"Oh yeah?" I asked. "How old is that?"

"Twenty-two," he answered immediately.

"Maybe in calendar years," I said, trying my hardest not to let his mischievous expression and low-slung Levi's distract me. "I was referring to maturity level."

He lowered his arms, folding my kipped artwork into his back pocket. "So, maturity-wise, how old would you say I am?"

"You wouldn't want to know."

"I guarantee I would," he said, folding his arms on the countertop. His shoulders were tense, his eyes more-so, although he was attempting to disguise it.

"On the surface I'd say you were twelve, maybe thirteen, but there's something about you I can tell you try hard to hide away, like the way you look now," I said, eyeing over his rigid form, "that leads me to believe you've seen more than the rest of us."

His eyes grew old before me, older than any pair I'd ever gazed into. He exhaled and opened his mouth, heavy words about to pour out I could only imagine, right before some guy painted head to bellybutton in black and orange ran by us, pitching a soda can in the garbage.

Our stare broke for a moment, but it was long enough so when he looked back at me, that curtain of confidence was down and ready to put on a show. "So do I get a half-price ticket since I missed half the game?"

I rolled my eyes, not understanding why he felt the need to put the ridiculous front on. Didn't he know it was those moments of male vulnerability that the opposite sex went wild for?

"For you my friend, double," I said, eyeing the flashy watch on his left wrist.

"That was a gift," he said, his tone more excusing than explaining.

"Some gift," I replied, not wanting clarification on who he'd received it from, although my imagination filled in the blanks just fine.

"It's jam packed in there." I pointed with my eyes to the auditorium behind me, while another eruption broke up. The particle board counter started vibrating. "Good luck finding a seat."

"It's alright. Someone saved me one," he said, looking behind my shoulder.

As if his words spoken to me were some kind of alert, one of the cheerleaders with an orange ribbon curling from her auburn ponytail raised her hand at him and waved with such zeal she could have been hailing a cab in downtown Chicago in the middle of winter. She pointed at a front row seat and mouthed, "Yours" to him.

He raised his index finger at her and looked back at me. "Will you join me when you're through here?"

The earnestness in his voice tempted me, right before I remembered he'd been invited here by another woman and was currently asking another woman (that woman being me) to join him as well. I wasn't about to feed into his womanizer tendencies.

"Looks like there's only room for one." I kept my voice level, keeping any sign of jealousy at bay.

He leaned over the counter. "You could sit on my lap."

"I could if I wanted to." I backed away from him until my back hit the counter behind me. "Besides, little Miss Ribbons might beat me bloody with her pom-poms if I do."

His forehead lined and his eyes said, _explain._

"She likes you," I said in a tone one would tell a kindergartener the world was round.

He shrugged. "I don't like her."

I contained a smile. "Why? What's not to like?" She looked like a swimsuit model, with a few more freckles and a _slightly_ more innocent face.

He grabbed the ledge of the booth, his knuckles blanching white, while he feigned focus on the crowd filling up the hall. "I like someone else."

"That was quick," I said, trying not to vocalize my disappointment. "You've been here a whole week now. Who? The cheerleader to her left or right, or maybe long legs Kirkpatick." I was jealous, and while I'd heard the emotion associated with the color green, I felt and saw nothing but red.

"Nope, not my type," he answered simply.

"Just what is your type?" I didn't really want to know if girls—who were gorgeous in my book—didn't clear his bar.

He didn't let a second fill in the space between us before answering. "You."

The look on his face was unfamiliar, like a far-off land, something I wanted to know, but was too scared of the unknown to journey into.

A slow smile crept over his lips, and I let a few heartbeats pass. Heartbeats where my mind wandered to what those lips would feel like against mine, what they would taste like, how his hair would feel knitted between my fingers, what it would feel like to have his gaze find me in the middle of dozens of other people. His smile pulled tighter, acknowledging the dreaminess playing out on my expression.

I snapped back to reality, feeling its whiplash. "Stop it," I whispered, tucking my arms around my stomach. "Stop playing with me. It's cruel."

His smile fell and he looked panicked, as if realizing I was aware of the games he was playing. "I'm not—"

"Just leave," I said, meaning to shout, but my vocal chords choked around the words.

I chanced a look up, and he was a pillar of stone still before me. "Leave!" This time I harnessed the volume I'd been meaning.

For the first time, he listened to me.

Since he'd stormed off, I'd remained in the booth . . . I'd _hid_ in the booth. With his confounding presence removed, I finally had a chance to think clearly and knew I'd behaved like a crazy person. Although I'd called him the twelve-year-old, my own behavior was more in accordance with pre-pubescence. He hadn't said one thing insulting or humiliating—perhaps frustratingly evasive—but it had been my interpretation of what his words meant that had put me in defense mode.

I wouldn't necessarily consider myself confidence bankrupt, but somewhere in between being terrorized by the pretty girls and ignored by the beautiful boys, I'd steeled myself against any future attacks. I was an impenetrable fortress, but it came at a high cost. Lack of meaningful friendships and dates on the weekend to name a few.

I wanted to retreat to the confines of my dorm, at least the coward in me did, but this other part of me—the dominant one I wasn't familiar with—told me I had to go to him and apologize. It was telling me with such persuasion, I doubted it would have allowed me to take a step in the opposite direction.

I closed the ticket window, trying not to rehearse my apology. From experience, I knew my rehearsed speeches sounded like I was reading from a teleprompter moving at a snail's pace.

I yanked out my ponytail holder and picked through my hair with my fingers, attempting to inject some volume into hair that was, by definition, flat. A smear of chapstick and a pinching of the cheeks completed my ad-hoc beautification.

Too bad I'd picked my favorite tee that probably should have been tossed in the rag bucket several washes ago, instead of the new tunic that played up the blue in my more-gray-than-blue eyes.

I shook my head, putting a kibosh on that train of thought. I wasn't looking for his approval _or_ acceptance _or_ admiration.

Again, my best intentions at convincing myself were futile.

Despite Miss Ribbons and her pom-pom brigade's present ra-ra-ra number, it couldn't compete with the dark-haired man sitting quietly in the front row for my attention. I wasn't the only one who felt the same way, either. There were five sets of eyes ogling him, and that was just within the ten foot radius around him I scanned.

The auditorium was erupting with noise, but I could still hear the squeak my sneakers made as I headed towards him. He didn't notice me at first. He looked deep in thought, like the most practiced Buddhist in meditation.

I stopped a few feet off to the side of him, waiting for him to acknowledge me so I wouldn't be forced to break the ice—knowing me, I'd go crashing right through and drown.

Still the thoughtful expression, as if he was lifetimes away from the cornucopia of noise.

"Hey," I said unsurely, biting my lip.

His lids fell, revealing eyes that were back in the present time when they reopened. He sat up straighter, first looking surprised, before his smile turned into one I was getting quite familiar with—two parts smug to one part mischief. It was enraging and enthralling.

"Couldn't stay away, huh?"

Despite being desperate to apologize for my childish behavior, I was ready to turn around and leave if this was the way things were going to be. Dominant side be darned.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

"I can go if you like," I said in my don't-push-me voice, twisting my head over my shoulder to eye the exit.

"No," he rose to a stand, reaching for my forearm.

His fingers circled it, and whether he realized it—I'm sure he didn't—this was the first time he'd touched me, the first time our skin had connected, and it was just that, a connection. From each ring of the five fingers wreathed around my arm, an energy that was as electric as it was intimate, streamed into me.

That connection opened a portal, one that was difficult, if not impossible, to explain, but I could almost feel our fates lacing around one another, cinching together so tight you could no longer tell which one was mine and which one was his. I could feel his emotions—peaceful, excited, warm—and I wondered if he could feel mine.

That terrified me, because before this touch, I could keep him at bay, not allowing him into the triumphs and tragedies that made me who I was, but if something inside me was unveiling to him as his was to me, I could no longer keep my secrets hidden.

My arm snapped away, and the energy zapping through every fiber of me died.

This time when he smiled, it looked right, genuine. It curled up the corners of his eyes and created a flat plane over his forehead.

"Please don't go," he said, motioning to a section of bench that would have barely fit a toddler. "Stay," he added, when I didn't respond right away.

I was still trying to figure out what the heck was happening. A few seconds had passed, and by all appearance's sake, nothing had changed between us, but everything felt different . . . _was_ different.

I took a seat, squeezing tight into the guy beside me, doing my best to make space for William.

"Tight quarters," I said, clearing my throat as he slid next to me. More energy sparking like a fallen power line between us.

His thigh pressed against me pushed at mine gently. "I don't mind if you don't." His tone was different now too, no hint of swagger left. It was soft and sweet, only further confirming he'd felt something earlier, but what, and how much, I didn't know.

The referee spilling out of his uniform in front of us blew his whistle like he was announcing the second coming, shifting my attention to the game. OSU had possession and three minutes to make the comeback of a lifetime. My math oriented mind estimated they'd have to make a three pointer every ten seconds to tie it up, so they were as likely to win this game as I was to win the man watching me from the corners of his eyes to my right.

I'd stalled for long enough, and he was waiting, somehow knowing why I'd come looking for him. "I'm sorry for the way I acted back there," I began, the words coming easier than I'd anticipated. "You didn't deserve it, and I don't know you well enough to be making those kind of judgments."

He waved his hand as if he was dismissing it all away. "Forget about it. I did deserve it, but there's one thing I have to know."

Feeling generous, I asked, "What's that?"

"Do you _want_ to know me better?" I could hear the grin in his voice, and before I could roll my eyes, he elbowed me.

I crossed my arms, but there was no seriousness in it.

"Sorry," he said, leaning into me. "I promise. No more teasing for tonight."

That was unlikely. "We'll see," I said, turning my attention back to the game—for nothing more than a distraction—in time to see someone sink a shot several feet behind the three-point line.

The crowd exploded, hollering and stomping the metal bleachers. I didn't recognize the hero of the moment until he spun around and loped down the court. Paul looked right at me, as if he knew exactly where I was, and pointed his index finger in my direction. His winked before turning his attention back to the player he was guarding on the opposing team.

I didn't have time to explain this odd demonstration away before William spoke up, "You're one to accuse me for playing with people's hearts."

I looked over at him, waiting for a clarification.

"He likes you," he said, repeating my words.

I nearly choked. "Right," I said, dragging the word out. "He was pointing at the girl in front of me."

William looked pointedly in front of us. "In case you didn't notice. There's no one in front of us," he finished, sweeping his eyes up and down the court in a dramatic way.

I followed his loaded gaze, no one in front of me, not even a cheerleader to explain away Paul's grandiose gesture. So there was some other conclusion, but certainly not the one William had leapt to.

"Whatever," I said, wincing at my cliché choice of responses. "Guys like him don't like girls like me."

The other team sunk two free throws before he responded, "What do you mean?"

"You know," I said, irritated he was playing ignorant so I'd have to explain the obvious.

"I don't," he said, shaking his head. "Would you go out with him if he asked you?"

"He wouldn't," I answered immediately.

"If he did," he replied, with an edge that was both hard and delicate. "Would you want to?"

I counted to ten silently, to make it seem I was considering my response, despite having an instant answer for him. It was unsettling knowing he was the reason for the immediate certainty.

Stronger girls hadn't come back from these kinds of heartbreaks—I knew I needed to be careful. "I don't think so," I said slowly, as if my answer was unsure—open to change.

"Don't think so," he repeated, his eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"You'll laugh."

"I won't," he said, and for whatever reason, I believed him.

I forced my mouth to form the words, although it felt as unnatural as breathing under water. "I believe there's got to be a spark, something big that happens when you meet the one you're suppose to be with so there's no way you can question it," I was whispering, barely loud enough for my own ears to register, but from the tilt of his brow, I knew he was hearing every word the silly little girl inside of me was spilling out. "That didn't happen with him. Why should I waste my time if he's not the one?"

A part of me wanted to cringe, for admitting this to him, but another part wanted to jump up and run laps around the auditorium from the freedom of bearing myself to someone. Feeling naked in the most intimate way.

William didn't have an immediate answer for me, as he had on just about every occasion. Paul made a smooth lay-in, closing the point gap—but it was only going to cut down on the embarrassment at this point. There was no coming back from this.

"Perhaps because he's popular, handsome, a catch in the world of woman."

His popularity was evident from the chortling fans behind us. Handsome? I suppose in the conventional, obvious way. A catch? I could see how he would be for some—for most—but something I was trying to suffocate within, bubbled to the surface, and I knew that he and every other man from this day on would be second rate thanks to the one sitting next to me who put a whole new spin on first rate.

"I don't work that way," I understated. "I want to be with one person forever. I don't want to date my way through guys until I've forgotten just what I was looking for in the first place and end up settling for the next one that comes along."

I knew how ridiculous I sounded, as if I had the beauty, wealth and status of a Hollywood starlet, and the options of men to go with it. I knew I was nothing more than Bryn, ordinary at best, odd at worst, but I was through silencing my inner voice. I'd done it long enough.

"What did you feel when you saw me?" he asked, drawing out each syllable as if waiting for the call from the executioner.

I glued my lips together so the answer on the tip of my tongue wouldn't slip out.

A slow smile formed when I waited too long to answer.

"Not that," I said, knowing I'd said it too fast for him to take it at face value. "Besides," I added. "You were too busy making me angry."

"Sparks come from anger—some of the strongest," he said, sounding like he thought himself an expert on the matter. "Besides, anger is often mistaken for passion. Especially when someone is trying to hide their true feelings for someone." He wasn't kind enough to keep the accusation in his voice light.

"There. Weren't. Sparks." I hoped I didn't sound as unconvincing to him as I sounded to myself. "Besides, we have nothing in common."

"That's not true," he said, right before the buzzer went off, announcing the end of the game where OSU had gained enough ground back they could walk off the court with their heads only partially hung. "We both go to OSU, drive old cars, like basketball," he listed off, as if he was trying to convince himself of our likeness. "And we both only want to be with one person," he paused, his Adam's apple dropping before continuing, "and sparks. We both believe in good old-fashioned sparks."

His words expressed vulnerability, but it was his expression that screamed it, as if the mask he wore when I first met him, was just that, and the man he truly was was sitting next to me. There was something desperate about it, and incredibly appealing. As if he needed to be any more appealing.

I needed to get out of here and put some distance between us, fearing my sarcasm and self-deprecation were running out. "It's my bedtime." I rose to a stand, immediately missing the weight of his body pressed up to mine. "It was nice chatting with you without any explosions."

"Explosions, sparks," he waved his hand dismissively. "Same difference."

He looked over me, in a way that was part possessive, part longing, and I waited for the internal dialogue to follow. The voice that would scream at me for misinterpreting the look on his face, the one that reminded me I wasn't worth anyone's troubles, not with what I'd done.

But before I could be astounded that no internal critic was sounding off, a girl—that had a similar body to Miss Ribbons, but was more edge than innocent—weaved up to William and slipped her hips into the seat I'd just left. So there'd been not one, not two, but three starry-eyed girls he'd had lined up for the evening's agenda . . . and it wasn't even ten o'clock yet.

I made sure I let him see the look in my eyes before marching away from him, hoping the distance would erase my feelings for him, but knowing it wouldn't.

I barraged through a sea of black and orange, so consumed by my thoughts I charged into someone. Someone so large and hard my impact didn't sway him, and someone so damp with sweat I knew the first thing I'd do is take a shower when I got back to my dorm. "Sorry," I said, hurrying past.

"So that's all I get? A sorry?" I had to turn around to put the face with the voice. "After dedicating five hard-earned points to you?"

I really didn't need this new male development to sort through right now. I was living my own personal twilight zone with the male attention I'd drawn the past week.

"Hey, Paul. Good game," I said formally, trying not to make my backing away from him insulting. I needed fresh air, a good night's sleep, and possibly a lobotomy to sort through why two men worthy of every poem, song and praise ever conjured up for the male species had taken an interest in me.

Just as I was about to spin around, I caught a glimpse of William and his newest seat-mate. He was watching me, brows furrowed and lips tight, so I changed my plan. Time for a little payback.

Love was a battlefield . . . or so I'd heard.

I painted my lips into a smile, hoping it was that precise mixture of tease and allure that guys seemed to go crazy for.

"You were really amazing out there," I praised, feeling vile for stooping to this new low to get back at the man who was driving me mad. I closed the distance between Paul and me and hung my hand on the side of his arm, hoping I'd feel something so I could write off what I'd felt when I'd touched William.

There was nothing . . .nothing but hot, sticky skin. William's eyes narrowed, so I left my hand where it was, despite every instinct to swipe it away and wipe it off against my jeans.

Taking my hand on him as a hall pass to put his on me, he rested his hand above my hip. "You got plans for tonight?"

"No." I shifted to the side, hoping his hand would fall off. No luck.

"Really?" he asked, sounding surprised. "There's this party off campus I'm supposed to go to, but I don't really feel like it and maybe if I had an excuse . . ." he took another step towards me, so literally every ounce of personal space was gone. "Like I had a date or something, I'd be let off the hook."

Was he asking me out? I wasn't sure if he was, or if he was just hinting to see if I had some hot, single girlfriend I'd refer him to. He'd have to be more direct if he wanted an answer, I'd never been adept at reading between the lines. Either way, it was a no.

However, as I was about to ask Paul for further clarification, William stood up and made no qualms about heading straight for us.

"What have you got in mind?" I asked Paul, letting him drop his mouth to my ear.

"Well I was thinking—"

William pried me from Paul, mid-sentence.

He face looked more upset than angry. "Just so you know," he said through closed teeth. "Fancy fireworks ignited for the sole purpose of making someone jealous don't count as sparks."

I sucked in a breath, feeling like I was caught-up in a black-and-white movie where the leading lady is being pursued by two handsome, roguish-types. However, in my movie, I wouldn't have the man the leading lady wanted striding away from her like mine was now.

Paul came up behind me. "Who's that guy?"

"Just ignore him," I said, not able to turn my eyes away from his retreating figure.

A good twenty paces away, he spun around. "You wish you could," he shouted over the hullabaloo of the crowd, his arms shrugging as if saying, _you had your chance, see ya._

He melted into the mass of bodies leaving the auditorium, but I kept my eyes on the exact spot I'd lost sight of him, wishing I could make him reappear so I could rewind to the exact moment I left his side on the bench.

"What a chump. Just forget about him," Paul said, squeezing my shoulder muscles. "I'm going to go get showered up." He headed for the men's locker room, smiling back at me. "Will you wait for me?"

I barely managed a nod.

The last drove of fans had left a few minutes ago while I stayed behind, sitting in the seat I'd occupied earlier. I wasn't waiting, but contemplating—trying to sort out my next move. I'd told Paul I'd wait for him for a _date_ but not a fiber of me was in it, and the troubling part—aside from not being interested in Paul Lowe, a demigod in the eyes of OSU's female populace—was that I knew he was what I should like.

I should like the college guy who was a hero in the local community and defined all-American boy. But I'd learned long ago that what I should like, what I should do, just never seemed to work out for me. Like the world never had an easy, bumpless road planned for me. Up-to-date, it had been pocketed with sink holes and tombstones.

Who was I kidding? Certainly not myself. What I wanted had run away in the opposite direction. What was I still doing here?

And knowing that he was likely no good for me, that I'd suffer more heartache than any one girl should, I left the gym without a single look over my shoulder.

William throwing my words in my face had taken hold like a foreign bacteria. What was the use in pretending when I knew what I wanted? When, maybe somewhere all along, I'd always known what I'd wanted but it only became obvious to me when it appeared in the form of a man I met one week ago who had a knack for infuriating and confounding me.

The cool night air whipped me as soon as I opened the door. I zipped my hoodie jacket up as far as it would go, thankful I'd remembered it. It was a breezy, chilly night—the kind that had one checking over their shoulder. Winter clung to the air, that sterile, suffocating smell that blanketed any scent of spring in the breeze.

Back home, I would have been in shorts and a tee, but here, even in my jeans and jacket, I wished I'd brought an extra layer of insulation. What a difference moving one state away could make. I hugged my arms around me and decided I'd jog back to my dorm. I'd get there quicker, stay warmer, and I hadn't worn my trusty sneakers for nothing.

"Hey, beautiful."

The address was out-of-context, but since there was no one else around, I stopped. More like froze, as a male figure drifted out in front of me, as if he'd materialized with the snap of his fingers. He made no attempt to hide in the shadows to remain unrecognizable, which would have eased my discomfort had it not been for the smile plastered on his face. It was far too wide to be friendly.

"Can I help you?" I asked, scanning the surroundings for some other life form, or an escape route at the least.

"I certainly hope so. I'm Ben, and no need to introduce yourself. I already know who you are." He took a few steps towards me, allowing me an even better view of him. From the youth of his face, he could have been a student, although the dark three-piece suit he was wearing aged him in an odd way.

"I'm looking for someone," he said, clasping his hands in front of him. "And since you were cozied up to him earlier tonight, I believe you can assist me in my search."

I caught the gasp in my throat before it got out. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said, feeling adrenaline surging through my arms and legs.

"I'm not the kind of person you want to play games with," he said, his voice perfectly level. "Let me repeat myself"—he eyed me parentally—"where is William?"

This time, a gasp did make its way out, at the same time the auditorium door flew open and another man—also wearing a suit and an aura of trouble—jogged towards us.

"He's not in there," he called out to Ben, before acknowledging me. He hopped to a stop and surveyed me once, then twice, before whistling through his teeth. "Hello, hello." There was no greeting in it. "This the girl?" His eyes didn't leave me.

"This is her," Ben replied, sounding bored. "Although she's not being as cooperative as would be healthy for her."

I don't know what had taken my body so long, but for the first time, I got chills. I felt another injection of adrenaline—like nitrous burners exploding to life.

The new man clucked his tongue. "Yeah, well that's why you brought me along." His eyebrows twitched twice and his tongue slid along his upper lip.

"That's the only reason I bring you along, Troy," Ben said, shrugging his shoulders in my direction, looking expectantly at him. "Time to earn your paycheck."

I ran.

### CHAPTER FOUR

### SEEING STARS

I sprinted into the darkness, feeling nothing but my legs pounding the earth beneath me and my arms pumping through the damp air. If I'd run like this at the state conference in high school, I could have annihilated the record. Nothing like a little adrenaline and the fear of losing your life to make you run like an Olympian.

I heard nothing but my erratic breathing and saw nothing but the dull glow of lampposts dotting the campus grounds. How, in a campus this large, could there not be a single person around other than the two I was fleeing?

I surveyed the ground in front of me before checking over my shoulder—neither man had called out after me, nor had I heart their footfalls in pursuit.

I screamed at the same time Troy's arms cinched around me, whipping me to a stop.

"You're fast," he said, no hint of exertion in his voice. "But you're got to be faster if you want to outrun me."

He twisted me around in his arms, thrusting me tighter against him. His breath heated the space between us.

"I'll only ask once, and keep in mind I'm not nearly as nice as him"—he pointed his eyes to the side, where Ben was leaning up against a tree, cross-armed and looking bored. "Where is William?" he growled.

A cough escaped my lungs, no doubt a result of the cold air gulped from my all-out sprinting. I looked him straight on, feeling confidence rising, despite the angry veins that were bulging like roadmaps over his face.

I pointed my eyes at his shirt collar. "I think that tie's cutting off the circulation to your head."

I'd barely finished my sentence before I was flying backwards through the air. Before I could wrap my mind around the idea that I'd just been "pitched" like I'd weighed all of a pound, I came in contact with something as hard as it was unforgiving. My head bounced like a beach-ball against the brick wall of the building.

My vision blurred, and then I felt the hot streams of fluid running first down my face, then my neck. More stitches—I'd be more Frankenstein than human if I kept up at this rate. For some insane reason, this made me laugh, and I rested my battered head against the wall behind me. I laughed louder, barely caring about the blurry image of Troy coming at me.

He kneeled beside me, putting his face an inch from mine. His face was twisted into a snarl. "Feeling a bit more cooperative?"

I laughed again, hysterically now. He was going to kill me—this man was really going to kill me—and all the fight I was putting up was a laugh. I'd lost it—officially now.

"She's laughing," Troy said back to Ben, still leaning against the tree as if this was some sort of everyday occurrence for him. Get up, take a shower, eat lunch, brutalize a young woman . . .

"Must not have hit her hard enough. I'll make sure I don't make the same mistake." He grabbed my shoulders, fingers drilling into my skin.

I looked him straight on, calming my laughing fit, but I was still grinning. Sane people dealt with life and death situations by screaming, fighting, running, or maybe even fainting . . . I dealt with it by laughing like a lunatic. Sane had left the station long ago.

"Anyone ever diagnosis you with anger issues? There's a great 12-step group that meets at the senior center in town if you're interested."

He slapped me across the cheek, the sting of it more painful than the head wound seeping droplets of blood around me. "You're a wild one. I like that," he said, brushing his finger across the same area he'd just slapped. "It's too bad I'm going to have to kill you."

I twisted my face away from his fingers, waiting for it to be finished. Waiting for fate to at last catch up with me after a one year stint of outmaneuvering it—well actually, if I was being honest with myself, my whole life I'd been dodging it.

As I was closing my eyes for the last time, my blurred vision caught sight of the tiniest ball of light, glowing xenon blue in color. The light burst into a beam of light, and had I been looking up at the sky, I could have been gazing at a shooting star. The streak of light closed in towards us at an unfathomable speed, the light growing larger, monopolizing my field of vision, until it exploded in front of me.

I heard Troy's snarl surprise echoing away from me. In his place stood someone else—my materialized shooting star.

William was quivering with rage, squaring himself between me and Ben, as the echoes of something large splintering rippled into the courtyard.

He chanced a look back at me, his face falling as if he was looking at my corpse. His eyes narrowed into slits as he turned them back to Ben. "How dare you."

Ben raised his hands at William. "Let's not do anything you'll regret."

William started for him, his body rigid. "Trust me, I won't regret it."

Ben's eyes widened, looking the most emotional I'd seen him so far, when Troy made his reappearance in the courtyard.

William stopped abruptly, stepping back and angling himself between Troy and me.

Troy looked too composed, like a volcano about to erupt. He paced towards us, glaring at William through lowered eyes. He stopped a few yards in front of him, running his fingers through his hair and pulling something from the back of his head.

"Tree killer," he sneered, throwing a half-foot sliver of wood at William's feet.

My vision was far from twenty-twenty at the present moment, but the sliver looked glossy with dark color . . . as if coated in blood. I'd hit my head hard—hard enough to believe that Troy had just pulled a six-inch piece of wood from the back of his head. Oh yeah, and that William had swooped in via a ray of light to save the day.

Time to chalk up delusional to my ever-increasing list of maladies.

"I think I understand why you took an unannounced sabbatical in the land of the lowly," Troy said, slicking his hair back into place. "I like my girls spirited too, and where we come from that's hard to come by. I wouldn't mind breaking her in if you can't."

William started forward, fists at the ready, when Ben stepped forward. "That's enough, Troy. We were not sent to carry out our usual bidding."

Troy took a step back, obeying, although it looked like it took every bit of self-control he had to do it. "Sorry," he said, before mouthing in William's direction. "Sorry someone's so sensitive."

Ben ignored him. "We are here to merely deliver a friendly message," Ben said, watching William carefully.

"I know the rules," William said, his jaw tight. "I don't need any reminders."

Ben's eyes circumnavigated the area purposefully. "It appears you do. We won't press the issue tonight, I think our message is obvious"—he eyed me in explanation—"If I might make a suggestion? Don't make John send for you again."

"Well he knows where I am now," William said, the challenge in his voice unmistakable.

"Yes," Ben said, his eyes glinting. "He does."

"Farewell, Mr. Winters," he said jovially, bowing his head. "Until next time." Ben turned to leave, gesturing with his head for Troy to do the same.

"Just so you know," William called out to the retreating pair. "If either of you so much as lay one finger on her again, I will tear you both apart starting with those filthy appendages."

Ben said no more, disappearing into the trenches of the night, but a chuckle came from Troy's throat as he turned to leave. One that said, _let the games begin._

William held his sentinel in front of me, in anticipation of Ben and Troy returning, or perhaps just not wanting to look at me. Judging from the blood crusting the pavement around me, I knew I looked like a horror movie victim who'd happened upon a deranged chainsaw aficionado.

"You wouldn't happen to have a bandage on you, would you?" I said, hoping to get through the wall of man before me.

He shook his head, looking everything but amused.

"It's a joke," I said. "You can laugh, you know."

He didn't, he stood before me, rigid and looking regretful.

"Or loosen up," I said under my breath as I leaned forward to tie my shoe, realizing the movement was a bad idea. Every square inch of my body throbbed or felt bruised.

"I heard that," he said, his voice softer.

"Good," I said, inspecting the damage from my head on collision with a brick wall. I ran my thumb down the center of my head, wincing.

"Let me see that," he said, kneeling beside me. His fingers maneuvered mine out of the way, as he scrolled around the gash, exploring and inspecting as if he'd done it innumerable times before.

"I need to get you somewhere so I can get you stitched up," he said, slipping out of his canvas jacket.

I shook my head with as little movement as possible. "It's just a scratch."

He barely rolled his eyes. "It's just a scratch that requires stitches."

"I don't know about you, but I don't let pre-med students use me as their guinea pig," I said, trying to ignore his warm breath that fogged the space between us. "That's what cadavers are for."

He smiled, his mood finally lifting. "A twelve-year-old girl who can stitch a hem could manage ten measly stitches."

"Then find me a twelve-year-old-girl."

"You're just going to have to make due with me," he said, scooping me up suddenly. He rested his balled up jacket behind me, pressing it tightly against my head with his shoulder.

I was caught off-guard, too overwhelmed with being wrapped in his arms and the scent of him that was a dizzying concoction of cedar laced with cinnamon. He was halfway across the courtyard before I cleared my head enough to make a response.

"I can walk you know," I said it because I thought I should, not because I actually wanted to.

"I'm sure you can." His arms pulled me tighter against him, as if he was fearful I'd be pulled away from him by some invisible force.

"Then why are you going all _Gone With the Wind_ on me?" I asked, although Rhett Butler didn't hold a candle to him. And I certainly wasn't a Scarlett O'Hare.

"Several reasons. One, we'll get where we're going faster," he said, breaking into a run to prove his point. "Two, there is a possibility in your state you could stumble or lose consciousness and you really don't need any more damage done to you tonight."

I glared up at him, not amused at him making fun of my lack of grace.

"And three"—he shrugged—"because I want to."

I tried not to smile like too much of an idiot. "Well those are your reasons, I guess," I said. "Although they're not good ones."

He slowed back down, although not because he was fatigued or out-of-breath. His breathing remained unchanged, and from my agreeable positioning with my head against his chest, I heard every unhurried beat of his heart. He didn't say anything else, just rushed forward into the night with me.

Silence didn't bother me, it was actually where I felt most comfortable—in the things that didn't need to be spoken—but this was a very pregnant silence that was starting to give me labor pains.

"Okay, so I'm going to address the elephant in the room"—I looked purposefully around us—"so to speak."

His hint of a smile encouraged me onward.

"What the heck just happened?" I had no other way of summing up my loaded question.

His face was guarded—too guarded. "Big picture or microscope view?"

I managed something of a shrug. "I'm a details girl."

He grinned. "I guessed that, too."

I watched him, waiting for his mouth to open in response, and while I wouldn't have really minded gazing at his mouth all night, I needed answers.

"So?" I asked, drawing the word out.

"So what?" he asked innocently.

I elbowed him in the ribs. "So now is as good a time as any to give me that microscope view."

"Not now," he said quietly, looking straight ahead in such a way I knew he was avoiding making eye contact.

"Yes now," I demanded. "You know what they say, live in the now, there's no time like the present, et cetera, et cetera."

He was fighting a smile, that was a good sign. "Now"—he said it like it was a person—"is not the right time."

"When is the right time?"

"I don't know," he said. "But I know it won't be when you're bleeding from the head and in desperate need of a good night's sleep." He looked pointedly at the dark hallows under my eyes—caused from sleepless nights trudging through homework that wouldn't cooperate and thoughts of him that wouldn't go away.

My eyes narrowed, probably making the circles look more dramatic.

"I will answer any and every question you have for me," he said, "soon, but I want to give you my full attention as I'm certain your questions will require it, and right now I'm too preoccupied with getting your body back to normal."

"Who's John?" I asked, chancing a quick look at his face to see if I was pressing my luck. It remained unchanged.

"I suppose you could call him a kind of godfather," he replied carefully.

This wasn't the answer I'd been expecting. "The religious kind or Francis Ford Coppola kind?"

He grinned, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Both."

"Why does he want you to come back, to wherever that is . . ."

"Of all the off-limit questions you're trying to sneak in tonight,"—he looked at me in a knowing way—"you're asking all the wrong ones."

"What are the right ones? Since you're the expert apparently."

"Why did they come after you?" he said, trying to keep his voice level. "Why did they . . . _hurt_ you?" he said tightly, looking up at the starless night sky.

My eyes turned upward, although it wasn't the sky I was gazing at. "Bad luck, destiny, fate," I answered, not wanting to question why yet another tragedy had befallen me. No matter what the reason was, bad found me. Like a noxious weed, the world had been trying to pluck me from its soil from the beginning. "Take your pick."

He shook his head. "Wrong," he said as if he'd never been more sure of anything in his life. "They sought you out because of _me._ Because they knew you were close to me."

"No, this happened to me because of them," I said with more conviction than I'd intended. "I would have been this"—I went limp as a fish and stuck my tongue out the side of my mouth dramatically—"if not for you."

"You are in this position," he pointed his eyes at my head in explanation. "because of me. I should have foreseen this happening."

"Foreseen?" I quoted. "Do you read crystal balls now? Or maybe palms? What can you tell me about my future?" I teased, turning up my hand at him.

He stared at my hand with so much intent, I was almost convinced he could see what life held in store for me and what it had already doled out. I snapped it shut.

"Really, you can't take the credit for my uncanny ability to find bad luck around every corner," I said, laughing a few notes. "I was overdue for a near-death run-in, so now I can scratch that off my To-Do list. I should be good to go for another month or so."

His lips were pressed shut, and his pace had quickened in that stewing sort of way.

"Are we going to fester now?" I asked lightly, forming my mouth into an exaggerated frown.

"If this is your idea of lightening my mood," he said, "you're doing a lousy job."

"You didn't even give me a chance to get warmed up," I said. "But since you're not being very receptive to my mood-lightening attempts . . . who were those guys and how do you know them?" I asked casually, and before he opened his mouth, I knew my question wasn't going to be answered.

"No more questions. For tonight," he said.

"But—" I protested, ready to break into my rebuttal.

"Trust me," he said, the undertone of a plea in his voice.

I exhaled. "I don't want to."

"Ah, but you do," he said, sounding elated. "That's the thing about trust, it's like love. You can't help who you trust or love sometimes—you just do—you can't turn it on and off when you want to."

"My brains are practically spilling out of my head," I said dramatically. "Could we keep the psycho-analytics to a minimum? It's giving me a headache."

"Touchy," he said under his breath. "I must have hit pretty close to the mark, but what mark—the trust or love?"

He eyed me mischievously from above.

"Headache status updated to migraine," I groaned.

"This should help," he said softly, sliding one hand up to my outside temple. His thumb massaged the area first—I closed my eyes so he wouldn't see them rolling in the back of my head—before applying a growing pressure that literally jolted every nerve within me like a live wire, before they all dulled into the most relaxed, glowing stupor. If this was a drug, I'd just become a hardcore junkie.

I shifted my eyes to the side, wondering if I could combust from staring at him for too long. When I did, I let out an audible gasp. I clasped my hands over my mouth. "How did you know?" I whispered through the tangle of fingers while I eyed the penitentiary-inspired building before me. Never during any of our conversations had simple dialogue come up, things like hometowns, favorite colors, or which dorm I lived in . . .

I felt his body stiffen, before he let out a long breath. "You know how you said you hadn't seen me this week?"

He didn't wait for me to respond. "Well I saw you. A lot."

I took a second before replying, attempting to sound stern, "Is this bordering on stalker status?"

"If you're going to label me, I prefer the term scientist."

"Scientist?" I repeated, not understanding what he was getting at, but not caring either. Was he saying what I thought he was? I hadn't seen him once, but he'd seen me . . . _a lot_ without me even realizing it. Something wasn't factoring out right, but there wasn't enough time to work it all out in my head.

"Yes, someone who studies something, trying to figure out what makes it work, makes it tick," he said, looking like he was lost in the recesses of his thoughts. "So they can best manipulate it to achieve a desired outcome."

"Are we still talking about science here?"

His mouth softened in the corners. "My favorite kind," he said, staring down at me. "Chemistry."

I didn't look away, despite the color I could feel rushing into my cheeks. I should have, I knew that, but somewhere in between being bloodied to the present moment, we'd crossed a line. Unlike other lines, there was no retreating back to the other side now. Whatever fate, destiny . . . or my bad luck had in store for us.

"So this is the reason you didn't wait for me?" A voice that was familiar, and incredulous, sounded from behind us.

William's arms tightened around me.

Paul came up beside us, screeching to a stop. He crossed his arms, his narrowed eyes rotating between William and me. After a few repeats, they narrowed in on my head.

"What the heck happened?" he hollered.

"Nothing," I said instantly.

"It doesn't look like nothing," he said, walking towards me.

"Okay, someone decided to toss me against a brick wall," I said, glaring at him. "Happy now?"

"You were attacked?" Paul shouted, his voice cracking.

"Paul, it's been a really long, crazy night"—that was an understatement—"I'll explain later. Right now I need some alone time."

"Does alone time involve him?" he said, waving his head at William.

"That," I warned him, "is none of your business." He wasn't my dad, brother, or boyfriend—that line of questioning was in off-limits territory.

He cocked his head back. "It kind-of is since we were suppose to go out tonight."

I felt another flush burning its way to my cheeks, although this time it was from my anger igniting it. "Really?" I asked incredulously, forming my expression into a _you really don't want to go there_ one.

"Really." He looked me straight in the eyes, not backing down.

I shifted, trying to get out of William's arms so I could give Paul a piece of my mind standing up . . . the palm of my hand leading.

"Why don't you make yourself helpful," William burst in, thwarting my escape by pressing me harder against him. "Since making her upset isn't helping anyone."

Paul's mouth curled on one side, and turned his focus on William. He opened his mouth, looking like something would spill out so filthy it would take a bar of soap to clean it out, right as William tossed a set of keys at his chest.

Paul snagged them before they fell to the ground, looking like he was ready to torpedo them right back.

"I've got a first aid kit in the back of my car," William said calmly. "Think you could retrieve it and bring it back to us?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I'm going to get her inside."

Paul's fist closed around the keys, all the answer William needed.

"Good," he said, stepping around Paul and striding towards the entrance. "It's the navy blue Bronco three rows back," he hollered over his shoulder.

I rose a brow at him as he headed for the front entrance. "Parked car right outside living quarters, not too close to be conspicuous, not too far so as not to be able to make a quick escape," I listed off. "Classic stalker behavior."

He laughed a couple notes. The kind of laugh that made me wish I could bottle it so I could put it on a shelf and save it for a later time. "I suppose you're right. It is borderline stalker behavior."

I heard Paul making his way back into the parking lot, grumbling to himself, but just loud enough for us to hear.

"Anyone ever tell you you're too nice?" I asked, trying to speak up to drown out Paul's continued tirade.

He looked puzzled. "No. Never. Why do you say that?"

"Because I could barely contain slapping him straight across the face," I said.

"Oh," he said. "Under any other circumstances I probably wouldn't have remained so calm."

"Other circumstances?"

"I wouldn't want you to witness two idiots brawling for your attention," he said. "And despite what you want to think, Paul is just concerned because he cares for you." His face was unconvincingly flat. He pulled the door open with one hand, managing to keep me firmly rooted where I was.

"I think you're giving him way too much credit," I said, taking an internal sigh as the warmed air blanketed around me.

"Perhaps you're right," he allowed, steering into the empty common's area. Every other night it was bursting at the seams with students, but tonight, following a basketball game, there were more parties taking place than students enrolled. "But I would have had to let you down to teach him a lesson, and I wasn't ready for that yet."

He cleared his throat, distracting his attention to the square room that screamed utilitarian . . . seventies-era style. Table lamps that were tall, ugly, and topped by even taller and uglier lampshades, orange and mustard yellow was dosed over everything that would hold still, and olive-colored carpet that had at one time been shag before several decades of passage had smashed it into a bad looking toupee. Curling his nose, he looked between the two threadbare, stain-ridden couches as if trying to decide between the lesser of two evils.

I made his decision easy. "That one will work," I said, pointing to the couch against the picture window that looked somewhat less distressed and more "hygienic" than the other.

He cringed, looking around as if wanting to find a blanket he could spread over it before setting me down. "You're as brave as you are beautiful," he said, arranging me on the couch.

Knowing what I did of my beauty—and how it's lack thereof would be just as obvious to him—he must think of me as the cowardly lion.

"Do you mind if I take a look," he asked, eyeing my head anxiously.

"Be my guest." I couldn't feel the warmth of new blood running down my face any longer, but I could only imagine how I looked. Blood drying and cracking like zebra lines down my face, and I was positive my impossible hair looked like a bomb had exploded in it.

As if reading my mind, he went over to the sink, pulling a piece of cloth from his back pocket. Was that a handkerchief? Did guys still carry those around? The last time I'd seen one had been when my great-grandpa offered one to me after I'd fallen from the tree house in the large sycamore out back when I was five.

Even then, disaster prone.

He adjusted the temperature of the water before running the cloth through it. Given everything else about him, I don't know why I couldn't do anything but stare at his hands—lined with blue veins, canyons of flesh set between mountains of bone—but they were the most intriguing pair I'd seen. Hands that were strong and flawless, but also weary and aged.

He hurried back to me, kneeling beside me as he dabbed at my face with the damp cloth. He finished with my lips, pressing them clean before removing the cloth. His eyes stayed fixed on my mouth, which naturally gave me heart palpitations.

He looked up, his eyes telling that he hadn't meant for me to notice him so fixated. He sucked in a breath through his freshly parted lips, closing the distance between us at an agonizingly slow pace. So slow I had time to think, _oh my gosh, this is it. The night my lips will finally update their status to non-virginal._

"Sorry to interrupt," a voice that was acid called out behind us.

William's head snapped around, the moment shattering into a million pieces.

"Nice timing," I said under my breath. William shot me a sideway's smile.

"Here's your bag of crap," Paul said, chucking a black leather bag at William's face. "I thought first aid kits were little white plastic boxes filled with bandages and gauze. A little excessive wouldn't you say?" he eyed the bag William was sorting through, pulling items from it like he'd done it a thousand times.

"Doesn't seem excessive given our current situation does it?" he replied back, not sounding the least bit antagonizing.

Paul just puffed his chest out and crossed his arms.

I eyed over the contents of William's bag, trying not to look like a child staring wide-eyed at a hypodermic needle.

He looked up, noting my stare. "I'll be quick, I promise." He clasped his hand just above my knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze. I felt an injection of calm enter me, dulling my unease. He climbed up on the couch and hitched a leg over my head, situating himself on the back of the couch where I sat agreeably positioned between his legs.

His fingers scrolled around my head, no doubt inspecting the damage. "It's not so bad," he said finally, jolting me from the lull I'd succumbed to from his touch. "I've seen much worse."

So had I.

"I didn't realize we were in the presence of an MD," Paul said, reminding me or his presence. "How lucky for us."

I heard the smile in William's voice as he replied, "You'd be amazed what you learn in boyscouts."

Paul leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "So who is this tool?" he asked, looking hard at me, as if the subject of his comment wasn't ten feet in front of him.

"Tool," William said, as if to himself, contemplating. "As in a device to perform or facilitate mechanical or manual labor?"

Paul tilted his head against the wall and chuckled. "That's right Encyclopedia Britannica. Or in layman's terms: screwdriver, hammer—"

"How about a wrench," William interrupted, his voice too level not to be up to something.

"You've got a quick learner on your hands, Bryn," Paul said to me, clapping his hands. "Sure, wrench works just fine as well," he said, his eyes narrowing on William. "Whatever blows your skirt up buddy."

I felt the chill of iodine drenched cotton balls circle around, soft and methodical. "Well a wrench would come in handy right now," William mused. "Because you definitely have a couple screws loose."

Paul shoved off the wall, and from his expression you would have guessed William had given him the most unthinkable insult known to man. "I take that back. You're not a tool," he seethed, his turquoise eyes growing stormy. "You're way worse, something that hasn't been given a name. You're that guy who preys on innocent young women, and you know what, you're going to be doing the same thing fifty years from now. You're going to be that old dude in the bar with the designer jeans and seedy smile who thinks he's still got it, not realizing everyone's laughing at the sorry old geezer. You could have five more lifetimes and you'd still end up alone."

"Paul," I interjected when it didn't look he was going to be wrapping up his soliloquy anytime soon. "Enough."

Red lights suddenly flashed through the windows, casting their nets over me, ensnaring me into the recesses of my memories. Taking me back to that night when those same red lights had appeared and made everything so real, just as they were doing now.

I glared at Paul, noticing the cell phone he was gripping in his hand. "Tell me you didn't call—"

"It's just campus security," he answered immediately, taking a step back. "As a resident advisor it's my responsibility to report any kind of attacks on campus."

"You had no right," I said through clenched teeth. "It's none of your business what happened—"

William cleared his throat, obviously wanting to cut in.

I didn't secede right away. "Don't even think about saying he only did it because he's looking out for my best interest."

"I wasn't," William replied. "I was going to agree with you. It was none of his bloody business."

Paul uncrossed, crossed, and uncrossed his arms again, obviously unsure what to say and knowing we were right. He looked away, just in time to see a security guard, probably only a few years older than me, charge into the room. Just from the look on his face, I knew this wasn't going to go well.

His eyes locked on me, studying me as if I was more a chalk drawing than a living, breathing person. "You the one that got jumped?"

I didn't think my blood-matted hair and debris ridden clothes needed an answer, but he was waiting for one. Not the brightest crayon in the box.

"Yes," I said, offering nothing more.

"Name?" he asked, marching towards the couch.

"Bryn Dawson," I said it like a question. "Yours?"

His march turned to a strut. "My frat brothers used to call me the beaver charmer when I was a student here a few years back," he smiled at William and jumped his brows in a _you know what I mean_ kind of way.

Just perfect. A former student who couldn't hack it in the real world now dressed in a uniform and on a head trip. Just when I thought my luck couldn't plummet any farther south.

"Do you expect me to call you beaver charmer?" I asked, just barely able to contain my laughter when I heard William choke on his.

"Only my friends and the _ladies_ call me that," he said, hooking his thumbs under his belt. "You can call me Officer Simchuk."

Officer? Had the standards for gaining the title of officer fallen to driving a minivan and sporting a flashlight as a weapon? I take it back . . . this guy was on a _major_ head trip.

"So we've established who the victim is here," he said. I imagined him checking off his list of what to do at the scene of crime. Crime scene investigation for dummies.

"What's your story, pal?" he tilted his chin at William and studied our positioning on the couch. "You the boyfriend?"

"No," Paul answered immediately, stepping forward. "He's the one that found her."

"He's the one that _saved_ me," I edited.

"Does our savior have a name?" Simchuck asked, grabbing a metal chair and twirling it to him.

"William. William Winters," he answered, focusing his attention back on my head. Simchuck grabbed a writing pad from his chest pocket, licking his finger before rolling it open.

"Which dorm are you assigned to," Simchuck asked him.

William paused before answering, "I live off campus, actually."

"Are you done yet?" I whispered up at William.

"Two minutes," he whispered back, his mouth just outside my ear. Goose-bumps ran up my back, blossoming on my neck. I was hoping he'd be too consumed to notice, but right then he scrolled his fingers from the base of my hairline down to the collar of my shirt More goose-bumps . . .

Simchuck's chair screeched as he turned to Paul. "And you are?" he asked with an edge of sarcasm, viewing him head to toe. "Captain America?"

I had to turn my head so Paul couldn't see my smile. From Paul's cleft chin and blinding smile, to the way he was standing with arms crossed and legs spread wearing his OSU letterman's jacket as if some superhero garb, Paul could have been an identical twin.

"Funny," Paul said, crossing his arms tighter. "Paul Lowe."

"Great." Simchuck continued scribbling away. "How are you involved?"

"I was the one who called you," Paul answered, puffing out his chest.

"Super job, Captain," he said as if to himself before looking Paul straight in the eye. "Scram."

"Excuse me?" Paul said, taking a step forward.

"I said beat it. I don't have any questions for you and Bryn looks like she has enough support here already." His eyes moved back to where I sat wrapped between William's arms and legs.

I expected Paul to look angry, but instead he looked confused. He probably wasn't used to being sent away from a gathering.

"I'll be right outside if you need me," Paul said to me, before shooting Simchuck an evil eye as he left the room.

"So, Bryn," he scooted closer and put on his good cop face. "You were attacked tonight?"

We were going to get nowhere if he continued to re-ascertain I was, indeed, the one who had been attacked. "Yes," I answered, trying not to vocalize my impatience. "Again."

"Can you describe what happened?" he asked. I imagined him checking off number three on his list.

I shrugged. "I left the basketball game and was walking through the courtyard when a couple guys showed up and banged me up a little. Not much else to tell."

"Were they students?"

I wasn't sure how to respond not knowing what the relationship between them and William was, but knowing I didn't want to say anything that would jeopardize him, I answered vaguely, "They could have been. It was so dark I couldn't really make out their faces."

Simchuck frowned, doodling a football in the margins of his notebook. "No details at all? Not even height, build, approximate age?"

I shook my head, squeezing my lips together, nudging William in a get-me-out-of-here way. Right on cue, I heard a bandage being ripped open.

"The first man was in his late twenties, six foot, one-eighty, maybe one-eighty five," William listed off. "Brown hair, green eyes and a medium complexion. He has a scar two inches long running down the left side of his face. The second one is early twenties, five foot eight, stocky build, reddish-blonde hair, brown eyes, and has a chain tattooed down his right arm."

Simchuck's pen was scratching like mad to keep up.

"I don't think you have to worry about them showing back up here, but you've got their descriptions just in case."

"Chain tattoo . . ." Simchuck whispered to himself as he continued to write.

"All done," William said, brushing my hair back from my ear.

"You're the best," I said, nearly jumping up from the couch.

"If you'll excuse us Officer Simchuck"—William winked at me from the side—"I need to get Bryn back to her room so she can get some rest. It's been some night."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Simchuck waved us on, continuing his note-taking. "I think I got what I need."

"Have a nice night," William said formally, reaching for my hand and knotting his fingers through mine. That moment, feeling him reach for my hand as if it was instinctual, was worth a hundred more run-ins with Ben and Troy. It felt so good it actually hurt.

He led me out of the room, and I allowed him to, swearing I was done holding back from him. I was going to be an open-book from now on. A Bryn re-model was in order, starting off by tearing down the walls barricaded around me.

"I knew I forgot something," Simchuck said behind us, an audible smacking of the forehead following. "One more thing, Bryn," he shouted out at us as we were escaping into the hall.

I stiffened, wondering if we were far enough away Simchuck might assume we were out of hearing-range. Unless we were practically deaf, I didn't think that would fly. I turned my head back at him, keeping my hand rooted in William's.

"What's that?"

"Do you have any reason to believe you might know these guys? You know, had a run-in with them in the past where they tried to mess you?

I would have sworn Simchuck had just pounded me in the stomach than asked me a question. I felt the stopper burst from the bottle I tried to keep my past—that night—trapped in.

I felt my knees give a little, like my body had suddenly become too heavy to keep upright. My scars became open wounds, searing pain that sucked the air from my lungs. My hand fell out of William's, right as the pain became too much. I clutched at my stomach and back, pawing at the scars as if I could extinguish the flames I felt burning in them.

"What's wrong?" he asked, worry heightening his voice an octave. "Are you hurt?"

I couldn't answer, partly due to the pain, but mainly due to there being no conclusive answer. The physical damage had healed long ago, but the hurt that goes deep and burrows in like a parasite never goes away.

William pried my hands away and nudged my shirt up timidly, running his fingers over the purple lines of my past.

"These are entry and exit wounds," he whispered assuredly, although as if he wished he was mistaken. "You were shot."

"Everything alright?" Simchuck called out as he approached us.

I found my voice, a small miracle in its own right. "Everything's fine," I said, before chancing a glimpse at William who was still rubbing over my scars, as if he was trying to erase them.

"I'm fine," I whispered down to him. "Really."

When he looked up, I knew I hadn't convinced him anymore than I had myself.

I composed my face and turned back to the fast approaching Simchuck. "To answer your question"—I cleared my throat—"they're no one I know. I've never seen them before."

I held Simchuck's stare until he was convinced. He clicked the top of his pen and hung it over his shirt pocket. "Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else, give us a call."

"Thanks," I replied, not having to fake the sentiment. I was beyond thankful he'd made our proceedings as quick and relatively painless as rent-a-cop possible.

"Here's my personal number." He slid a card in my hand and his eyebrows peaked in an expectant way before he hustled around William's kneeling form.

"See ya, Savior," he tapped William's shoulder before extending his arm at Paul, perched halfway up the staircase—no doubt eavesdropping without looking too blatant about it. "Catch up with you later, Captain."

Paul flashed a humorless smile, lifting his middle finger to the sky. It snapped back the instant he saw me looking at him. "Sorry," he mouthed, looking down.

"Mature," I chided, attempting to encourage William from his freeze-framed form. "You're the one that called him, remember?"

"Let's hope that's the last mistake I make tonight," Paul replied, his tone full of implications, but I was too consumed trying to pull William from his trance to decipher the meaning behind his words.

"I'm gonna hit the sack now to make sure it is." He pushed off his thighs to rise, eyeing William. "Hasn't anyone told you chivalry's dead, man? Chics don't dig that whole opening doors, getting down on one knee thing."

"Good night, Paul." I made the warning in my voice so obvious even a jock-rock (my term for jocks with rocks for brains) would hear it.

Without another word, he jogged up the stairs, hollering over his shoulder, "See ya, Bryn."

I exhaled, two male problems attended to, one more to go.

I wasn't sure how much, if any, of my past I was willing to divulge to William. I'd only told my account of that night once, to the police who were the first on the scene, and hadn't whispered a word about it since. Not even when counselors, distant relatives from Texas I saw once every few years, or my professors back home, encouraged me to talk about it—let the pain ooze from the wound before sealing it up, not to let it fester. But I'd been a fester-er my whole life, how could everyone just expect me to change and bawl my eyes through a box of tissues every week at some support group?

William rose and I felt him studying me, trying to work out a problem in his head that was unsolvable, inconclusive . . . the null set.

"What happened?" he said finally, his voice so tight it seemed it might snap.

I sniffed, looking anywhere but in his eyes. "I was shot."

He nodded twice before rolling his head into a shake. "With the location on your body, a centimeter to the right or left and it would have killed you instantly."

I'd never looked at it that way—that I was lucky I'd made it. I chose to focus on the bad luck of being shot and having everything taken from me that night. "Lucky me, right?"

"That's not what I mean," he said. "It's like something—some force—wanted you to survive. To make it to this moment."

There was a serious lightness to his statement, so I replied in turn, "So I could be here with you, right now?"

A slow grin rose. "Something like that. At least that's what I like to think."

"Again," I said, trying to look through him like he had so many times with me. "Lucky me."

He held my stare like it was the most natural gesture between near strangers, with the practice of a staring contest champion. I felt my eyes puckering with dryness before I blinked, forfeiting the win to the master.

"I'll take you to your room," he said, resting his hand over the small of my back gently, as if I was too fragile to touch with any kind of urgency.

Up the staircase that seemed taller, down the hall that seemed longer, coming to a stop in front of the door that seemed more empty. Mine was easy to identify; it was the only door void of glittered construction paper cut-out names and corkboards splattered with photos.

I cupped my hand around the doorknob, stalling, still undecided. In the end, my soul made the decision for me.

"It was six months ago," I said, sounding stronger than I thought I could breeching the topic.

He braced his hand against the wall, sucking in a long breath.

I twisted the door opened, the light of my room dosing us in 100 watt incandescent light. I always kept at least one light on now, the dark and I didn't get along anymore. "I want to show you something."

My legs fought the journey to my desk, my arms fighting even harder as I whooshed the bottom drawer open. I didn't have to turn my head to know he'd followed me in, I could feel him—like the spring morning sun on my face. I dug under several pre-law course books when that dream had still been alive, finding what I was searching for at the very bottom. The metal of the drawer had cooled the thin paper. I fought back a choke, I wasn't going to chicken out now.

Pulling out the cut-out newspaper article, I flung my arm behind me, not able to look at it. Once had been enough for one lifetime.

William took it, his contemplation saturating the air like a heavy night fog. I stayed crouched where I was, unable to look.

" _Three Shot, Two Die, One Still at Large in Dawson Family Tragedy_ ," he whispered, reciting the title of the article that had turned into a highly publicized case. Despite the overabundance of violence out there, it still seems to turn a lot of heads when a respectable attorney and his wife are murdered in cold blood, while their Ivy-league daughter narrowly escaped her own death on her nineteenth birthday.

I closed my eyes, focusing on inhaling . . . _1,2,3,4,5 . . ._ exhaling . . . _1,2,3,4,5._

He didn't read anymore aloud thankfully, although I'd already teleported myself back in time to that night and was sprawled on the asphalt drenched in blood and rain, shivering and alone.

He glanced down at me, his eyes filled with the rawness of someone who had experienced the kind of loss I had, although how could he truly understand my sorrow? William couldn't know what it felt like to lose his entire family and know he was the one responsible for it.

He couldn't know what it felt like to have a man walk up to you and shoot the two people you loved most in the world, before he turned the gun on you; what it would feel like to wake up in the hospital two weeks later to be told you were the only one to survive and there were no leads as to who'd killed the only people you loved—no one to hold responsible for your pain other than yourself.

Months later and still not a single lead, no fingerprints, no motives, no eye-witnesses; my parent's lives evaporated with no one to blame but me. After all, it was my selfishness that had begged them to come visit me on my birthday up at Stanford so I wouldn't have to celebrate alone, me who'd chosen the ill-fated restaurant where we'd all been met with a 9 millimeter and destiny, and me who'd ordered dessert and wasted away another hour at the restaurant.

If I'd only resisted my sweet tooth we'd have been out of there earlier and still together today. Sure, the gunman had been the one to pull the trigger, but I'd loaded the gun. That day I awoke parentless, I made a sacred vow that I would never again let my selfishness compromise another person I cared about. _Never_ again.

I heard the newspaper fold back into place before he kneeled beside me. He replaced the article at the bottom of my drawer, grabbing my hand in his. "You're amazing, you know that?" he said, the last thing I imagined him saying given the information he'd just been privy to.

The surprise of it broke me out of the snare of remorse and guilt I got caught in every time I revisited that night. I looked at him and his eyes were victorious, not sad, or doling out pity like the multitudes had.

"Here you are," he said, gesturing at me. "Fighting like there's no tomorrow. Fighting to make them proud, even in death." He smiled, it was all teeth and fondness.

"Come again?" I asked. He had to be joking. Me, a fighter? Yeah, and elephants fly.

"You can act as humble as you like," he said, pulling me up. "But anyone else would have given up on their dreams and let fear and sadness cripple them."

Did he realize that was me? Fear, sadness, guilt, remorse, self-loathing . . . take your pick.

"Your parents must have been incredible people," he said, drawing his fingers over my cheek.

"They were the best," I said, and instead of trying not to think about them, I let my memory bank fill with them. Summers on the Oregon Coast, strawberry crepes Saturday mornings, my mother's perfume that was like walking through a lavender field, the way Dad's favorite polo shirt would smell after mowing the lawn. I let the memories overtake me, and unlike what I'd thought, they gave me strength instead of flat-ironing me to the ground.

"I've upset you," he said, watching a tear skid down my face. "I didn't mean to."

I nodded. "No. You've made me happy," I said, sniffing through a laugh. "Strangely happy."

"Are you alright?"

I eyed him.

"Given the circumstances?" he edited.

Attacked by a couple men that were as mysterious as they were terrifying, letting the skeletons topple out of my closet onto a man that was so near perfect he should have taken off in the opposite direction from me, but here he stood, firmly rooted to the shoddy carpet in my dorm room. I should be anything but alright, but I felt nothing but. "I'm the most alright I've been in awhile," I said, knowing he was the reason for this.

"The article said you went to Stanford," he said, looking strangely amused. "Why did you transfer?"

I waved my hand in the air. "I needed a change, and had heard such wonderful things about rural Oregon, and there was this little thing"—I pinched my thumb and index fingers together—"called academic probation I was put on." After my parent's had been murdered and a bullet had run through me, my mind was on everything but study sessions and declaring majors.

"A change," he repeated, the only thing he'd pulled from my explanation. "I wonder what it would take for you to make another change."

I looked back at him, and I already had my answer, but it shouldn't have come so quickly or without doubt. It defied everything I knew of this world, this couldn't exist . . . but at the same time, I couldn't deny what was taking place within me. Thankfully, I didn't spurt out what the very core of me knew. "Something pretty big, I guess."

"Pretty _big_ like what?" he pressed.

"Oh, I don't know," I said, stepping back and removing my hoodie, glad I had on a tee-shirt that was clean, fitted, and didn't have some fill-in-the-blank fun-run sprawled across it. "But I'll let you know when I find it." I smiled and tossed the hoodie in the garbage; there was no amount of stain remover that could ever wash tonight off it.

"Okay, so something pretty big then," he quoted me as if committing it to memory. His eyes outlined my figure, although I could tell he was trying not to let them.

Feeling self-conscious, I fidgeted with my shirt, pulling, twisting and smoothing, not able to meet his gaze.

"What are you doing Sunday?" he asked suddenly.

I took a step back and gripped the footboard of my bed. "Not much. Homework, laundry, chess club"—I said in a joking voice (sadly, I _actually_ did have chess club on Sunday afternoons)—"exciting stuff like that."

He swallowed, looking like he was working up some courage. "Would you like to spend part of it with me?"

I hoped my face didn't scream, _duh_ , too loudly.

A rapping on the door jolted both of us. I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand; it was way past courteous visiting hours. It had been a good month since I'd had a knock on my door, and had no reason to be expecting one now—especially given the hour. I started towards the door.

"Don't." He grabbed hold of my wrist. "Just pretend you're not here." There was something urgent in his voice, which only further piqued my interest to discover who was standing on the other side of that door.

Another knock. This one longer and more impatient sounding than the first. I pulled free from his handcuff-like hold and pulled the door open, peeking out, praying I wouldn't find a duo of men sporting suits and malicious smiles.

A painted-on sweater dress had replaced the orange and black pleated skirt, and the ribbon had been pulled from her hair, showcasing shampoo-commercial shiny hair shimmering over her shoulders.

"Sorry to wake you"—she eyed my outfit and make-up free face—"but is Will here? Paul said he might be," she asked eagerly, like a golden retriever anticipating the toss of a tennis ball.

I felt my mouth twisting. "I don't know about a Will,"—I turned the word out like biting into a tart apple—"but I've got a William I'll give you." I shoved the door open so hard it banged against the closet, revealing him.

Her brown eyes went all starry. "Here you are. How long were you planning on keeping me waiting?" She tapped her wrist where a watch could have been.

"He was caught up with me," I said, crossing my arms. "I had to go and bust my head open, bear my soul to a misogynist . . . you know, that kind of thing." I said, starting to bite my lip, although I couldn't tell if I was trying to hold back tears or a tirade.

Her eyes turned to me for a second, her expression saying _TMI,_ before looking back at William. Before she could say anything else, I backed away from the door, careful not to look at him.

"Have a fun night." It was pathetic how weak my voice sounded.

"Thanks," she said. "You have fun sleeping too," she said generously, now she was sure I wasn't any threat. "You look like you need it."

I wanted to stick my tongue out her, but chose to act my age.

William didn't budge, in fact, he hadn't said a thing. I guess he didn't have a carefully rehearsed speech prepared for when two of his love interests found out about each other. Seemed cavalier given his obvious reputation.

"You can go now," I said, turning towards him, focusing on the rainbow of blues in the industrial-type carpet.

I noticed his head finally turn to the auburn-haired vixen in the doorway, what had taken so long? "I don't want to leave her"—he nodded his head towards me—"with the head injury she's sustained."

Before his eyes could go regretful or she could volunteer some other schmuck to sit vigil for the poor handicap recluse girl, I looked up at him. I immediately wished I hadn't.

"Just go," I mouthed at him.

His face twisted, as if I'd hurt him. Only another tool in his arsenal, giving the other woman the pained face before he rode off with someone else . . . just in case this one didn't work out and he needed a back-up plan. I certainly wasn't one of those used goods girls, damaged goods for sure, but I wasn't going to be anyone's back-up plan.

For the second time that night, he listened to me. I wanted to take back the words as soon as he took the first step towards her and away from me. I wanted to shout, _choose me, pick me._ How pathetic was that?

I couldn't resist the urge to gaze through my window, despite knowing it would only bludgeon an already bruised heart. I watched them walk into the parking lot side-by-side, drifting away in the darkness together. I told myself I didn't care; I didn't want that kind of man, anyways.

My mom had always said the heart wants what the heart wants. For the first time, I understood what she meant.

### CHAPTER FIVE

### SURFING

I was dreaming, it this is what you can call a _dream._ I knew that, but the harder I tried to wake up, the deeper I fell into the dream, the more vivid the images and sensory stimulus came. I finally gave up trying to wake up and let the dream be the driver.

A liquid white nightgown skimmed my ankles (it was out-of-place since I lived in tanks and boxer bottoms) as I padded through a cavernous room that was the kind you'd expect to be filled with millions of bats. A burst of fire erupted from the ground around me, trapping me in a ring of flames. The flames reached at me like long, boney, fingers, scorching and burning their way through me. The only word I screamed was his name—William—before the flames engulfed me and my body exploded into a confetti of ash.

When I finally woke up, it was with a jerk, like I couldn't get out of that nightmare fast enough. I took a census of my room, making sure I was back in real life.

The alarm said it was way too early for me to be up on a Sunday morning, but since the thought of what would be waiting for me if I did manage to fall back to sleep scared the snot out of me, I popped out of bed.

I pulled out my running shoes that had long ago expired the five-hundred mile maximum suggested usage, and fretted over tying them like they were old friends. Developed as an outlet for stress back in high school, I looked forward to the peace and quiet my daily runs invoked; if only for a handful of minutes. I wasn't picky these days.

My dad hadn't been thrilled about my solo outings (which normally took place when most were tucked away for the night), but in comparison to what I could have been doing during these hours, I suppose you could say he succumbed to the lesser of two evils.

His worries had been needless anyway. I'd never once been in a stitch of danger back home in Santa Cruz, and now residing in rural Oregon, the danger was laughable in comparison.

I threw on a clean hoodie and headed out the door, reciting lines of Shakespeare to keep me from thinking about the man who'd inundated my waking and sleeping hours since last Friday.

The Oregon morning was more damp than cold, but it was still convincing enough to skip my ritual quad stretches. I was eager to get the blood pumping to get my thermostat turned up.

I broke into a jog as soon as I stepped outside, knowing this was going to be a long one. The rule of thumb was, the more issues I needed to work out, the longer the run. I'd clocked a twenty-miler once, after my parents had died and I'd finally been allowed physical activity, and something told me this one could contend with the record.

Six strides in, I came to a screaming halt. Standing in front of me, leaning against his Bronco as if he'd been waiting for me all night, was the man I was trying not to think about at the moment. So much for that.

"All set?" he asked, smiling as if everything was just peachy-keen.

"All set for what?"

"Our date," he answered matter-of-factly.

Heat burnt in me, without the need of pounding legs. "You've got to be kidding me."

His face ironed out. "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

He didn't, actually. He looked amazing. The way his t-shirt pulled at his arms, the boardshorts slung just low enough to make someone blush.

When I looked up, I knew my inadvertent look hadn't gone undetected. "I don't care if you're serious or not," I said, looking off to the side. "You can't go out with one girl, and 24 hours later go out with another. She might be alright with that, you're obviously alright with that," I said, thrusting my arms at him. "But I am not alright with it."

He approached me with arms raised. "I've upset you. I apologize for that." He continued forward. "But I didn't go anywhere with her. Besides to her car in the parking lot."

"What a lucky girl," I said, crossing my arms. "Not even a dinner out before a roll in the backseat of her car. Wow, you really are a gentleman."

His eyes narrowed before they opened with recognition. "Let me clarify," he said slowly. "I _escorted_ her to her car, never entering it, before sending her on her merry way."

"So,"—I narrowed my eyes at him, wishing I could erase my feelings for him—"did you meet up with her later then?"

His head shook.

"Then you have plans for another time."

His head rotated back before it shook again.

"Plans with someone else?" I asked, trying to cover every loophole.

His chest heaved.

"Why?" Did I sound as dumbfounded as I felt? Why hadn't he chosen her over me, every other warm-blooded male would? None of this made sense—none of _him_ made sense.

"Why would I?"

"Let's see," I said, tapping my index finger on my chin, "she's beautiful, charming, sex-on-a-stick—"

"I wasn't referring to her when I asked why would I," he interrupted, working at concealing a grin. "I was referring to you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," he said, coming for me. I didn't back away; I was sick of backing away, even though I knew I should. I was all for sprinting forward, even if it sent me straight off the edge of a cliff.

"I don't want her. I don't want anyone else." His eyes were intense, unheeding, but I kept his stare. "I want you."

Something warm burst inside, it flowed through my body, spreading like an infection. "Why?" I whispered, perfecting the art of one-word responses this morning.

He knotted his fingers through mine. "I was born to like you."

I knew I was smiling like an idiot. "And so we're back to the cheesy one-liner's . . ."

He laughed. "Not a line, just the truth."

"Sure, sure," I said, rolling my fingers through his. "I don't care if it is a line. That one was actually top-notch."

He rolled his eyes, before looking at me with an expectant expression. "So?"

" _So_ what?"

"So I just put my heart on the chopping block," he said. "Is there anything you'd like to say, perhaps _admit_ to me?" He paused, his eyebrows peaking. "Regarding the way you feel for me."

So I was ready to sprint, but I wasn't quite ready to spill the way I felt about him. The magnitude and intensity of it scared me, and would certainly quarantine me to psycho-chic status if I admitted it to him.

Improvisation was a god-send. "You confound me."

He tilted his head. "And?"

"You irritate me."

He didn't look amused. "And?"

"You're nice to look at."

"Bryn," he said, as a teacher would to a truant student.

"Alright, alright," I said, swallowing hard. "I like you, too." An understatement of ungodly proportions.

"Like pulling teeth," he said, brushing my hair behind my ear. "But I already knew that."

"Oh did you, Mr. Sure-of-yourself," I tried glaring into his smug face—a futile effort—"Then why were you so adamant I confess myself to you."

"It's nice to hear, don't you think?"

Yet another understatement.

"So what's the plan for today?" I asked, side-stepping around the moment for lack of know-how. I wasn't exactly used to a man staring into my eyes with his body pressed so close to mine I could feel the heat coming from it, waiting expectantly.

He purposefully eyed his Bronco. "I thought I'd bring a little Santa Cruz to you."

"Surfing, huh?" I said, eyeing the two boards on the roof.

"Surfing indeed. Sound good to you?"

"Absolutely," I said, focusing harder on the boards in hopes he wouldn't detect the nervousness I was chewing out on my lip. I was Santa Cruz born and bred, and had surfed a total of . . . never. I rested my hand against the Bronco to steady myself—it didn't help. Watching _Jaws_ at the age of five at my cousin's house had done a number on my fearlessness when it came to the ocean from there on.

"Can't wait." I eyed the boards nervously as I made my way to where he was holding the passenger door open for me.

His eyebrows danced. "Can't wait to see you in a swimsuit," he said, offering his hand to me.

"If you think I'm getting into that water without being bubble-wrapped in six inches of insulation, you're delusional." I said, taking his hand as I hoisted up into the cab.

He blew through his mouth. "It's not that bad."

"Not bad if you're immune to temperature," I hollered through the window after he shut the door behind me. He'd left the car running and had the heat turned on high.

Coming around the driver's side, he climbed into his seat and positioned the driver's side vents in my direction. "Are you warm enough?"

"Barely," I admitted, glancing down at my bare legs.

He chuckled and cranked the heater as high as it would go. "If this doesn't work, I can think of a few other ways to warm you up." I heard the sly smile in his voice even though I couldn't make myself look at him.

"Wow, you don't have anything better than that?" I said, trying to sound unimpressed. "I expected more from you than one of the oldest, most worn-out male innuendos in the book."

He reached for something in the backseat, dropping what he'd retrieved into my lap. He shrugged. "A blanket might help. I've got an extra pair of jeans if you'd like." He smiled at me with exaggerated innocence.

I tucked the blanket around my legs. "You're impossible."

"I'm not even finished yet," he said, grabbing a cardboard cup resting on the dashboard and handed it to me. "A steaming cup of coffee should aid in warming you up. What was it again you were suggesting about innuendos?"

I sighed with exaggeration. "I forfeit this one to you, only because I don't want to spend the whole morning in some battle of the wits with you. Although I still reserve the right to believe you're impossible," I said, reaching for the cup.

"Impossibly charming, you mean?"

I rolled my eyes and changed the subject, knowing we could go another twelve rounds if I didn't. "This is exactly what I needed," I said, taking a long sip and feeling it's warmth spread through me. "You're completely forgiven for everything now."

I noticed the print-out label on the side of the cup; Triple Americano, plain. I was surprised, yet again, by how well he seemed to know me. Most people ordered lattes, mochas, or drip coffees; it was only the hard-core, caffeine junkie that drank a triple Americano straight-up.

"A cup of coffee?" he mocked. "If I would have known it's the fix-all with you, I would have rented a latte stand to follow us around from the first night we met."

"That would have made things too easy," I said lightly.

"Heaven forbid."

"I've got something for you," I said, taking another sip.

"You do?"

"Don't get too excited. I made it," I warned, reaching into my pocket.

"You made me something?" he asked, turning in his seat to face me. "Was this before or after you were planning on hating me for all time because you jumped to conclusions?"

"After," I said matter-of-factly. "But if you call a girl Don Juan would raise from the grave for, showing up at my door after midnight looking for you a jump, so be it. I call it a logical sequence of assumptions."

"So we agree to disagree," he said, waving his hand. "Back to important things. What did you make me?"

"I help out a few times a week at a disadvantaged youth program in town," I explained, pulling the braided leather bracelet from my pocket. "The project we worked on yesterday was making a protector bracelet."

He smiled when he reviewed the dark leather object. "And what is a protector bracelet?"

I fumbled with it in my hands. "We asked the kids to think of one person in their life they feel safe around—someone who protects them." I shrugged, trying to look casual. "Since there was a short list of people that have protected me from something pretty big this week . . ." I felt silly admitting I'd made this juvenile gift for him, and was now asking him to wear it.

He extended his left arm towards me. "Will you tie it on?"

I smiled at his eagerness, forgetting my embarrassment. I wrapped the bracelet around his wrist and knotted the ends together. The electricity sparking off his skin today felt extra dynamic; so much so, I didn't want to remove my hands once the bracelet was secure.

He left his wrist in my hands and fingered over the same bracelet I had encircling my wrist. "You have one as well."

I looked at my own and smiled. It was a reminder that I was doing something constructive with my life, if at least for one person alone. "Some of these kids don't have a lot of people in their lives they can trust," I answered, and while the red-haired girl's gesture last night should have made me sad that she didn't have anyone else to give her bracelet to, it'd made me happy. It affirmed I was needed.

William looked at me thoughtfully, and then reviewed the bracelet on his wrist. "Thank you. This means a lot."

Had I not known it was a gift that cost less than a dollar and an hour to make, the depth of sincerity in his voice would have led me to believe it was the best thing he'd ever been given.

He removed his wrist from my hands, and backed out of the parking space. "That is one sweet car," he said as we drove down the long row where my car laid in wait—smirking at the rest of the cars that looked tame as kittens beside it. I could hear her whine as I left her behind on our beach outing.

"She turns a lot of heads," I said, recalling the countless hours dad and I spent tinkering on her until she was perfect.

"Like mother like daughter."

I smiled at him, despite wanting to roll my eyes, and took a sip of the strong coffee, contemplating why I felt such a gravitational pulling to the man at my left, whose mere presence filled in the cracks of my disheveled life with a mortar that was both quick-setting and permanent.

The highway from Corvallis to Newport was two-lane, serpentine, picturesque, and dotted with four to five word responses from William. He drilled me without mercy as to my own life, and seemed intrigued by every commonplace detail I gave him. I was now positive William wasn't being _unintentionally_ evasive.

"So, where are you from?" I asked, expecting his brief answer, followed by one of his own for me. Since we'd drudged through the heavy stuff first, now seemed like a good time to go over the basics.

"I was born in North Carolina, but I've moved around a lot," he said, selecting each word with great care.

This was the most verbose response I'd been given regarding his own life. "Do you like all the moving around and travelling?" I asked, hoping to break through the clam shell of mystery.

"I do, very much. I enjoy seeing new places and experiencing new things. What about you—do you like to travel?"

"I love it. I could live my life roaming from place to place," I admitted, desperate to keep the conversation flowing. "And not just the popular, touristy places either . . . I want to see it all."

For some reason, his face became peaceful, as if a great burden had been lifted from my admission. I didn't understand it—maybe he was just dreaming about the far away places he'd been.

He stayed quiet though, as was normal, so I continued, "Starting every summer after my sophomore year of high school, I went with a group of students and teachers for a month or two on a humanitarian mission to a location that was in need of volunteers. We'd do whatever we could—nothing glamorous—but those few summers were some of the best experiences of my life."

"Where did you go on your last trip?" he asked.

"That was a couple years ago after my senior year, and we went to Java after an earthquake devastated the island—" My speech came to a halt, due to the expression covering his face. It was one of shock.

"You were there that summer . . . nearly two years back?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah . . . why?"

He blinked a couple of times and shook his head before answering, "I was there as well that summer."

"No you weren't," I said, awed. "You couldn't have been." It didn't seem possible I could have missed him. Despite the mass of people and chaos, I was certain he would have stood out.

He nodded. "Yes, I was also there volunteering. Providing medical assistance in Yogyakarta—"

"That's where I was stationed at too," I said, two notes below a shout.

He looked over at me, not minding the highway in front of us. "It's amazing. You were there all along."

"Yeah, I guess the universe wasn't ready for us to meet just then," I said, trying to shake the feeling that his intensity and perspective on the topic at hand was far more advanced than mine.

"I guess not," he said, turning his eyes back to the road and staring absently out the windshield.

"Or maybe it was trying to keep us apart," I said in my super-sleuth voice. "It never thought the same two people would willingly choose Corvallis Oregon to end up in two years later. Its plan wasn't so perfect," I said, overjoyed that whatever or however we'd been brought together, it had happened.

"I suppose we outsmarted it," he said, and despite his face looking forward, the smile that burst made my already clenched fists, clench even tighter to the nail indentation phase.

"What kind of medical assistance were you providing?"

"Nothing too fancy—rolling gauze, stocking med carts," he said, looking oddly amused. "That kind of thing."

"Sounds ten times better than what I was doing."

He looked over at me with raised brows.

"Emptying bed pans."

This caused him to laugh, as it had all my friends that fall when I'd returned to school and told them what I'd spent my summer doing. "Yes, I suppose my menial duties were slightly better than that."

"I can't believe you were there." I shook my head, still stupefied, and let my mind drift back to those six weeks. "There was this great doctor the locals kept talking about—some kind of miracle worker they called him. I guess he just kind of showed up out of thin air, and disappeared in the same way. Did you ever get a chance to meet him?"

The amusement on his face was no longer slight—it was radiating from him. "I did," he said, looking over at me. "I don't know about the miracle worker thing, but I took a liking to him."

"I wish I could have met him, too," I said, ignoring his curious amusement on the topic.

"I'd wager my soul he would have wished so as well," he said, looking like he was choking back a fit of laughter.

He pulled into the public parking lot in Newport a few minutes later, and the burning question I'd kept to myself the entire trip suddenly seemed impossible to keep locked inside me. It was as if my soul superseded my brain and forced my mouth to open. "Who are you William—really? I've been patient. Time for answers."

I cursed myself the moment the words were out. Who asks that kind of a question? Sure he'd been evasive in answering just about every question I'd asked him, and yes, he was more the thing of fantasy that Oregonian college boy, but here was the scary thing: I didn't care.

I didn't care that he'd showed up out of nowhere to save me from a couple of suit wearing thugs in a way I guessed a comic book hero would, or that he knew what kind of coffee I drank, or that when he looked at me, I would have sworn he was looking at the most precious thing he'd ever seen. I also knew this should have scared me—how much power he had over me so soon—but it didn't. It felt as natural and unforced as the expansion and contraction of my lungs.

He put the Bronco in park and killed the engine. He gazed in front of him, looking as if his thoughts were greyer than the swirling clouds dancing in the sky. "There are some things I can't fully explain to you right now. They wouldn't make sense, and would only further frustrate your inquisitive mind. I promise though," he vowed, turning and staring into my eyes, "that I will, one day soon, answer any question you have for me. But today,"—his eyes shifted to the swelling ocean waves beckoning in front of us—"let's enjoy the surf, okay?"

"You said that two days ago," I reminded him.

"I promised to tell you when the time was right," he said.

"You promise, you'll answer _any_ question I have for you?" I asked, not letting him off the hook right away. "With more than yes or no answers?"

He tried to control his smile, but lost. "I swear it."

Something about the way he said the words made me believe him without another thought. "Well . . . what are we waiting for?"

He grinned in response. "Nothing—we're not waiting for anything anymore."

### CHAPTER SIX

### MYSTERIES

"I can't believe how fast today went by," I said, as William cut the ignition in front of my dorm a little past midnight.

"There's always tomorrow," he said, holding out his hand for me as I exited the cab.

"And the day after that," I added, still not sure where the day had gone. In the matter of a mere sixteen or so hours, I'd officially become a surfer (according to William, although I had my doubts), I'd gleaned more tidbits about the man of mystery (he circumnavigated the globe by boat with one of his brothers a few years back, is a die hard Pink Floyd fan, could eat grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches everyday, and loathes reality TV), and added even more fuel to the fire that William is not your everyday twenty-two year old male when he managed to leap from his board to mine every time I'd been about to topple into the water.

"Thank you for . . ."—his eyes stared unheedingly at me. The look in them made me dizzy—"the best day ever."

"Ditto that," I replied, sure I was smiling and blushing unabashedly.

He curled his fingers around my hand and led me up the sidewalk.

"Good evening, William."

One moment I was beside him, holding his hand, and the next, I was behind him, as he struck a defensive position in front of me. The voice was different, but I was sure it would be a foreboding male dressed in a suit with a penchant for beating me bloody.

"It was," William seethed through a clenched jaw, while I reeled to take in the transaction taking place around us.

Two men, goliath in size, stepped out from behind the shrubbery at the dorm entrance. Tall as I was, my head only came up to William's nose; but these men were easily a head taller than the man that stood like a fortress in front of me.

I was not frightened, though. It was irrational (little had been rational since he'd entered my life), but I felt safe. The only reason the nervous hitching pummeled in my stomach was because I was fearful for him—my own safety . . . my own life, meant very little to me.

"Dante, Thomas." William's voice was cool and menacing. "What are you doing here?"

The man on the right that looked like a cross between a gorilla and a gladiator chuckled. "You _know_ why."

The other man beside him had dark, flawless skin—his eyes were a familiar shade of blue. "You also know who sent us and what course of action we will have to take if you choose not to follow the rules. Ben and Troy let you off easy."—William's growl of response was fierce.—"No more freebies."

The men exchanged a knowing look, before their gleaming smiles turned back to us—eyeing me as if in answer. "It's time to say goodnight, William," the hybrid gorilla said.

William didn't reply, and I didn't move. We were obviously both at a loss for words and action.

"Come now, don't make our job difficult," the man with the beautiful skin encouraged. "She doesn't look as _sturdy_ as you."

An expression of fierceness shadowed William's face. Shivers tingled down my back.

"Very well," he growled, sounding as fierce as his expression looked. He dropped the defensive positioning of his arms slightly. "I'll be right behind you after I escort her to her room." He edged forward, but would not grab my hand or pull me into his embrace.

"We'll wait."

"Suit yourselves." William stopped in front of them, looking at each one with a certain kind of expectancy, until they stepped aside and cleared the sidewalk. William turned to the side, beckoned me forward with a sweep of his hand, and followed immediately behind me.

I took a quick glance at him, ignoring the monster men on either side of the walkway, and while he looked composed enough, I could sense his emotions swinging like a pendulum from anger to anxiety—so intense it was scalding. I unlocked the door and William threw it open, guiding me inside with the hand he'd rested conventionally over my shoulder.

"Too bad he didn't introduce us to his new friend." I heard one of them say.

"Too bad indeed," the other replied, before the door slammed shut behind us.

As soon as we were around the corner and stepping up the stairs, William grabbed my hand and pulled me up the flight of stairs without a word. When his silence continued as he marched me down the hall towards my room, I stopped in my tracks and pulled against him.

"What is going on?" I asked incredulously; the bright light of the hall dousing me in a reality check. Outside in the dark silence, the two men fit, and didn't seem as surreptitious as they did now in the well-lit hall of a college dorm hall wallpapered with posters and sign-up sheets.

"Everything is fine, please don't worry." His words were placating, not genuine.

"Are you leaving?" I cried, glad that the music in the room beside me was blaring so it would muffle the anxiety heightening my tone. "Are they going to hurt you?"

"Yes to your first question and no to the second," he answered hurriedly, pulling me harder down the hall. It was like he couldn't put enough space between me and them.

"I'm going too."

He shook his head fiercely. "That is completely out of the question."

"That so?" I taunted, turning back towards the stairs.

I got two steps before he stopped my retreat. He sighed. "I've got something very important to explain to you, something that will be difficult for you to understand." He wrapped one arm around my shoulder and encouraged me forward. "I'm not your everyday college student . . . not even close."

Yeah, that was obvious. I could have told him that after the first minute I met him.

He stopped me in front of my door, and turned to face me, grabbing my arms with his hands. "I will explain everything to you soon, but I've got to leave now."

I didn't want to wait to have the mysteries revealed, I wanted to know now. A fear from deep within rose like the tide, until I was convinced if I let this man out of my sight, I would never see him again. He would disappear into the mystical poof he'd appeared in.

"I'm not letting you go alone with those two brutes," I said, crossing my arms.

"Be serious, Bryn."

"I. Am." I emphasized each word, hoping I'd relayed the level of finality I had in them.

"They mean me no harm. They just want to talk with me . . . to remind me of something." His eyes darted to the side before the heat of the fire burning in them could be fully revealed.

"Well you can all talk with me present." I wasn't going to make this easy for him. I already felt him slipping away, despite his promises to explain everything soon, and that everything was just fine. The thing was . . . it didn't _feel_ fine.

"What are you so frightened of?" he asked, his burning eyes weakening my senses.

I had to look down before I could answer him. "That I'll never see you again."

He reached for my chin and tilted it back up to him. "That could never happen," he reassured, lifting his left wrist. "After all, you gave me this bracelet—I'm now obligated to protect you for the remainder of your days."

I smiled, immensely thankful for the strands of leather I'd tied to him this morning. "That's right. That's a life sentence I've got tied around your wrist. So you're not going anywhere without me." I raised both my brows, not allowing his distraction to detour me from my mission.

"You're stubborn, aren't you?" The fire gone from his eyes, his mouth pulled up into my favorite smile—that mischievous, I-don't-have-a-clue-how-hot-I-am-when-I-smile-like-this-which-makes-it-that-much-hotter smile.

"Only when I have to be," I fired back.

And then, he kissed me.

If he was looking for something with the highest likelihood of undoing my resolve and rendering me speechless, he hit the diamond mine. My heart barely had time to react before his lips left mine, but though my experience in the kissing field was amateur to put it generously, this was not your typical first kiss.

I imagined a first kiss to be sweet and shy, but this one had an urgent, desperate feel to it; which would have only heightened my growing anxieties that something was wrong, had it not been his lips that had done the telling. An injection of wistfulness swirled in me, dulling my worries.

"Miss Dawson, you are surely some kind of temptress in disguise." He grabbed my hand and laid it over his chest, where I could feel his heart racing with the intensity I knew mine matched. "Do you feel what you've done to me?" he asked breathlessly. "You may very well be the death of me one day. But what a way to go."

I was too enthralled by the bliss of a first kiss and the man who'd created it to respond.

"I'll be back soon," he whispered through his accelerated breathing, "to explain everything."

I nodded my foggy head, my thoughts focused on not much else but his face resting an inch from mine.

His eyes gripped mine again with an emotion I couldn't comprehend, and then he removed his hands from my arms and whisked down the hall, determination covering his face. The hall was swallowing him up, it was pulling him away from me . . . and my worries were brigading back with the pleasant fog diminishing.

"William?" I called out down the hall, my soul about to utter the words my mind warned it not to.

He turned, and his hardened expression fell.

"I promised I'd tell you when I found something big enough for me to make another change in my life . . ."

Acknowledgement painted his face, and he nodded once.

"I've found it," I said, somehow managing to smile in the midst of my vulnerability.

He grinned, a hint of smugness in it, silently confessing he'd known it all along. "As have I."

Those three words changed my world. A fissure took place in that moment when he told me I was what he was to me. The dead and decaying pieces of me fell away, and all that was good and still alive burst with purpose and meaning. I knew what I'd been born into this world for, and he was staring back at me.

"But you must know everything first before I let you make that choice." His words were strong, and I knew there'd be no negotiating around them, so I attempted to exhale some courage and force my smile to grow, before he spun around and jogged down the stairs.

### CHAPTER SEVEN

### DEPARTURE

This entire day had been torture. I'd been such a wreck, I'd even skipped class. Every time I'd heard a set of feet coming down the hall, I'd thrown open the door, hoping they'd be his. None of them had, though.

I took an extra long shower at the end of the day, reminding myself through the shampooing and shaving that he promised he'd be back. Despite my best attempts at comforting myself, uncertainty was winning the battle.

I stood in front of the mirror above the row of sinks in the women's bathroom and slipped into my makeshift pajamas (since I hadn't done laundry in two weeks) which consisted of a knit skirt and linen top, attempting to empty my mind. I circled my hand over the mirror, removing the steam, and commenced ripping through the tangle of long hair that defined _brown_ —not mahogany, or chestnut, or espresso. Just boring, blah brown.

A burst of laughter came through the door, distracting me from the thoughts I was trying to quiet.

"Oh, lookie who we have here," the newcomer said as if to someone else, although I was the only other person in the room. The special way she could annunciate her annoyance helped me identify her before she sauntered up to the counter and her reflection sneered back at me.

She removed a chrome tube of lipstick from her bra. "You expecting a note from William?" she asked, sounding as innocent as a serpent. "Also known as my future husband."

My breath caught at the same time my heart stopped. I felt my eyes widen as she traced her red lips with additional color.

"I'll take that as a no," she said, eyeing me over in such a way that I knew my surprise at her saying his name had not gone undetected.

"He doesn't want to see you anymore." She shrugged and continued outlining her lips. "He left OSU."

You know how they say overwhelming information takes awhile to register? They're wrong. The army of emotions that brigaded me was instant and overpowering. It took every ounce of strength to keep my legs working beneath me. I clutched at my stomach, not sure what was happening. He'd promised . . .

"Some guy handed me a note earlier and told me to give it to you," she continued, grinning the entire time. "I only agreed to it because he was hot and said it had to do with William calling it off with you. Guess he finally came to his senses. I was wondering how long it would take him."

"You read it." I whispered, more as an affirmation than a question.

She looked delighted with herself, but why I didn't understand. What was her motive for wanting to twist the knife in my heart now that it was inserted?

"I figured it wasn't all that confidential if it wasn't given to you directly. Sorry." Her apology was void of any sincerity. She capped her lipstick, reinserted it in its hiding place, and pulled a piece of folded paper from the same area. "Have a nice night." She placed the note on the counter beside me and shouldered past me.

I couldn't look at it. Maybe if I didn't look I could convince myself this wasn't really happening.

The door burst open again and Melanie popped her head in. "Did you tell her?" she asked Amy.

"Message delivered," Amy answered.

"But Paul said—"

"I don't care what idiot boy said," she snapped, shouldering past her friend out into the hall. "He might rule the school but he doesn't rule this woman."

"Great."—Melanie shot me an apologetic smile—"Doesn't exactly look like you put it gently."

The door slammed shut behind them and I was left alone with the nightmare I should have known would be mine when he entered my life. Promises aside, he was exquisite—one of this world's masterpieces—and I was the most normal, non-descript thing around. What had I expected?

I grabbed the folded note in front of me and stumbled out the door.

"Bryn," an apprehensive voice called out behind me.

I didn't pause or turn around. I had to get to my room where I could allow the pain to have its way with me.

"Come on, stop!" A hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. Paul's face was lined with concern. "Are you alright? I can't believe she did that." He eyed the note in my hand and shook his head.

"What would you have preferred happen, Paul?" I questioned, my pain growing to anger, misguided as it was. "Everyone know about this except for me?"

He dropped his hand from my shoulder, looking hurt. "No. I just wanted to save you some heartache," he whispered. "I knew you'd figure it out on your own eventually once he stopped showing his face around here. That,"—he pointed with his eyes at the note again—"is unneeded pain in your life."

"Some plan," I murmured, feeling my eyes filling with tears. "Just leave me alone, okay?"

I turned and ran down the hall, down the stairs and was out the front door before the first tear escaped. They were flowing by the time I crawled into my car and brought the engine to a roar. I tore out of the parking lot with only one destination in mind.

I'd lost him, just as I'd feared from the first day he entered my life. He'd broken up with me by leaving behind some crummy note he didn't even have the courage to give to me directly. I should be furious beyond repair, but I wasn't.

The man of my dreams I would never see again. I should be devastated beyond recognition, but I wasn't. Mile after mile of the same highway I'd travelled with him just a day ago brought no other emotion but peace.

Halfway to my destination the tears stopped, and still the peace clung to me, as if this was his parting gift. He was gone, that was a fact, but why did he still feel so near? And why, despite everything, did I just not care? I searched my mind, trying to find some deep, philosophical reason, but the answer was simple and on the tip of my tongue. I loved him.

As inexperienced as I was when it came to loving a man, I knew what love was. It didn't pick and choose what pieces of people to love, and it continued on even when the one you loved was no longer around.

I also knew you couldn't choose who you loved, and knowing it would forever leave me alone, I made my choice: it was William. I'd given him my heart and I didn't want it back, and in turn, he'd left behind a peace and clarity that was changing my world.

The lights in the public parking lot in Newport were buzzing in the misty haze rolling off the ocean. I killed the engine, noticing the headlights in my rear-view mirror, but not paying them much attention. Walking a few yards from my car, I selected a piece of my own oceanfront property and sat down, still not able to comprehend why I felt such peace.

Even before my parents had been murdered, I'd forfeited my Ivy League scholarship, and lost the man of my dreams, I'd been a bit on the high-strung side—so I should be loosing it right now. We're talking hair-pulling, stomach-sobbing, agitated walking fits, hysterical _loosing_ it. Here I was though, basking in a calm that would have put the Dali Lama to shame.

"This seat taken?"

I jolted before I looked up to see who was responsible for interrupting my solitude and the owner of the headlights in my rear-view mirror.

"Saved it for you." I patted the sand beside me and smiled up at Paul.

He plopped down and nudged me with his shoulder. "I'd ask how you were doing but that would kind of be a rhetorical question at this point."

"I look that good, huh?" I felt good on the inside, but to an observer, I'm sure my puffy, tear-stained face would have led them to believe I was anything but fine.

"No, it's not that," Paul answered quickly. "You look great . . . as always." It looked like he was blushing, but it was dark and I doubted Paul Lowe was the kind of guy that blushed. "It's just that you've had a crazy week."

I nodded. "Yeah. You think?"

Paul was silent for a few moments, and the chorus of waves filled in the gaps in our conversation. I couldn't resist playing back in my mind William riding these waves.

"Bryn, I'm so sorry—"

I grabbed his forearm and squeezed. "No apologies, okay? I've got plenty to apologize to you for myself," I said, remembering my less-than-pleasant behavior with him lately. "Let's just call it even and move on. Sound good?"

He looked relieved. "Sounds great."

"That's settled then." I released his arm and began scrolling circles in the sand. "So did _everyone_ know about the letter before me?" With the reminder of it, I could almost feel it burning me from where it still sat unopened in the cab of my Camaro. I was sure reading his words in his handwriting would hurt a hundred times more than hearing it paraphrased from someone else.

"No!" His answer was instant. "I overheard the bimbo twins talking about you this morning and when I asked them what was up, they showed me the letter. I told them not to say anything to you about it, but that obviously didn't happen." He looked off at the black ocean and shook his head. "I shouldn't have done that. You had a right to know."

"He was gone either way." I realized the drawing I was making in the sand resembled an eye so I swept it clean. "You're heart was in the right place."

Paul's heart was always in the right place. Despite everything that'd gone askew with me, his intentions couldn't be questioned.

He looked hard into my eyes and his expression turned serious. "Keep your eyes open, okay—just in case he decides to come back? I've got a bad feeling about him."

"Really?" I said sarcastically. "It seemed like you guys were going to be best friends."

"I'm being serious here," he said urgently. The skin at the corners of his eyes creased. "After he seemed to just magically appear out of nowhere, I did some asking around . . ."

My eyebrows squeezed together.

"Long story short, I found out a William Winters had never been registered at OSU. He basically showed up one day and was gone the next," Paul said, gazing with interest at my face that I knew was blanching bone white before him.

He grabbed my shoulder and shook me gently. "I know, I know. None of my business, but I thought you should know." The rhythmic shaking kept me from passing out from the information overload being fired at me. Paul snapped his fingers, doing a final clearing of my head. "I promise I won't say another thing about him." He crossed his heart and chuckled before looking back at me.

My gaze was intense and my breathing heavy, all due to the information Paul had just unloaded on me. William had never been registered at OSU? If it hadn't been for Paul knowing about him, I would have believed I'd made him up.

Paul took a close examination of my wide eyes and accelerated breathing, and he reciprocated in turn. His fingertips curled against my cheek and his eyes closed as he crossed the distance between us, his lips leading.

My head backed away from his advance. "I can't," I whispered.

His hand dropped and he exhaled. "Yeah, I know," he said, scratching his head. "I really suck at this timing thing."

I attempted a laugh, but it sounded as nervous and uncomfortable as I felt. I was baffled (to put it gently) by the turn of events that had taken place over the past few days. Why had two men that were swoon worthy by every definition of the word suddenly taken an interest in me? ME?! Boring, painfully normal, hermit-like Bryn.

My reflection hadn't changed in the mirror any, and I was positive I hadn't developed any new charming characteristics to add to my inadequate repertoire. Maybe there was something in the Corvallis water, or maybe there was an extra credit assignment assigned in Sociology I wasn't aware of . . . a Date a Loser Charity assignment.

Before I could rein in my curiosity, out it came. "Can I ask you sort-of a strange question?"

He perked up some, looking like the rejection was passing. "Absolutely—let's have it." He smiled one of those smiles that would undue most girls' resolve. There was no denying it was quite some smile, but I recognized it for what it had likely been created and perfected for—to attract, unnerve and disillusion his female prey. From the height of his confidence, it had worked for him very well in the past.

"Why the sudden interest in me?" I spit out. I really didn't care if he told me I was making a mountain of a mole hill, or that he was just trying to be nice . . . or heck, even if he did have an extra credit assignment in Sociology. I just needed to ask my question, and receive an answer.

Looking thrown by my to-the-point question, he began fumbling with his hands. "Well, um . . . I don't know. You know . . ."

"It's alright—you can tell me." I smiled as charmingly as I knew how, and tried to bat my eyes in a becoming manner—knowing I probably looked like I was experiencing an eye spasm instead.

"Alright,"—he exhaled, as if about to confess to the vilest of crimes—"the truth is . . . you caught my eye the first day you moved-in," he began, cracking his neck and looking down. "You were so pretty and sweet and . . . well, different from the other girls. More mature, more like you knew who you were and what you wanted, and didn't feel the need to explain or apologize to anyone. It was different, and refreshing," he admitted, looking ashamed he'd just divulged a secret that would forever impugn his name and status in the social mix at OSU.

I was so focused on his fidgeting and stammering to get his words out, that what he'd just said took a few moments to sink in. Pretty? Sweet?

Alright . . . there _must_ be something in the water.

He continued, apparently not done with his confession, "But then you just sort of fell off the face of the world, and didn't seem to be interested in anything or anyone. It was like you had a sign on your forehead telling everyone to bug off and leave you alone."

I winced. I hated it when people told me how icy I came across—snotty, bitchy, and stuck-up were other popular descriptors used as well. My true trait of shyness was less gossip worthy, I guess.

"I let it go and figured you probably had a boyfriend back home, or were miserable here in Corvallis after moving from California. Then I saw you hanging out with _him_ ," he rolled the word as if it were a profanity. "So I thought I'd take a chance and see if I could attract your attention, too." The smile that capped his confession appeared shy; not at all the signature one he normally wore.

"Thank you," I whispered, trying to overcome the tightness in my throat. "It really means a lot to me that you'd tell me the honest to goodness truth. This past year has been hard for me, but I'm sorry I came across so cold. I really didn't think anyone else would notice, or _care._ "

"Hey, no apologies, remember?" he said, placing his arm around my shoulder and squeezing. "So,"—he dropped his arm and his tone changed to the lighter one I was used to—"I didn't follow you all the way here just to talk your head off. I wanted to make sure you'd get to wherever you were going safely. Emotional women and dark, wet roads shouldn't mix." He stood up and swept the sand from his pants. "It's late and I don't want either of us travelling another sixty miles back to campus."

He scanned up and down the beach, looking for something. "We're on the Oregon coast right? There's got to be a few hotels within throwing distance. I'm going to go see if we can get in somewhere."

My brows rose and I gave him a look he'd probably never seen before from a women when he'd made a similar suggestion.

He chuckled. "So quick to jump to conclusions." He held out his hand for me to grab. I took it and he lifted me up. "I'll be requesting _two_ rooms for tonight. That is . . . unless you'd like to forgo all the pretenses and just admit you're dying to spend the night with me." His confidence and laugh were back in normal Paul form.

"Does that really work on my female counterparts?

His face formed around a mock serious expression. "Not as often as I'd like."

I laughed. "I didn't think so."

"You want to come with me?" he asked, taking a step back towards the parking lot where his SUV laid in wait behind my car. "In case you'd like to test-drive the mattress?"

I rolled my eyes and punched his arm. "Thanks for the offer, but I'd rather enjoy the view here for a while longer."

"Suit yourself. I'll be back soon." I heard the beep of his security system click off before I decided to make my way down to the water. My pace quickened the closer I got until the waves were crashing right in front of me, thundering their chorus into my ears.

I took a few steps into the black water, allowing it to wrap around my feet. The waves slid up and around my ankles in gentle caresses, taking with them the sand that lay beneath my feet—over and over again.

This was the same water, the same ocean, where he'd been. Where we'd been together and he'd wanted me.

I had a sudden need to submerge more of my body, to be even closer to him, so I took a few steps forward. The waves were now splashing up against my knees and spreading a wet ring around the hem of my skirt. The sensation of the ocean water caressing more of my body was beyond description.

Several more steps, and the water encircled my waist, and a few larger waves peaked up around my neck, wetting the rest of my clothing. The chill of the water, combined with its seductive welcoming, hardened the surface of my skin; forcing me to confront the fact that despite me accepting he was gone, I wanted him back more than I wanted anything else.

I continued forward, the water calling me, beckoning me to be with it fully—promising me him. It ensnared me, and drew me tightly into its arms with a similar passion and intensity as he had. My mind settled on his face and the image I'd forever have of him surfing in this same location where I was at peace with everything.

The waves crashed over my head, and I released my footing on the sandy bottom below me. The water pled with all-consuming desire, begging me to be with it from this moment on . . . tempting me with him.

And it was William's face, still in my mind, when my legs could no longer continue their upward fighting flutter, and I succumbed to the desires of the water enveloping me. Shining like a star through the deepening water, his face was there—witness to my departure from this world and into the unknown depths.

And then there was nothing but blackness.

### CHAPTER EIGHT

### AWAKENINGS

I felt different. I _was_ different.

I was still locked in the black void, which dulled my senses, but I was aware I was coming into consciousness and different _._

_Supremely_ different.

Everything felt so connected—I was aware of every nerve ending, every heartbeat that surged oxygenated blood through my veins, and everything my brain was orchestrating with the rest of my body, keeping it viable and in good working order. I'd taken enough science classes to understand how the human body worked, and these were all part of the inner workings, but I'd never been so conscientious of every one of the million transactions taking place in my body each second.

It was overwhelming. There were thousands of orders and requests screaming I felt I should respond to, but I couldn't sort through the cornucopia of disarray enough to make sense of it. Nonetheless, my heart continued to work, as did the rest of my changed body, without my commanding the large organ to pulse .5 liters of blood every 1.2 seconds through it.

Okay . . . that was weird. I certainly don't remember ever learning that random bit of information in science class, but nonetheless, something inside me knew I was right.

And then I felt it _—_ but this time, it wasn't just passing through my body as it had when he'd touched me, but was _originating_ from it.

It was the same electric-like current I'd felt whenever I'd been close to William, though the intensity and magnitude of it coursing through my body as its vessel, vacillated from pain to pleasure.

I couldn't understand where this super-enlightened state of consciousness had come from. I was still me _. . ._ same thoughts, opinions, musings, values and such, but I didn't _feel_ like me. The power, awareness, and shocking current raging through me, made me feel as if I was a stranger in my own body.

My senses finally ignited, and I was inundated by the surrounding stimuli flooding into my body with typhoon-like force. I was hypersensitive and ultra-aware to everything pouring into my awakened senses. Again, the same eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and fingers . . . but _different_.

"She's waking, John." A female's voice flowed into my ears with crisp precision.

"It's about time," a male's voice, deep and silky—like a radio talk-show host—replied.

My eyes tore open, only to widen in horror when I viewed my surroundings, and those surrounding me, with no hint of familiarity, or with any recall as to how I'd ended up here.

I was lying on my back in a four-poster bed in the middle of a room that was easily as many square feet as the home I lived in until kindergarten. I scanned my mind for the last memory I had before waking up in this foreign place. I couldn't recall anything except for a face . . . a face that was burned into my brain.

"Hello, Miss Dawson. Welcome back to the living." My eyes scurried to the man with the silky-smooth voice.

The female standing beside him snickered.

He glanced at the female before turning back to me with a smug smile. "Although I suppose _living_ takes on a slightly different meaning now . . ."

As desperate as I was to speak (or to scream), I couldn't. I was rendered speechless when I took in the full view of these two impossibly beautiful figures before me. The man was tall, broad-shouldered and had light brown hair—the kind that would glimmer in sunlight. His stance was imposing, and from the confidant gleam in his deep-blue eyes, I imagined he was not the kind of man you wanted to cross.

The female beside him was a goddess. Statuesque, thin (although her thinness was unfairly coupled with voluptuousness settled in all the right places), and had hair so fair in color it was nearly white. She exuded an air of superiority, and was looking at me as if I was about as inconsequential as where the rubber on the bottom of her knee-high, suede boots was made.

"Where am I?" I shifted up in bed, eyeing cautiously over this modern day Cleopatra and Mark Antony.

The male took a step towards me. It echoed through the mass of the room. "Settle down, there's no need to—"

"Don't come any closer," I pleaded, my voice edging on hysteria as the man continued to advance in my direction.

His brow furrowed, and he gave me a look that reminded me of how my mom used to look at me when I'd said or done something she thought juvenile. "That's quite enough. We mean you no harm," he said, with warning in his voice.

"Get away!" This time I yelled, the hysteria coming to fruition, and my body reacted before I made a conscious request.

With foreign strength and speed, I sprung from the bed in one lithe movement, and was across the room in less time than it took the female to roll her eyes. I didn't have time to ponder where this inhuman speed and agility had come from, because the male continued his advance to where I cowered in the corner across the room. My eyes—automatically, and without cognition—darted around the room, seeking an escape.

"Miss Dawson, everything will be fully explained once you settle down. You'll see you're overreacting quite extraordinarily," the male said, sounding more irritated with each word.

My eyes found what they needed, and I ran—which felt more like flying—to the door on the adjacent wall.

"Stella, stop her," the man yelled, but my hand was already on the doorknob and I flung it open, taking one look back to see both figures gliding towards me. I lunged through the door with my head still turned towards the approaching strangers, and rammed into something hard. I bounced against it, and would have fallen backwards, had not a warm set of arms reached around me to keep me upright. The arms pressed me tight against the hard surface I'd just barraged into . . . the arms that felt like they'd been created to hold me.

"Ohhh!" My hand would have flown to my mouth if my arms weren't so tightly held against his body.

His head tilted down and his mouth fell just outside my ear. "Follow my lead," his hurried whisper entered my body, surmounting an attack on the fear that had ensnared me. "Everything will be alright." His head snapped away from my ear so fast, I doubt the two individuals who were nearly upon us would have noticed any transaction taking place.

"Mr. Winters, what nice timing. Good to see you awake and recovered at last. It appears you've brought us an overreacting, would-be escapee." The male came to a stop behind me, and the prior fear I'd had for this unknown person, was no more. I was pressed securely against the man I'd come to accept I'd never see again, and I didn't care about anything else. I looked up at his face, and despite the chaos that had permeated my life since I'd opened my eyes, my heart still trilled out-of-control. His eyes were anxious though, and his expression was as rigid as his body felt.

"Her screams could have roused the dead. Perhaps you could have been a little less imposing," he responded, a half smile pulling at his lips; one that was not familiar. "I'm sure you can remember John, how disturbing it was when you awoke for the first time in such _curious_ circumstances." William raised a brow, at the same time releasing his clutch on me.

So this was the infamous John, much more Francis Ford Coppola _Godfather-_ like than William had let on. Sure would have been helpful to have had the answers to my questions before I'd ended up smack in the middle of whatever William had been trying to keep me out of.

"Why don't we all have a seat? Since it appears we've calmed down enough to be reasoned with." John's tone sounded final, as if there was no other option but what he'd requested.

"That sounds like a good idea," William said, motioning his hand forward to the figures behind us. "After you."

I heard two sets of footfalls commence to a far corner of the room. The eyes I'd stayed focused on since they'd reentered my life looked down to me, and the emotion that had been absent, flooded them.

"William . . . what's going on?" My voice would have hardly registered on sonar.

With as much speed and urgency as before, he lowered his head to my ear and whispered, "I will explain everything. I promise you . . . _trust_ me."

I resisted rolling my eyes. I'd heard that before.

He spun me around and guided me, with a light hand resting over my back, to a pair of modern sofas where John and Stella were seating themselves. As their eyes traced back to us, William readjusted his hand from my back to slide it in his pocket.

"Have a seat," he said to me with a coolness in his voice I did not recognize.

I did as requested, sliding my body into the corner of the sofa. He took a seat beside me, positioning into the opposite corner, keeping as much space between us as the couch would allow. John and Stella's gazes were penetrating. Their eyes shifted between the two of us with curiosity, as if attempting to piece together a puzzle.

Finally having a moment of quiet, I was able to ponder the string of events that had just taken place. I'd awakened in a foreign place surrounded by strangers; with otherworldly forces coursing through my body; and reunited with the man who I never dreamed I'd see again. Maybe that's what this was . . . a dream.

"I'm John Townsend, and this is Stella." The imposing man dressed in a tailored suit, began. "I believe you already know Mr. Winter's here . . ." The edge in his voice led me to believe he wasn't thrilled with this. "You are at my estate and vineyard, Townsend Manor, outside of Newburg, Oregon. You have been here, unconscious, for five days now." He stopped, and although I couldn't peel my eyes away from the quiet man sitting beside me, I could see John watching me with interest—as if trying to figure out a mystery as furtive as why the sky was blue.

William glanced over at me, meeting my gaze for a moment, and then turned his attention back to John. Perhaps I imagined it, but it seemed he was signaling my gaze to do the same.

"Why am I here?" I asked, turning my stare towards John.

"Maybe you should ask him," John suggested, with annoyance written on his face, and pointing at William. "He's the hero. He's the one that nearly killed himself saving you."

Something tugged at my memory when John said this . . . water . . . blackness. My face fell featureless, and every last drop of blood drained from it when I recalled, with vividness, my last memory.

"I remember . . ." I whispered, the scene flashing before me like a movie in the theatre. "But I went under—I . . . drowned." The word sounded with an air of finality, chiming against the room's cathedral ceiling.

"Actually, you didn't, but if it's any consolation, you would have if Mr. Winters wouldn't have been so _conveniently_ around." John's eyes narrowed at William, as a father would at his son after he'd done something reckless.

"Is this true, did you save me?" I whispered, my eyes amplifying.

William sighed, leaning forward and fixing his stare on his clasped hands below him. His silent answer had me reaching at my stomach from the nausea circling in it when I thought of the ocean claiming his life that night because of my carelessness.

"I think that's our cue to leave, Stella." John glanced at the goddess sitting beside him. She sat so close her leg that swung from its crossed position, brushed his trousers. He didn't appear to be affected by the gilded leg caressing him, though.

"Since you're the reason she's here, it is your responsibility to make the initial explanations before class begins tomorrow." John addressed William as he stood up.

"I look forward to seeing you again soon, Miss Dawson." John's eyes grazed over me, as a butcher would a slab of meat before deciding how best to cleave it, and then chuckled, patting William's shoulder as he passed by him. "You know, I think I'm beginning to understand why you pulled that asinine stunt . . . she's exquisite." He bestowed upon me one more long stare, one about as appealing as grease mixed with lard, and exited the room.

Stella sauntered past us without any acknowledgement, although I didn't miss the once-over she gave William as she passed him. Unsure where to direct my gaze, I stared through the open French doors across from us which lead out onto a balcony. The scents of honeysuckle and rain enter my senses.

Although I'd identified it with assured confidence, I was sure I'd never smelt honeysuckle before this. How could I know the nectar-sweet aroma that entered my nose was a delicate flower I couldn't even identify by sight? Strange . . . like the majority of happenings occurring around me. It seemed I'd been transformed into a living, breathing Wikipedia.

I heard the door slam shut, and my eyes flew back to the man whose own eyes had storm clouds rolling through them. His fists were clenched, causing a web of veins to burst through the skin.

His expression defrosted a moment later, and he looked at me in a familiar way—a staggering way. "Why don't you get changed," he requested, as his eyes trailed over the silk pajamas I was adorned in. "And I'll get you out of here and explain everything."

The skin between my eyes creased together—a physical response to the confusion and bewilderment running like a herd of wild horses within me.

He reached his hand towards my face, and right before it came to rest on my cheek, indecision colored his face, and he lowered it back down to the sofa. I felt nauseous from the disappointment. "Trust me," he said, nearly pleading.

Not able to deny him anything, I nodded my head. "I do. I'll change and then we can go."

He smiled a figment of the smile I remembered, and then stood up. "I'll be right outside the door."

After he'd left the room—although the intoxicating scent he left behind led me to believe otherwise—I let my eyes search around the bedroom that was as elaborate and vast as the presidential suite at some hotel in downtown New York. There was enough crystal and gold-leaf within it to have kept a family of four comfortable for their lifetimes.

I found the clothes I'd worn that fateful night, freshly washed and folded, on the dresser across from the bed. I slipped into the cotton skirt and linen top faster than I'd ever changed in my life, and faster still, I glided to the door and flung it open.

True to his word, he was waiting for me right outside my door. "Let's get out of here," he said. A brilliant smile exploded, like the one I remembered, and the opulence of the Manor around me paled like a dim star beside the full moon.

I fell in line beside him as he led me down the long hall of Townsend Manor. I would occasionally stop to inquire as to some piece of art work or ancient looking artifact, and true to his good-natured spirit, he would pause to answer, but his answers were hurried. He seemed anxious, if not desperate, to get me out of the Manor that resembled more a fantastical castle than an estate in rural Oregon.

We walked down a sweeping set of stairs—their glossy mahogany covered down the center by plush, ivory carpet—down into the foyer that could have held my attention for days.

William cleared his throat, distracting me from admiring the baroque like architecture around us. He motioned me through the open double-doors, and followed behind me.

His Bronco laid in wait in the circular driveway. My heart overreacted when he placed his hand over my back as he led me to the passenger side door, and assisted me in. He entered the cab with his signature grace, and we were in motion; departing to whatever location he had in mind for explaining the impossible mysteries.

He exhaled once we passed through the black, sweeping metal gates that had a cursive T embossed in the center of each one.

Feeling as unsure of what to say as he looked, I started simply. "So, this is what you meant by living off campus?" I asked, admiring the Manor from the side view mirror. Like some kind of palatial estate from the Golden Age of England, Townsend Manor was made of solid brick, although the generous, mullioned windows led me to believe the house was made as much of glass as brick. It was symmetrically designed, and a mixture of classic and gothic architecture. It rested in the center of a vast square of lawn adorned with several pathways and gardens, which were fenced in by the endless rows of grape trees.

"Yes, this is what I meant by living off campus," he answered, keeping his eyes adhered to the twilight stricken road before us.

"Well, it's a little nicer than the OSU dorms I guess," I said, trying to lighten his mood. His tight smile of response was proof his mood could not be so easily lifted.

A few minutes went by in silence, and my patience had its fill. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see—we're just about there." As if on cue, he turned onto a narrow dirt-road, and the Bronco bounced over the intermittent potholes, until he pulled over onto a patch of grass sprouting with weeds.

"We're here," he announced, gliding out of the door.

I looked around at the unimpressive landscape which was almost fully bathed in darkness. "We are?"

I opened the side door and stepped out. The tall grass tickled my bare legs.

"Follow me," he whispered, when he came up beside me.

He led me down a trail that someone would have a hard time sticking to if they were unfamiliar with it, and when I was sure the endless trees and stretch of trail would never run out, we emerged through the thick layer of growth.

"Wow," I muttered, as I took in the moonlit lake before us. It was so calm it looked like a mirror, reflecting every single star, planet, and orb in the night sky. What looked like an enormous house rested on the edge of the water in front of us.

He grabbed my hand, and I felt my face flush from the shock coursing through my body from our combined touch. As if suddenly aware of something, he looked at my hand in his, and then into my emotion-filled face. He released my hand.

"I'm sorry about that . . ." he whispered, sounding ashamed—probably because he didn't want to give me the wrong impression. The hand that had felt so right in his fell like a dead weight at my side.

"Come on, I want to show you something," he said, before gliding off in the direction of the lake.

The wooden dock groaned in protest beneath our footsteps as we traversed over it, heading towards the long, white houseboat resting in wait at the end of it. He untied a couple of mooring lines and hopped onto the back of the boat's deck. He held his hand out to assist me.

I looked at him with hesitation, this day only growing more unusual.

"It's John's. Don't worry . . . I'm not planning on stealing someone's boat for a midnight joyride," he teased, extending his hand towards me again.

I accepted it, and leapt onto the boat beside him. "This is . . . nice," I underemphasized, admiring the boat that wasn't quite as opulent as the Manor where its owner resided, but somehow more elegant. Its lines were sharp and aesthetically pleasing, and the cabin area was covered in windows tinted black. The wood deck shined like a sheet of ice.

"It is, isn't it? I thought tonight's revelations would be a bit more enjoyable from the deck of this." He glided open a slider door, and stepped into the cabin of the boat. I looked up at the stars, searching for the brightest one I would use to make my request tonight.

"Would you like a tour, or perhaps something to drink?" he asked, sounding like he was stalling, but there'd been enough stalling—I needed answers.

"No, thanks," I answered, plopping down on one of the lounge chairs decorating the expansive deck area.

I heard a sigh breathed with such force, my eyes were torn from the star where I was making my wish, to the person who was the reason for the wish.

He was standing in the cabin doorway, his hands raised and grasping the door frame, with head bowed and eyes closed. "I've got so much to apologize for, Bryn. I can't even imagine where I should begin."

My mission of staying calm and focused flew off with the breeze. I rose from the chair and walked to where he stood looking anguished.

"What in the world could you have to apologize for?" I asked, wishing he'd open his eyes to look into mine so he could view their disbelief. "You've saved me from death . . . or severe bodily harm, not once, but twice now. I'm the one that should be apologizing for inconveniencing you and putting you in danger." My voice grew more frantic over each syllable.

His eyes snapped open, and his head tilted up until they met mine; they were smoldering with conviction. "Inconveniencing me?" he repeated, sounding disgusted. "Is that what you think saving your life feels like to me?"

This time it was my eyes that couldn't meet his, so they withdrew to the gleaming, blonde-colored teak below.

His hand wouldn't allow their escape. He lifted my chin upwards until my eyes had no choice but to meet his. "I would have happily exchanged my life for yours on any one of those occasions. As I would again."

I nearly trembled from the fierceness in his voice, and why his ardency should have left me silenced, I had to ask, "Why then? Why have you risked so much for me over and again?" Perhaps he was a martyr, or perhaps a saint, but neither of these were the answer I wanted—the one I hoped for.

His face contorted, and his words came out sounding as if they'd been tied up to the back of a truck and sped down a gravel road. "Don't you know why?"

I did; he was a good man, an honorable man, and despite trying to remove his presence from my life, he couldn't turn his back on me when my life needing saving yet again. Suddenly, the act of balancing the hundreds of spinning plates I had been all day, became too much, and they all came crashing down at once.

"Please, William, I need to know. What's going on?" I whispered.

He half smiled, but it wasn't the least bit convincing. "You're not going to answer my question, are you?" he asked, but only waited a few heartbeats before recomposing himself. He released his hands over the doorframe and turned to depart into the cabin.

I followed after him, and up a set of stairs that led to the roof of the houseboat where the steering wheel and control panel (that looked too simple and inadequate to control a boat of this size) were located.

He breezed to the control column and flipped a few switches and checked a few gauges. He did this with the familiarity of someone who'd done it a thousand times before. I stood back, a careful observer on the expansive rooftop adorned with overstuffed outdoor furniture and an open fire pit. I heard the engine come to life, and lights exploded all in and around the boat.

William took a seat behind the wheel that looked no different than that of a car's, and turned to me. "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me in the co-captain's chair?" he motioned towards the seat beside him.

I smiled. "Take her out to sea, Captain." I took a seat beside him, happy for the momentary break in the serious stuff, but I knew it couldn't last.

His face lined and his body tensed, as if preparing to be hit by the weight of a semi. "Before I explain everything, may I ask what conclusions you've arrived at to explain all of this?" he began, his eyes narrowed towards the luminous lake in front of us.

There'd been many explanations rolling around in my mind since I woke up hours ago, but none of which seemed likely, or unworthy of laughter if I verbalized them. He turned his eyes from the lake to me, and unleashed the hypnotic qualities they possessed, forcing my answers into the air of a spring evening. "I've got a few," I started, staring back at him as I mustered up my confidence. "Maybe I'm dead and this is some kind of afterlife . . ." This seemed the most likely and least absurd, so I'd started with this one.

William nodded, looking thoughtful, but returned his eyes to the lake. "What else?"

I exhaled, hoping it would diminish my nervousness in admitting to him my crazy thoughts. "Maybe I'm in a coma and this is some kind of never-ending dream created in my unconscious state . . . or, maybe I've had a complete break with reality and created this all to keep my mind from going off the deep end," I paused, biting my lip before I could speak my final theory—the craziest of all. "Abducted by aliens?" I confessed, sneaking a sideways glance at him to see his reaction.

Another half smile formed—one that was shameful decorating his face when I knew what it was capable of—and then he turned back to me. "All good, logical theories," he said, a faint glimmer sparking in his eyes. "But not correct."

I felt semi-relieved knowing I was wrong, but only until a new unease presented itself when I thought of other explanations. "What is the _correct_ answer then?' I asked, feeling my water works twisting to the on position. "Because something very big has happened to me."

"It has," he replied, nodding. I couldn't look at him because I didn't want him to see the traitor tears forming in my eyes, but I could tell he was watching me carefully. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," I answered slowly, wishing I could be irritated with the gorgeous man beside me, confusing me with his disjointed questions and answers.

"But, different. Right?"

"Yes," I answered, mentally tabulating all the ways I felt different.

"How so?" he asked immediately, not letting the air settle between my answers.

"Stronger . . . and . . ."

"Yes—" he encouraged.

"More _attuned_ to everything around me . . ."

"Good, Bryn—what else?" He rested his hand over one of mine, sending the electricity flashing through me, reminding me of the most impressive change.

"There's something . . . new flowing through me." My eyes squeezed closed with the concentration I was giving the topic, searching for the right way to explain this foreign phenomenon.

"Yes." He breathed, sounding relieved. "You've changed explicitly."

"What do you mean?" I asked, turning my hand up in his so I could curl my fingers between his, not caring about the pain it would cause me later. I needed to touch him now in the midst of all the confusion, and he seemed willing to meet this need at present.

He pressed a black knob at the top of the panel, and I heard something screech to life. "This is a good spot," he announced, as the anchor continued its downward spiral to the bottom of the lake.

He glided up from his chair, as seamless as an elevator in motion. "Why don't we go back down to the lower deck and I'll explain further. There's a nicer _view_ down there."

I looked up at the stars spread like a private showing just for the two of us and the sprawling lake below, and couldn't imagine how the lower deck could offer a better view, but didn't disagree. The best view would be wherever he was.

He kept my hand in his, and led me down to the lower deck. "Will you do me a favor?" he asked, pulling me to the edge of the deck.

There was no favor he could ask of me that I would not give. "Of course."

"Take a look." He kneeled down on the deck, encouraging me down with him.

I shot him a confused look, but I kneeled beside him, keeping his gaze as I leaned over the flat glassiness of the lake.

I shrieked the moment I saw my reflection.

My eyes . . . but they didn't look like mine anymore. The familiar grayish-blue was gone and a color—identical to William's—had replaced the original hue. My body started trembling, making the reflection difficult to view. "What happened . . . they're not mine . . ." My voice was shaking too.

He wrapped one arm around my trembling shoulders, and leaned into me. His magic, yet again, served to soothe the emotions running amuck.

"They're still your eyes. They're just a different color now . . . they're like mine," he said, holding me tightly.

"They are?" I whispered with a shaky voice, trying to find the calm I needed from looking into his anxious eyes.

"Yes. Believe me, I would know if they weren't. You can't imagine how many times I've dreamed—" He stopped abruptly, and his face twisted before he turned it away from me.

With my body still locked to his, the shaking ceased, and I took a more introspective look at the foreign eyes staring back at me in the illumed water. They were still my eyes; wide-set and ringed with lower lashes longer than my uppers. They were just a very different color; a lovely color . . . _his_ color. Contrite as it was, I was thrilled in this tiny characteristic that tied us together; despite whatever happened to have changed them so.

I leaned back from the edge of the deck, confident the eyes in my head were still the same, and sounded calm when I turned to him and asked, "What's happened to me?"

He sighed. "There are two kinds of beings that inhabit this world," he began slowly, looking like the weight of a million lives rested on his wide shoulders. "We are all born into it as Mortals—fragile, subject to aging, ailments, and death—but there are some along their Mortal journey whom are wholly and eternally changed . . ."—his eyes closed as he inhaled, looking as if preparing to unleash some horrible secret—"and they become . . . _Immortal_."

I felt the color leave my face, and the night sky above his head spun like a top, creating white circles from the spinning stars.

"That is why I was told I could not be with you," he said, opening his eyes into mine. "Because you were Mortal and I was . . . _not_ ," he finished, sounding as if he'd just admitted the worst of sins.

" _Were_?" I emphasized, not missing his use of the past tense in my Mortality.

He nodded. "Yes, Bryn. You've crossed into the realm of those who live forever. You've entered the realm of Immortality."

I let his words enter me, and simmer with their implications. I wanted to be terrified, outraged, and upset. I wanted to feel the kind of disbelief one should feel when being told something as outlandish as this all was. I wanted to scream and hit and kick my way back to the place wherever reality had abandoned me . . . but none of these reactions came.

I was as calm and at peace as a dormant volcano. There was lava—red hot and explosive—flowing within me, but it wouldn't explode. It kept me warm, alive, and at rest. I'd known from the first moment my eyes fell upon him that he was different—categorically different from anyone I'd ever come in contact with, and after spending the time I did with him, and all of the mysteries accompanying him . . .

"Say something, please," he murmured, when the minutes continued to count off while I took the tornado in and viewed it from the center.

I couldn't explain why I felt so at peace with his revelations that were more the thing of legends, fables or fantasies; but I saw the puzzle come together as the pieces of the mysteries surrounding him from the beginning, to my waking up this morning, came together. "Well, I suppose that explains a lot of things . . ."

His lines of concern flattened under the bewilderment that came next. "You believe me?" he said, looking at me as if he questioned my sanity.

I shrugged. "I trust you," I answered simply, not able to further verbalize what my conscious couldn't even understand.

His eyes only grew wider. "And none of this bothers you, then?" he asked, his voice growing as well. He lunged up from his kneeling position and broke into a bout of pacing behind me. "The fact I've forever changed you without your consent. The fact I left you with no explanation as to why? The fact you nearly died because of me?" he finished, looking as if he was shouting at the moon.

I shivered from his intensity before I could answer. "No, none of it does," and as I said the words I'd conjured up to reassure him with, I found they were true. I didn't want to admit to him why it didn't matter to me, so I broke into my first question of what would likely be a million to come.

"How did you find me that night in Newport?" I asked, recalling what John mentioned regarding William saving me that night, although I had no memory of it.

I stood up and strolled over to the same navy and white stripped lounge-chair, and plopped down. Given my tendencies towards passing out when an excess of overwhelming information enters me, I thought I'd better keep low to the ground.

"I found out you were in trouble that night—I _knew_ you would be in Newport," he said, his voice tight with emotion. "I drove there as fast as I could . . . I was so worried. It had been dark for hours, and I couldn't _feel_ you anymore."

I didn't understand how he could have known I was in trouble, or where I was that night, but I remained quiet—saving my questions for a time when I wasn't so focused on wanting to alleviate the anguish coming from the man pacing in front of me.

"I couldn't find you at first, so I just kept running up and down the beach . . . searching for you. Desperate to find you before—" His voice caught, and he cleared his throat before continuing.

"And then I saw you," he whispered. "It was the most overwhelming sense of relief I've experienced—spotting your tiny head so far out in the water—knowing you were still alive. I only saw your head for one fraction of a second before it fell beneath the water, but that was all I needed—just that one miracle."

An owl hooted its song in the distance, sounding as cragged and wretched as a crow's squawk in comparison to the honey-coated words streaming from William's mouth. "I dove into the water and swam to you, but I was no longer filled with dread. Once I saw you, there was no way you were dying in the ocean that night. Your life was saved the moment I saw that dark, bobbing head of yours out there." His anguished face managed something that resembled a smile, and for the first time since his retelling, he looked at me. He grimaced as he watched a tear cascade down my face. "I can't stand to see you cry."

"I'm fine . . . it's just hard reliving that night."

"I know. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you sooner," he said, ceasing his pacing.

I shrugged, trying to look as blasé as one crying girl could sitting in front of the man she'd forever love without reciprocation.

He turned his eyes to the sky above, and I wondered if the most brilliant star in the sky could ever shine like he did: I doubted it. "I got you to shore and tried to bring you back. You were so blue, and your heartbeat so faint. I tried everything within Mortal life-saving standards, until there was no other option than to try . . . an Immortal one." His back was to me, but the tension in his voice was apparent in his body as well—the muscles lining his back trembled through the cotton of his shirt. "I was so focused, I didn't immediately notice that they'd found us—"

"Who found us?" I interrupted, sitting forward from the back of the chair.

He turned back to me, and the previous anguish on his face had been replaced by a blank expression. "Do you remember the two men from our day on the beach?"

I tensed at the mention of them. "Yes."

His brow furrowed, and his jaw clenched tighter as he spoke. "Do you remember me telling you they were there that night to remind me of something?"

"Yes . . . what did they remind you of?" I asked sharply, my dislike of the two men growing more advanced.

"I had no right, technically speaking, to enter your life—"

"What do you mean you had no right?" I interjected. He had every right . . . any right, to enter my life however he wanted.

"The world of Immortals is strict, Bryn—we are governed by codes that are not very forgiving. One of the most important of these is that we are not allowed to interact with Mortals as I was with you," he admitted. "It was nearly impossible to leave you that night and go with them, but I made that choice in order to keep you safe, knowing I would come back for you as soon as I could." He stared out into the quiet water without seeing. "But they were watching me carefully . . . I couldn't get away, and I wouldn't risk anything happening to you."

The residual waves lapped up against the side of the boat. I tried to match my breathing to the steady beat, to keep me from hyperventilating from the accounts being told.

"Not that my flawless plan worked anyways. I left to keep you safe, and you found yourself in the worse kind of danger the very next night, and now . . . here you are, in the midst of all this." His carefully managed tone had grown frenzied, matching his reignited pacing.

I wanted to run to him, to bridge the space between us and beg him to explain what he was saying . . . what he was _meaning_ —but I kept my vigil over the lounge chair.

"You didn't leave because you didn't want to be with me?" I whispered, instantly ashamed I let my growing hope have physical power.

His pacing came to an abrupt stop. "Of course not—is that what you thought?" He asked, sounding astonished; but I couldn't allow myself to hope. I couldn't recover from the disappointment if I allowed hope to enter my life again.

"But, the letter . . ." My lip started to quiver.

"What letter?" he asked urgently.

"The letter you left for me. The one that said you were leaving and"—I cringed and braced myself for saying the words—"you didn't want to see me again."

The sound that came from him was terrifying; a low, guttural rumble resonated in his chest, rolling into a controlled bellow that skated across the lake.

"It was them," he sneered, after his verbal earthquake.

"Who?"

"Thomas. Dante . . . or another goon like them," he said, quivering from the hatred spilling from him.

I nodded, trying to reconfigure things in my head; trying to not rush to the conclusion that my heart longed for. "Okay . . ." I muttered, the only response I could manage.

"Okay what?" he repeated, looking at me with expectation on his face.

"Okay . . . none of that matters anyways," I whispered, turning my eyes down. It didn't change the way he felt about me, and it didn't change the way I felt about him. One measly little detail as to who created a letter didn't change anything.

"What do you mean, _none of that matters_?" he asked, and from the escalated anger and bewilderment in his voice, it only coaxed my eyes further down.

I braced myself before confessing what I knew I had to . . . so there would be no regrets later. I stood up from the chair to make my admission, the substance of it making it impossible to reveal from a seated position. "Because I'm here with you now," I said, looking hard into his eyes.

His breath caught. "Are you saying—that after everything I've done to you—you still care for me?"

I nodded my head, feeling the tears returning. "From the very first time I saw you, I cared for you in a way that terrified me . . . in a way that still terrifies me."

" _Still_ terrifies you?" he asked, taking a step towards me.

I nodded.

"I left you without an explanation, Bryn," he shouted, charging to the front of the deck and gripping the steel rail with force. "You almost died because I got to you nearly too late. I changed you because I was selfish and couldn't stand the thought of you not existing in some way—"

"Stop it, William, right now. There's nothing you can say, or do, to change the fact that I do . . . and always will care for you."

His face changed then—it surged from darkest night to mid-day sun. He looked at me for one long second, before taking several hesitant steps toward me. He paused and turned away, looking undecided, but when he turned back to me and his eyes met mine with an emotion that incapacitated me—I had my answer.

He crossed the space between us, never dropping his eyes from mine. Taking the final step, his arms secured around my waist and he drew me against him. My body flashed with the current surging through me having him so near.

"I know I told you that our first date was the best day I'd ever had, but I'm afraid today has taken its spot," he said, somehow managing to pull me closer to him.

"Why?" I whispered, my throat tight from the hope that was becoming more convincing with each passing second.

"Because—against my deepest fears—you've just admitted to me that you still care for me," he whispered, reaching his hand up and melding it against my cheek. "As I do you."

"Come again?" I whispered.

He let his hand fall from my face to grab one of my hands. He lifted it to his chest and placed it over his heart. "Feel this."

I did—it was the most wonderful thing I'd ever felt.

"I've lived every heartbeat caring for you since I first saw you," he said.

"You want me?" I repeated, my bewilderment not abating, but growing.

"I've never wanted anything more."

He took my face in his hands, and summoned it up until his lips rested over mine. Before my body could react, he removed his lips, and I was greeted with the face that was glowing with the intensity I remembered.

He polished over my bottom lip with his finger and I tried to let the moment catch up to me. William still wanted me. Whatever events had taken place to convince me otherwise, here he was before me, admitting it with his words and his body.

I didn't make a conscious decision, but very suddenly, my lips found their way back to his. I pulled him close, and he pulled me even closer—as if we were trying to make up for the time we'd lost during our separation.

When it felt like the moment would crush me from its power, I separated my lips from his, although their removal did not extinguish the secondary responses. Our breaths raced in uneven beats, our hearts even faster. The urge to escape into his hold again became over-powering, so I took a couple steps back, not trusting my willpower. He mimicked my actions, taking two impressive steps back and grasping the metal railing behind him.

"I should still be begging your forgiveness. You made this far easier than I'd anticipated," he said breathlessly. "I was prepared for merciless gravelling and relentless begging for at least a decade or two." He smiled, sending my heart unto another fitful bout.

"So . . . were you serious about all that Immortal stuff? My afterlife theory is starting to sound more likely given that kiss." I said, taking a few more steps back in response to the smile on his lips that was wreaking havoc on my resolution.

"I won't argue that this feels like the best kind of afterlife, but I assure you"—he released his hold of the railing and crossed the space separating us. He reached for my face and his thumb traced my lower lip again—"that you are as Immortal as they come."

He laughed after reviewing the speculation wrinkling my face. "Come on, I'll give you a few things to consider." He pulled me into the cabin. "Get changed, we're going swimming," he announced, flinging open a door at the end of a long hallway. "You should be able to find a swimsuit in the dresser over there. I'm going to get changed and I'll meet you back on deck." His voice was exuberant now, as if sorrow had never muddied it. He kissed me again, too quickly for my liking, and then shut the door behind him.

### CHAPTER NINE

### IMMORTAL WONDER

There hadn't been a single towel, bathrobe, or cover-up to be found in that elaborately stocked room. I'd almost swiped the downy, white comforter off the bed, but didn't want to look ridiculous. I felt naked walking through the cabin, probably due to the fact I nearly was. The black two-piece (more made of strings than actual material) had been the only option for our midnight swim. I'd considered swimming in the clothes I was wearing, except I had on a white linen top, and that wouldn't have been any less revealing once it got wet.

I patted barefoot down the carpeted hall, praying he'd already be in the water (hopefully under the water) when I made my show on the deck before I launched into the black water.

Of course he wasn't.

I saw him the moment I stepped through the cabin door, but my discomfort in the near nothingness I was constricted by, was forgotten as quickly as the breath was pulled from my lungs. True in holding to his godlike characteristics, William leaning against the railing, arms crossed, in nothing but his shorts, would have sent me into cardiac arrest had I still been . . . gulp . . . Mortal.

The moonlight playing over the lines and seams that cut deep canyons into every inch of his body made me woozy. I stopped in the doorway, grabbing the frame for support. I was amazingly stronger now, but I knew no matter how strong I ever became, there was nothing that could keep my knees from buckling beneath the glowing brilliance in front of me.

When his eyes moved from their star-ward gaze to me, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open slightly. He threw his head to the side, as if trying to distract himself with something in the distance, but thinking better of it, his head and eyes turned back to me. "I can't even pretend to not be distracted by the sight of you." His eyes burned with the same awe written on his face. "I don't want to either."

I couldn't imagine what he was talking about; there was nothing but lanky limbs and barely a hint of a tan gracing my skin after the long winter months, wrapped up in couple of garments that would have been rated R if the motion picture association rated swimsuits as well.

"I have no idea what you're talking about . . . but I have you say you're looking mighty impressive yourself." I smiled, pleading with my eyes to keep them from roaming too long or far.

He looked at me as if I'd just said something ludicrous, before a smile spread over his mouth. "Am I going to have to hold you down until you're convinced of how beautiful you are?" There was a lightness of teasing in his suggestion, but I wouldn't have minded one bit if he was serious about this kind of coercion.

I felt the heat from the flush that covered my cheeks when I let my mind wander. Eager to keep him from noticing the scarlet in my face, I challenged, "You'd have to catch me first." I threw my eyebrows a couple of times, before breaking into a run across the deck, ready to cannonball my way into the still water, taking care of two problems with the same action—camouflaging and cooling my overheated body.

The deck was no longer than a tennis court, but the speed I was able to attain in such a short expanse was unreal. I could feel the wind cutting across my face. I launched off the deck when it ran out, pulling my gangly arms around my even ganglier legs, and tucked into a ball. An instant before I crashed into the water, an electric current sparked through me with force, right before I felt his body wrap around mine mid-air.

We crashed into the sleeping lake, displacing more water than two people should. I opened my eyes once we submerged, and he disentangled his body from mine and swam into view. He grabbed my face and kissed me in a way that would have taken my breath away had I not been holding it, before grabbing my hand and pulling me to the surface. We broke through the surface at the same time, neither of us gasping for the air our lungs should have needed given the length of our submersion.

He smiled as he pulled me to him. "You were saying?"

"I don't know why I continue to be surprised by you." I said, shaking my head.

"So, now that I've caught you . . ."—he pulled me against him, causing my legs to encircle around him—"are you going to let me hold you down and convince you how lovely you truly are?"

My heart was obnoxiously loud, thumping like a set of drums, disrupting the quiet sanctuary we were in, but then I realized there was another beat matching mine.

He released me from the close hold I preferred, to one which was more conventional. "Are you ready to see a few freaky things you can do now that you're an Immortal?"

"Why not?" I didn't need any more proof than his word, but I was happy to be with him, doing whatever.

"How does the water feel?" he asked innocently.

"Great," I answered, then paused, remembering what month it was and our northerly location from the equator . . . and the near nothingness I was wearing.

"To me as well, although the water is a frigid fifty-five degrees." I looked at him with reasonable surprise; the water felt like bath water to me.

"As Immortals, we aren't affected by temperature or environmental changes. That's why you can be perfectly at ease swimming in freezing water in the middle of the night, adorned in a swimsuit only the most seasoned of temptresses would have selected." He eyed me with amused accusation. I would have argued back that the selections were limited, but didn't want to waste a second of time arguing with him.

"Another thing . . ." He winked, as if taunting me, before diving down into the water like a torpedo.

I waited, my concern growing with each breath I took that I knew he wasn't, scanning the surface for his head breaking through. After a minute, I dove under, my nervousness cutting me through the water.

I wasn't focused on the speed and grace my water tore through the water with though—I had a sole mission. I scanned for the body that would be impossible to miss, even in the darkness of the water.

I found him sitting cross legged at the bottom of the lake, my eyesight impossibly acute given the depth—another showing for the Immortal theory. He looked calm as I swam towards him, but I was desperate to get him to the surface; he'd been under too long.

When I approached, he put his arms around me and pulled me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me and resting his head on my shoulder. His eyes didn't leave mine until the anxiety in mine melted.

It seemed impossible. It went against everything I'd ever known, but here we sat, at the bottom of a nearly freezing lake, not needing a single breath of air to recover ourselves. I got lost in the moment, the water holding us in its protective arms, while he held me tighter in his.

His grip tightened around my waist, I felt him push against the lake floor, and then we were rocketing through the water. We broke through the surface like a volcanic eruption, and crashed back into the water like a meteor breaking through it.

"That was amazing," I said breathlessly, although for a reason other than being under water for longer than it takes me to run a mile. Well, at least to run a mile as a Mortal.

"Are you convinced?" he murmured from behind.

"I already was . . . but now I know all the cool things I can do."

"Believe me," he assured through his laughter. "There are many other _cool_ things you can do, but we've got time."

I smiled. "I like the sound of that."

His smile outshone mine, in fact, it outshone the glowing full-moon hanging like a bright ball behind his head. "Me, too. You have no idea how long I've waited for you."

His admission jogged the next question to mind. "How old are you . . . really?" I blurted out, treading the water with no sign of weakening. I felt like I could stay out here with him for the rest of our lives, although there was a new meaning to that now.

He chuckled nervously. "Well, Immortals don't keep track of their age or birthdays like Mortals do. Kind of superfluous when you live forever . . ." His eyes squinted, as if unsure of what my reaction would be. I knew, however, there would be nothing he could reveal about himself that could ever diminish the way I worshipped him. "I was twenty-two when I was Immortalized, and the year was 1780."

My eyes widened. "That makes you . . ." While mathematics had been a strong suit of mine, the subject at hand, and the perfect person the matter surrounded, had me struggling to count my fingers.

"Two hundred and sixty years old." He half smiled. " _If_ you were counting."

"Wow," I whispered again, for the hundredth time that night. It appeared my vocabulary was rendered useless around him as well.

"I know. By Mortal standards my bones should be dust, but here I am, forever stuck in the youth of a twenty-two year old body— with all the strength, power and knowledge of an Immortal." He sighed, sounding his true age.

"What happened to you?" This was the wrong question for me to ask, and I regretted it when I witnessed the darkness that fell over his face.

"How about we save that for another time?" He asked, his eyes not quite meeting mine.

"Of course—I'm sorry." I swam closer to him, desperate to pull the poison from his pain filled face.

"We're an hour away from dawn," he said, his voice recovered. "We should get back before anyone discovers we're still gone."

I surveyed the starred night, looking for any hint of daybreak on the eastern horizon, but saw no stirring of light. I was about to ask him how he knew we were an hour away, when something deep inside my consciousness answered my question . . . _because it's 4:33._

Okay, that was creepy . . . really creepy. Along with my new and improved wiring, it appeared I'd had an internal clock installed that rounded time off to the exact minute.

He examined my puzzled expression. "What is it?"

"Nothing really. I think I just discovered another Immortal wonder," I said, with a hint of sarcasm.

"Why don't we test another one out?" His eyes gleamed, and then he turned to face the houseboat resting far off in the distance. "Ready . . . set . . ."—he took one look back, enticing me with his eyes—"Go!"

I cut through the water with outrageous speed, as if my body had been created for nothing else, but I was no match for him. His body cutting over the top of the water created a wake that would have made a speed boat look like a paddle boat in comparison.

He was standing on the deck with a white, fluffy robe in hand by the time I arrived. My face tightened with speculation when he offered me his hand to pull me from the water—how had he managed to find what I'd searched for with such zeal earlier?

"Swim much?" I asked, taking his hand. "You looked like a shark cutting through the water."

He beamed. "I love the water. I spend as much time as I can in it or on it." He held open the robe for me and I stepped into it. He cinched the belt for me and planted a kiss over my cheek before pulling me back into the cabin.

He retrieved a sweatshirt from one of the cabin's hall closets, which was a mixed blessing, and threw it on over his wet, shining upper-half. He led me back up to the top deck, where we resumed our former seats.

"So . . ." I started, trying to sound as light as possible on the heavy topic I was breeching. "How long have Immortals been around?" The words sounded like a bad line from a sci-fi movie or something, not the thing of everyday conversation.

He looked at me after retracting the anchor. "Getting right to the heart of the matter—you're actually _trying_ to make sense of all this, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?" I said, shrugging my shoulders.

"Maybe because what I've just explained to you would cause anyone else to send for the men in white coats."

I rolled my eyes. "I thought you would have discovered by now that I'm not like everybody else." That was true enough; how many of my peers did homework on Friday nights, or shied away from the college basketball star, or volunteered a few times a week doing crafts with kiddos? I was strange . . . different, and I knew it.

He looked intently at me. "That's true. You're like no other. You're the most loving, generous, and trusting person I've ever met."

Misguided as his compliment was, it filled me with happiness.

"To answer your question . . ." His tone was serious as he refocused on steering the boat. I tucked my legs up onto my seat and hugged them to my chest, basking in the billowy robe and the present company.

"Like Mortal's, our history goes back to the beginning of time, so as with anything, truth and events are clouded with time's passage," he said without emotion, as if he were reading right from a philosophy textbook. "As Immortals, we are expected to adhere to a strict moral code and carry out a higher calling, though there are some who have corrupted the very reason for their existence."

"Is John—"

He interjected before I could finish. "Yes, John is an Immortal, as is everyone else who resides within Townsend Manor and its extensive estate."

He maneuvered the floating palace to its original resting place beside the dock. He switched off the lights, and grabbed one of my hands to pull me up from my seat. "I hope you enjoyed your midnight ride on the SS Bryn." I heard the smile in his voice as he guided me down the dark stairs and through the hall.

"Shouldn't I change? I wouldn't want John to miss this stringy contraption when he goes looking for it to torture the next poor woman who comes unprepared for a midnight swim," I said, raising my brows at him.

"He won't miss it," he assured, before jumping onto the dock. He extended his hands to me once he turned around. "Besides, I'm rather fond of that _contraption_ , and I wouldn't mind if we made use of it again."

My eyes narrowed at the man who had a diabolical smile on his face as I leapt on my own, not taking his hands. I underestimated my strength, as the leap I'd meant to make lightly, sent me sailing to the opposite side of the dock. Thankfully, my balance appeared improved as well. I balanced on my tiptoes on the edge of the dock, not ready to go for another swim so soon. A strong arm ringed around my waist and pulled me back flat on my feet.

"Thanks."

"Anytime. You're quite precocious, aren't you?" he asked, sounding pleased. He nuzzled his face into the side of my neck and his warm breath fogged over me, sending my mind into a fog of its own.

"Bryn, I've got something important to tell you. Something I need you to know before we get back to the Manor."

I turned around, my face unaffected by the gravity in his voice. What _hadn't_ been of great importance tonight during any of our conversations? "What is it?"

He retied the ropes of the boat to the dock, took my hand, and led me from the dock. I took one last look back at the houseboat I would forever have some of my fondest memories from—those where my beloved had come back to me—and smiled when I saw the scrolled script at the base of the boat: _My Light_.

"I'm working out a plan to get you away from Townsend Manor as soon as possible," he said. "I'd have you away from there tonight, but a few logistics must be worked out first."

"Why?" I asked, not alarmed. Location was of little concern to me as long as I was with him.

"I'm not what I appear to be there," he said, leading me over the same trail we'd come. "I've infiltrated John's Alliance of Inheritors for the past ten years—playing the role of their professor, teaching new Immortals the ways of our kind—but I am not one of them."

"Am I supposed to understand what any of that means?" I asked, as the Bronco came into view. "Because I don't have a clue what any of that Inheritor . . . Alliance stuff means."

He sighed. "I know—it's all very _involved_." He gave my hand a squeeze of encouragement. "There are two opposing doctrines of belief in the Immortal world." He opened the door for me and assisted me in.

Jumping into the driver's seat, he eyed me carefully as he continued, "Despite the opposing views, Immortal life is predominately centered upon balance and finding this balance in everything we do. There are separate governing parties on both sides that are called Alliances. John's Alliance began throwing this balance off a couple decades ago, and this is why I was sent in . . . to drudge up information."

"What kind of information?" I questioned, as the rose-tinted glasses of a happy world of Immortals came off. It seemed Immortals were plagued with the same unsavory aspirations Mortals were.

"There is so much about this new world you have to learn," he said, turning onto the main highway. I hadn't noticed they weren't on, but he turned on the headlights. They were obviously for those with Mortal eyes, for neither one of us had a problem seeing into the black night. "But I cannot have you around John Townsend or his Alliance any longer than absolutely necessary. He's incredibly intelligent and even more dangerous," he said, narrowing his eyes. "I will get you out of there soon."

"And you?" I asked, not caring where I was as long as he was with me.

"My mission is no longer what it once was. You are my mission now." He grabbed one of my hands, and with it, sent a spark of electricity surging through my body.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, when I remained silent.

I selected my words with care before speaking. "How there's so much I obviously don't understand about this new world, but"—I looked out my window, watching the wall of dark green flashing past us—"it all seems so insignificant since I'm with you again."

"I know just what you mean," he confessed. "Everything else pales in comparison and feels inconsequential now that I've found you." The warmth in his voice drew my face from its faked distraction, and I scooted across the seat towards him. I tucked into the crutch of his arm as he wound it around me, trying not to think about what I'd gotten myself into.

"We must be quick and quiet. It wouldn't be prudent for someone to see us together right now—especially given the hour," William whispered to me, where we sat crouching before the gate of Townsend Manor. He'd parked his Bronco in one of the stand-alone garages on the estate once we'd returned—he was right, it was _extensive._

His eyes were intent upon the Manor before us as he slid the front gate open; just enough for us to both pass through, and shut it silently behind us. He grabbed my hand and pulled me behind him as we ran across the front courtyard with Immortal speed.

Within a few seconds time, we came to a stop below a balcony, presumably the one leading off my bedroom's.

I looked up at the balcony with despair. How were we ever going to get back to our rooms escaping detection? I looked over at William, wide-eyed and apprehensive, but his face was composed, and his eyes were examining me carefully.

"Have you reached your limit of crazy yet today?" His silent whisper was no louder than the wind whistling through the willow tree beside us. His eyes gleamed, and when accompanied by his familiar smile, it led me to believe he was up to something.

"I'm sure," I whispered back, mustering up some of my depleted stores of courage—tonight's revelations had taken a toll.

His grin grew and he took a step towards me. "Close your eyes," he said, brushing his hand over them.

I closed them, my heart sped up, and a nervous taste appeared in my mouth. It all happened so quickly; he grabbed me in his arms, I felt him crouch infinitesimally, and then felt my face breaking through air. We were motionless one heartbeat later. I didn't dare open my eyes for fear of what I'd see. I just laid there in his arms, clinging tightly to his neck, with my eyes glued shut.

He chuckled softly and leaned his face against mine. "Okay, you can open now."

My fear melted when I heard his voice. I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was his face, as awe-inspiring as ever. The permanently-implanted sparkle in his pale blue eyes invoked a longing from somewhere deep within. A longing I was not familiar with . . .

His eyes trailed off, enticing me to follow them. When they followed his sweeping gaze, one of his hands thankfully covered my mouth before the cry came out.

"Shhhh, silly,"—he tried to contain a laugh—"or else you're going to get us into a lot of trouble if we're found so positioned" he whispered, tightening my _position_ against him, "on your bedroom's balcony at this hour."

We were most certainly on my balcony, three stories above where we'd been seconds ago. "How did you do that?" I didn't mask the amazement in my voice from experiencing yet another of his impressive, inhuman capabilities.

"Just another perk to the Immortal life," he teased.

Still wide-eyed with amazement, my child-like curiosity piqued. "Could I do that?"

His face looked grave. "No, not yet . . . not for awhile. Immortals are weak—in comparison—when they're new to this life. It can take decades before you're strong and focused enough to make a jump like that."

"Decades?" I mouthed slowly.

He stroked my cheek with affection. "Even though you've entered the life of an Immortal, you're still quite fragile—not as fragile as a Mortal, of course, but still quite delicate. That's nothing for you to worry about though, because I'm never leaving you again, and _I_ can protect you from just about anything," he vowed.

Setting me down, he raised a brow. "Maybe when you've been an Immortal as long as I have, you can make a jump like that with as much grace and speed." The jesting challenge was obvious in his voice. "Oh . . . and while holding the person who means more to you than your very own life."

I had to remind my lungs what their function was before I could respond. "I suppose we'll have to wait two hundred and sixty years to find out." I shrugged nonchalantly, making light of the very serious wish that lay within me.

"Are you sure you'll want me there? That's an awful long ways away." He took a step forward, the gleam in his eyes growing.

"Of course," I answered, as if this should have been obvious. "Who do you think will be the person in my arms?"

He wrapped his arms around me and rested his hands over the small of my back. "I'll be there," he vowed, lowering his face towards mine. "Forever."

And then he rested his lips against mine. There was a new kind of energy combusting from the union of our mouths, and with the parting movement of our lips, the sinuous energy within me exploded. Every kiss before this had been beyond understanding, yet the others paled beside this one.

The shared knowledge we had of one another—the knowledge that we both wanted each other forever—brought on an intensity and a longing I'd never felt. This longing seemed to be something that would not go away and only magnified with each passing second. The intensity of it scared me . . . nothing else mattered. There was him and only him.

Tonight, though, wasn't the time to breach the topic of unfamiliar emotions and longings. I had to end the kiss, or else I knew there would be no going back if the longing was allowed to grow any more powerful. He sighed his distress when I removed my parted lips from his.

"Good night," I whispered raggedly. His breath poured over my face, attacking my newfound resolve. "Would it sound utterly inadequate to say _thank you_?"

"Not even in the slightest," he responded, his eyes aligning with his warm breath to undo my resolve.

"Thank you, then." I smiled, and had to sidestep out of his embrace before I was conquered by his army of persuasion. I took a couple backward steps towards my room, dreading taking my eyes from him, as an important question assailed my mind. "When will I see you again?"

He looked pleased by the new horror gripping my face. "In the morning. Your training starts tomorrow, where you will be filled with more Immortal knowledge than you'd ever want to know. You are officially my student now, and I your professor," he said with mock authority.

"Although, John would not approve of any teachings that would put us as close together as tonight, so we'll have to be exceedingly careful in our actions with one another while we're here." His smiled faded, and his expression grew somber. "No one can know about our true feelings for one another. While we are within the watchful walls of Townsend Manor, we must behave as if we're nothing more than casual acquaintances. Do you understand?"

I was disappointed, and I was sure it showed on my face. Now that we'd confessed ourselves to one another, the last thing I wanted to do was suppress it. I trusted William's judgment without question, though, and would heed his warning. Being with him in any way was a heaven in its own right, and surely one day we'd be able to be together as we both wished.

"I suppose I can do that . . . Professor." I eyed him playfully.

His eyes jetted off to the east, where the first promises of light were starting to appear. He groaned. "I've had innumerable nights that drug by so slowly, I was sure I'd go insane, and the one night I wanted to creep by, sped by faster than I could have thought possible." He looked thoughtful, continuing to examine the glowing colors on the horizon, before turning back to me with a triumphant expression. "It appears an infinite amount of time is appropriate when one gets to spend their life with you." He winked, turned to the east, and blurred as he leapt from my balcony to the next one down, a good one hundred feet away.

Again, I was flabbergasted by his inhuman speed and grace. As unnerving as this should have been, I couldn't imagine anything more beautiful and natural as William was in all his inhuman grandeur. Arriving at his destination in less time than it would take to blink, he turned and waved to me. I thought I heard a faint whisper on the wind, one that made me smile, "Sleep well, my love."

### CHAPTER TEN

### IMMORTALITY 101

I awoke the next morning to the sound of impatient knocking. Without waiting for an answer, the goddess from yesterday's awakenings opened the door and leaned her head in. "Are you awake yet?"

I didn't think my open eyes and elevated position in bed required a verbal answer.

"Your first class begins in thirty minutes. Make sure you're ready," Stella instructed, raising her eyebrows. Her initial impressions of seeing me as some inconvenience had clearly not changed from yesterday. "Professor Winters will be waiting for you in the library."

My heart performed aerobatics at the mention of his name, and from the knowledge I'd get to see him soon. I felt light, as bright as the morning sun, rising on my face.

His warning suddenly rang in my ear—reminding me about the importance of keeping our relationship hidden—so I drew in a deep breathe, hoping it would settle my heart and recompose my face.

It worked . . . at least fractionally.

"I'll be back to show you to the library when you're ready." Before I had a chance to reply, she tucked her head out through the door and shut it behind her.

I rushed out of bed, throwing the sheets off me in a white flurry, and ran to another door I hoped would prove to be a closet. I got lucky—it was, and it was fully stocked with clothes and shoes that were all my size.

Unease clutched at me as I threw on a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved cotton top. I tried not to think about the implications behind why a closet full of attire had been prepared for me, because I was going to see the man I would spend my eternity with soon. I trotted to the door, sliding on a pair of sandals in the process.

Not more than a few minutes had passed since Stella's "friendly" wake-up call, so when I threw open the door, I was elated to find the person I'd spent the entire night dreaming about, leaning up against the railing in front of my door.

It was like seeing him all over again for the first time; I couldn't find my breath, my heart raced with more speed than a cheetah, and there was no hope of working my vocal chords.

I took several rapid steps towards him. He stiffened—nodding his head behind him to where several people stood in the foyer below. I caught his hint and stopped in my tracks. I froze and tried to look casual and uninterested; I was sure I looked neither, though. My body whined its protest from not being able to wrap itself around him. He shook his head while laughing silently, before an affectionate smile covered his mouth that he could allow since his back was to the individuals below.

"Good to see you too," he mouthed.

In my halted state, my eyes took him in. He was far more formally dressed than I was. He wore charcoal grey slacks and a white oxford dress shirt—the top couple buttons of which he'd left casually undone, and I was sure he'd done it intentionally to make this day more torturous than necessary.

When I lifted my eyes from the exposed skin that screamed its presence at me, his knowing expression confirmed my assumption. I rolled my eyes and looked to the side, irked his temptation had worked so quickly and effectively.

William's eyes flashed to a door down the hall. Mine followed, just before John walked out.

"William, Bryn" He marched towards us, dressed in slacks and a tweed jacket. What was the deal with everyone dressing like they were going to a shareholder's meeting? "Nice to see you both so eager to get started with the day." He glanced down at his wristwatch, obviously hinting we were early for my first day of class. "I suppose it's for the best with everything you've got to cover in such a short timeframe."

"Why do you say short timeframe? I wasn't aware of any need for an expedited training schedule, and there are two more that will be in class with her." William challenged John, pushing off the railing into a straightened position. "Has something changed?"

I looked to John as William was, waiting for an answer, although I didn't have a clue as to what they were talking about.

"Oh yes, I neglected to inform you of the change with Bryn's schedule. I'll need you to consolidate the first phase of training into two weeks—"

"Two weeks!" The edge of outrage in William's voice pierced through me like a million hypodermic needles.

John glared at William with two raised brows. I doubted if anyone ever challenged John, but William didn't look the least bit intimidated by him.

"No one's ever been accelerated through the first phase in two weeks. It's impossible, and you know it. Establishing the proper fundamentals is paramount. There's no way I will approve this." William's words flew with passion.

I had to look away from the enraged man in front of me—the strength of his emotions was overwhelming at times . . . this being one of them. I distracted myself by gazing up and down the hallway, which was drenched in white marble and so many exotic potted plants I could have been smack in the center of the Amazon.

Unmoved by William's heated rhetoric, John replied, "There's no need for you to worry about Bryn's final stages of training. I only need you to get her through the initial phase . . . in two weeks. I will take over her training after that."

John's eyes fell upon me, and a smile formed on the edge of his lips, and despite the blue of his eyes, there was a blackness that burned within their depths. He chuckled, probably in reaction to my growing discomfort apparent from my fidgeting, and glided towards the stairs.

I glanced over at William, where his narrowed eyes and curled lip confirmed he'd also picked up on the undercurrent of John's insidious look at me.

He took two steps forward, putting himself between me and John. "This would not be approved by the High Council."

John turned his head over his shoulder, still continuing down the winding stairs. "It's been approved by our Alliance's Council . . . you know how little stock we put in the High Council. You are our Professor here Mr. Winters, and you had a very _principal_ undertaking in her creation, so you are charged with starting her training, but they've allowed an exception for me to continue it from where you leave off—after two weeks."

John stopped on the last step and placed his hand on the large mahogany end post that was carved in the shape of a tree; he turned to look at William, victory gleaming from his face. "Of course, if you're not up to the initial two weeks, I'm sure I could get them to make another exception . . ."

William's rigid silence was all the answer he needed to give.

"Good, it's settled then. Two weeks. You'd better get started—you've got a lot to cover." John's chuckle echoed through the foyer as he walked to the party in the foyer.

I'd remained frozen throughout the entire conversation, not trusting the words that would come out of my mouth. William was stone still in front of me, the tension ripping through him evident in every muscle. He turned to me, frustratingly slow for the speed I knew he possessed.

He'd recomposed himself; his expression relaxed, an unconvincing smile on his lips, and his hands had released their angry fists—but when his eyes met mine, they gave his faked composure away. They weren't right. They were anxious, and fury still screamed beneath the surface.

"William . . ." My voice wavered. I reached my hand out to him.

He looked at my hand purposefully, and then gave his head one quick shake.

Oh, yeah . . . darn it anyways. I was really going to get us in trouble if I didn't get my head in the game and keep my emotions in check.

My hand snapped back to my side.

"Sorry," I whispered, so quietly, I wasn't sure he'd heard me.

He ran his fingers through his hair and stepped towards me. "It's not _your_ fault." As he glided by me, his hand reached out and brushed softly over mine. I turned to follow him, electricity surging through my body from the forbidden touch of his skin. The absence from each other while we slept brought on an unexpected sensitivity.

"Come on." His smile was brighter now, and his eyes were almost right. "Time for Immortality 101."

We walked side-by-side down the hall, not saying anything else, but I couldn't rid myself of the desire to reach over and touch him, to somehow be close to him. Even though I had enough clarity of mind to know we could not be together in this way in Townsend Manor; whatever punishment would be dealt out to us, I would have accepted without remorse . . . the desire was _that_ strong.

As if reading my mind, he whispered through gritted teeth, "Will you calm yourself please? Before I do something we'll both regret."

Not knowing how else to calm the fire, I slowed my pace and allowed him to lead by several strides. The increased distance from one another didn't help as much as I hoped it would.

"Welcome to your classroom, Miss Dawson," he said, opening a door at the end of the long hall. He bowed and swept one hand in front of him, beckoning me into the room.

This was like no other library I'd ever seen; not at all like the libraries I'd visited as a child for story hour, nor did it even compare with Stanford's noteworthy one. It was like something from a dream—or at least a dream of mine given my obsession for books.

We were on the third floor of the Manor, but in similar fashion to the foyer, the library rose up all three floors. Except for the two circular walkways that curved around the rounded room on the second and third floor, and the stairways connecting each floor to the next, the gigantic round room's walls were covered by nothing else but the wood bookshelf inserts that were filled to capacity with every color, size, and shape of book imaginable.

The first floor spread out like a rich tapestry below us. It was adorned with oriental carpets laid over the dark wood floors, and there were rows of rectangular tables bordered with high-back chairs.

This library looked like no other, and it smelled like no other as well. The typical smell of aged pages resting between weathered bindings was absent, and a welcoming scent of cigar—the sweet smelling, expensive ones my dad would celebrate with after winning a big case—mixed with pine, drifted through the entirety of this room.

"This is amazing," I muttered, sounding awed. "I can't imagine a better classroom"—my eyes shifted to him, and the library was instantly forgotten—"or a better teacher."

"Kissing up to the professor on the first day—are you hoping it will earn you an A?" He took a step towards me, and I took a step back, not trusting myself to handle the closeness.

"Something like that," I said with implication, before turning to descend the staircase. He fell in beside me, but I soon lagged behind as my neck craned from side-to-side, taking in the enormity of the room and the hundreds of thousands of books that lined every square inch of wall. The domed ceiling was breathtaking; it was stained-glass and depicted an intricate mural of a lush garden flowering with exotic flora. When my exploratory eyes ceased their conquest, they shifted to the center of the room, where two figures stood.

"Good morning, Annabelle and Chris," William said, remaining beside me. "This is Bryn Dawson—she will be starting with us today as well." William stepped forward and I followed behind, eyeing over my two classmates.

"Master William." The male, who looked to be in his mid-twenties, extended his hand as William approached. He was taller than William, but was so slight he couldn't have weighed any more than I did. He reminded me of a palm tree—his entire body was rail thin, but his rust-orange hair shot out in wild branches.

William reached for his freckled hand. "Good to see you again, Chris."

Chris didn't reply or look William in the eye, but when William stepped around to greet the female, Chris's eyes grabbed me. They narrowed, and although the shade of blue was the same as the one's I loved most in this world, there was something very troubled beneath their colored surface. "So you're the new girl?" His voice matched what lied beneath the surface of his eyes—troubled.

"I guess you could say that," I answered, unsure how to reply.

Chris snorted, then slumped over to a leather high-back chair and crashed into it. "I guess it's not too hard to figure out why she's receiving _special_ treatment," he said, as if under his breath, but clearly loud enough for us all to hear.

"Excuse me?" William's voice burst with authority, his eyes challenging Chris.

"Oh please, doesn't it bust your chops that you've had to work hard and do your time to earn the privileges you have to live here, and as soon as some new, drop-dead gorgeous toy arrives, John's rolling out the red carpet?" Chris' nose was wrinkled with his detest. "I may be new to this, but I'm not an idiot."

William hackled at Chris's speech and glared at him in a way that would have crippled me.

"Ignore him," the young female shouted over to me. "He's always this cranky."

After her quick reassurance, she trotted to William. She curtsied at the same time she flashed her pearly whites, and made a show-stopping performance with the flick of her honey and caramel streaked hair. "Master William, it's wonderful to see you again," she gushed, reminding me of the wax enclosed syrupy candies I'd get as a child and how they would burst with overtly sweet liquid when you bit through the soft layer of transparent wax.

This time it was my turn to hackle when she lifted her hand to place it on the outside of his arm. "I've been so excited to get started. I can't wait." Was I imagining her fingers curving deeper into the flesh of his arm?

William smiled formally, before taking a deliberate step to the side, separating his arm from the eager hand with cotton-candy-pink painted fingernails. "Thank you, Annabelle," he replied, walking around the end of the table to what would serve as the front of our classroom. "Since you've been so eager to get started, why don't we?"

He shifted his eyes to me. "Will you be joining us, Miss Dawson?"

Chris rolled his eyes, while Annabelle selected the seat directly in line with William's present line of sight; seeming to feint with his eyes as he watched me come forward.

"I wouldn't miss it for all the midnight swims in the world," I replied, fighting the smile that wanted to erupt. I took the remaining seat, which was unfortunately smashed in between the other two, and turned my attention on the most captivating teacher I'd ever had.

"Excuse me for just a moment."

As William loped across the room to a free standing shelf in the center, Annabelle leaned in, raising her hand to her mouth. "Isn't he drop-dead? I think I could get used to this Immortal thing," she whispered.

Before I could respond, William was jogging back with a couple of books in hand. I gave a quick nod to appease the cute, pep-squad-type girl beside me, before I turned my head back to the front of the room, trying to stifle the jealousy swirling in my stomach. Not that I could disagree with her—drop-dead didn't even begin to describe him—but I didn't like the way it sounded being spewed from another woman's mouth.

A couple of thick, weathered books thudded over the wooden table, as William returned—looking more like Superman saving the day, than a professor who'd just retrieved a couple books to get class rolling.

"Alright everyone, let's get started," William began, trying to shift his eyes equally between the three of us, although it seemed his eyes rested a bit longer when they fell on me. "Chris and Annabelle, since you've resided here on the estate for a couple of weeks now, you've already gleaned certain knowledge we'll be covering today—regardless, we'll be starting our course of study with the rudimentary makings of Immortality, and making our way into the more intricate details in later weeks."

"How many weeks will we be in class with you Master William?" Annabelle asked.

"The first phase of training runs ten weeks. From there, you will go onto strength and talent training."

Annabelle's face ignited like a bug zapper that'd just attracted a June bug.

"I hear Bryn here"—Chris pointed his thumb at me—"get's out of purgatory after only two weeks, why do we have to stay for ten?"

William cleared his throat. "That's correct. She'll be with us only the first two weeks, but John will be continuing her training from there—"

"I'll _bet_ he's going to continue her training," Chris mumbled. "Will this training have anything to do with making a tiny adjustment in that lovely shade of pale—"

"That's enough, Mr. Gustafson!" William interrupted, his voice fierce. "Unless you have something to say regarding Immortal history or theory, you will keep your mouth shut the remainder of our time today."

I made a mental note to ask William what in the world Chris had been talking about, since the emotion it had invoked in our professor led me to the conclusion now was not the right time.

Chris didn't challenge William any further, but he threw me a side-ways glance that made me squirm. I cringed away from him, shifting as far to the right in my chair as I could.

William strolled to the free-standing chalk-board behind him, snatching up a piece of chalk in one hand and sailing it into his other. "Who can tell me what the two Immortal Principias are?"

Annabelle raised her hand, flailing it about.

"Yes, Annabelle," William said, his eyes not leaving the chalkboard; he was obviously aware of her enthusiasm. I wondered if he was aware of her enthusiasm for him as well.

She beamed, placing her hands in her lap. "The Inheritor and the Guardian Principia."

Chris exhaled sharply, looking as if he was focusing every iota of his attention on the sharpened, number two pencil that twirled like a ballerina on speed between his fingers.

"That's correct." William wrote in his precise script the two names across the board; drawing a line below each one, before circling the Inheritor Principia. "And what are we?"

"I've been _told_ I'm an Inheritor," Chris sneered.

"That's correct." William rested the chalk on the wooden holder, and dusted the powdery chalk from his hands. "You have all been selected, and brought into the strongest Inheritor Alliance in the world. It's a great honor."

When I'd been in class and taking in a subject of interest in the past, I would scratch away pages of notes to later reference when my memory needed jogged, but yet another great Immortal wonder was a mind that recalled any and every piece of information that flowed into it. The sharpened pencil and notebook in front of me were unnecessary objects—although they would be welcome distractions when he became too much for me to continue gazing upon.

"Immortal history goes back as far as Mortal history. It's just a little more . . . _unusual_."

"I'll say. We're all a bunch of freaks," Chris muttered under his breath.

William continued on, paying the surly Immortal no notice. "It is said there were two Immortal brothers created after the fall of Adam and Eve, and their exodus from Eden. The brothers disagreed vehemently on why they'd been created. One brother believed he'd been created, and given the gift of Immortality, to be Guardians over mankind—now that they'd been banished from Eden and subject to Mortal plagues. This brother knew it was his existence's purpose to watch over, and protect these fragile, tortured beings."

I was trying so hard to focus on the lesson, but it was next to impossible given the teacher that paced back and forth, his hands on his hips, talking with the rich honey voice that undid my best intentions of being an attentive student.

"The other brother disagreed wholeheartedly. He believed they'd been created and given Immortality to defend, and one day inherit, the now abandoned Eden from the fallen Mortals. He believed it to be his sole purpose in life to protect Eden from these Mortals. From the beginning of time, these two beliefs have been held to, causing much unrest in the Immortal community—though the majority of Immortals appreciate the need for the balance that is created by the opposing Principias."

I raised my hand timidly, feeling odd doing it, but not wanting to interrupt him in the middle of his lecture.

I watched him fight his smile of amusement. "Yes, Bryn."

"So . . . you're saying that I, as an Inheritor, am expected to preserve _Eden_ from Mortals?" I hadn't meant for my voice to sound so dubious, but this—more than any other Immortal information I'd been given—was the most unbelievable.

"Eden isn't just some obscure, secret garden long disappeared. You see, Inheritors believe that Earth, in its entirety, is Eden, and are therefore called to protect it from the abuse done by Mortals." His voice never wavered from the knowledge pouring from it, but there was no depth of passion or belief in it.

"How do they protect . . . _Eden_ "—I had a tough time saying the word, but to keep with the lesson plan, I used it—"from the six billion Mortals that inhabit the earth?"

Annabelle shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and Chris gazed at me with mild respect. I must have been bordering on a few lines of taboo.

Our teacher looked perfectly at ease, though. "Inheritor's are subtle, and extremely strategic in their offensives. Think of the headlines that capture reader's attention—Natural Disaster, Economic Downturn, Cancer on the Rise, Genocide . . ." William's eyes narrowed infinitesimally as his lesson continued with all three students eagerly attuned. "These impressive disasters generated in Mortal communities around the world can almost always be traced back to some Alliance, or Alliances, of Inheritors. As time has passed, their tactics have grown more sophisticated. They've needed to with population explosions and after the Industrial Revolution."

"Alliances?" I questioned, this time not bothering to raise my hand. He'd mentioned this term last night, but I'd been too lost in our reunion to care of much other than just being with him. Chris sighed with the kind of exaggeration one would who thought another in their company to be ridiculously slow.

William's patience didn't waver. "Inheritors and Guardians alike, have separate Alliances, created to govern and guide smaller parties of the whole. Each Alliance is governed by a Council of seven Immortals selected for their seniority, wisdom, and commitment to their calling. A High Council, consisting of four Guardians and four Inheritors, was created thousands of years back in an attempt to create balance, although their influence in the Immortal world is no where close to what it once was." He shrugged, looking through one of the stained-glass windows. "I suppose you could compare it to the royal family in England. They're still an important piece of the country's history, but have very little power governing it." He glanced over at me, familiar enough with my inquisitive mind and the expressions that accompanied this. "What else, Bryn?"

"What about the . . . Guardians?" The word sounded strange coming from my mouth, like I was trying to fake knowledge for which I had very little. "What is their duty in this eternal life . . . if it's not Mortal mayhem?"

William had to fight back another smile before he answered, "As a new Immortal, I'm sure your Mortal memories are quite fresh in your mind. Can you think of an instance where you would have called something a miracle, or perhaps you've heard the stories of people claiming something like an angel appeared, saving them from something or assisting them in some way—"

He continued, but I was too deep in thought to listen further. I had, as a Mortal, experienced both of these—miracle and an angel appearing—and both instances had involved him.

"By Mortal standards, Guardians are the good . . . the miracles, in their world, and Inheritors are the evil and the tragedies. In our world, either one can be good or evil, it just depends on your perspective," he finished.

"Bryn?" his perfect voice drew me from my musings. "Have I answered your question?"

I paused before answering. "Yes, you have."

"Good, let's move on then," he said, sounding more like a muse than a professor. "There are several universal codes all Immortals must follow, regardless of which Principia you adhere to."

William flipped the chalkboard around, and on the other side, was a list written out in his handwriting; identifiable from the tail of his a's sweeping into the next letter, and the way the words made me smile.

"Basic enough you can see— _No interacting with Mortals_ ," he said, reading off number one of the Immortal code of conduct. "Of course, we must interact at times with Mortals in our missions, but the crux of this rule is that we cannot form bonds that would . . ."—he drug his voice out as his fist tapped number two on the list—" _Do anything to threaten our anonymity_. One way we can do this is by transferring every ten years or so. We can't allow Mortals to become suspicious when the passage of time doesn't change our physicality."

"So you're saying I'll have to leave Townsend Manor in ten years?" Chris asked, dropping the pencil that had been in constant motion for the past thirty minutes.

"That's correct," William answered. "Although you may be assigned elsewhere after your training is complete, depending upon what Station you are tasked with."

"Station?" Annabelle questioned, and I was happy it was her this time interrupting our professor instead of me.

"Every Immortal is commissioned with a certain Station, taking their individual gift into consideration. There is a degree of hierarchy involved, so, as young Immortals, you will likely be tasked with elementary stations, but as you mature, so will your Stations."

William turned his attention on Chris, who was surveying the exquisite room around us, and guessed at what Chris was thinking. "Don't worry. John's got plenty more estates to keep everyone _comfortable._ "

My eyes skipped to the next code before he could read it. I already didn't like it before he read it off. " _No bonds of any kind can be forged between Immortals of the opposing gender_."

I scowled at the words, wishing I could make them disappear from Immortal folklore forever if I screamed at them with my eyes long enough.

"Just what are _bonds of any kind_ considered?" Annabelle asked, her voice sounding the gravest I'd heard it.

I'd not seen William fidget before, but the piece of chalk in his hand was currently spinning in a frenzy. As a fidgeting fanatic, I could spot someone else's nervous energy from twenty paces—one hundred paces now with my Immortal eyes.

"Bonds of any kind are defined as any kind of intimate ties or touch that are experienced without the consent of your Alliance's Council."

" _Any_ kind of ties or touch?" Annabelle repeated, sounding as if someone had just told her she had one minute to live.

"That's correct," William said, his own gravity nearly surpassing Annabelle's.

"Yikes," Annabelle whispered to herself. I was screaming the same thing in my mind.

William interrupted both our shock, by pointing at the final code listed on the board. " _Immortals must follow their commission with dedication and devotion_." He turned from the board and gazed at Chris and Annabelle, but could not meet my eyes. I guessed it was still due to number three on the board, and our obvious shunning of it. "This is why we are not allowed to form bonds of love that would compromise this code. We are called first and foremost to our duties as Immortals, putting our own wants and desires aside," he finished, finally meeting my gaze. He smiled shyly, causing my heart to react not so shyly.

This whole Immortal thing was noble enough, and I had to admit I liked the power and—new as I was to it—the sense of belonging I felt in this new world. I felt more at home here than I'd ever felt in my Mortal life. Yet despite all this, if I couldn't be with William, I'd take all my putrid Mortality back if it meant being with him for a limited number of years, as opposed to an infinite number without him.

"Can anyone tell us why Immortals are created?" he asked, changing the subject from the strict codes that made me angry just by thinking about them.

"To save the world," Chris sneered, flashing his hands from side to side.

"That is the basic principle both Principias hold to. Of course, you're saving inherently opposing entities depending on which side of the Immortal line you stand."

I knew whichever side he stood on is where I would as well, but I was happy he stood on the one he did. Maybe it was because I'd so recently relinquished my own Mortality, but the idea of upsetting the lives of the remaining billions was wrong on so many levels.

"Which brings us to our next topic—how Immortals are created."

"I believe you've got some new information on this topic," Chris said, sounding smug. He turned his alabaster face, dotted with auburn freckles to me, and smiled the most disingenuous one I'd ever seen.

William shot him a look before continuing, not addressing whatever Chris had implied. "I take it you've all felt a foreign energy running through your bodies since Immortalization?"

"Ohhh yeah," Annabelle emphasized, jacking her eyebrows for extra effect.

"Kind of hard to miss," Chris muttered, focusing his attention on the ceiling.

"Mortals have their own kind of energy, although it's infinitely different than what dwells within us. The energy that flows within an Immortal is what we use to change a dying Mortal—"

"Dying?" I interrupted the godlike professor, whose signature scent was wafting into my senses and creating a state of hypnosis. I shook my head, trying to clear it.

He watched my bewildered expression, and from his smile that looked too knowing for his own good, I guessed he knew what had created my stupor. "As different as Mortal's energy is from ours, it is still strong. However, when one is dying, this energy is leaving their body in steady, tangible streams—leaving empty spaces for a superior substance to enter and eternally change them."

He pushed back from the table and took a few steps back. "Vital organs are preserved, senses are heightened, muscles are melded into a steel-like substance, blood is turned into a fluid that is its own kind of fountain of youth. All these changes preparing the body for an eternity of service and, depending upon which creed you hold to, a service to the protection of mankind or the protection of Eden."

"So any Immortal can create another Immortal?" I questioned, wondering if they would ever run out.

Chris rolled his eyes with such force I could hear his eyeballs rotating in his sockets. "And I thought I was uninformed."

"Be nice. She just woke up yesterday, Chris," Annabelle chided him. "And she hasn't been around the endless gossip stream back where we're staying." She smiled one of acceptance at me before turning her fixed gaze back on our professor, who was watching me very carefully.

William's eyes narrowed in concentration. When he answered, his words were careful. "No, only an experienced Immortal who has enough focus to be able to generate and compact their energy can be a part of the team that makes the transformation."

I didn't think before asking, growing more anxious with each wary word from his mouth. "There's a _team_ that is responsible for the transformations?"

This had been the question William wished I wouldn't have asked. His distressed expression told me that.

"That's how it used to be before boy wonder"—Chris interrupted, nodding his head at William—"decided to put that tradition to the test. I sure don't see why," Chris said, glancing over me, "doesn't look like there's any substance beneath that pretty exterior packaging—"

"Chris! That's quite enough," William interrupted, his whole body as rigid as a marble pillar.

"Oh, please. I've heard the rumors, and judging from your reaction . . ."—Chris looked pointedly at William and raised an eyebrow—"they're true."

I was drowning in the tension pouring from the two males at heads with one another, so when the library door shouted open, I jumped in my seat.

"I need to speak with you Mr. Winters," a familiar voice said with implicit authority.

William pointed to us with his eyes, hinting to our new guest, but I knew it wasn't only because he didn't want to be interrupted in the middle of our class—he wasn't eager to leave me behind with the topic of rumor circling the room.

"It's urgent," John added, sounding less than thrilled he needed to make this condition.

Two sets of eyes settled on me—one pair anxious, the other domineering. I melted under one set, and wriggled in my chair from the other. William excused himself, and he and John exited the library, taking both their emotion-filled stares with them.

### CHAPTER ELEVEN

### GIFTS

"What rumors are you talking about?" Annabelle threw out before I could ask, once our professor had exited the room. "What have I missed out on?" Her stop-the-press position of her hand made me feel I was in some bad junior high flashback; where overreactions were as abundant as the air used to voice them.

Chris smiled at me, but his eyes narrowed into evil slits. "What do you know of your creation story, Bryn?" he asked, leaning towards me. The lanky Immortal seemed curiously fascinated with _this_ topic.

"What do you mean?" My eyes narrowed as well, but out of confusion.

He shook his head in a condescending manner. "You know, the events leading up to your date with Immortal destiny? For instance . . . I was in a head-on collision one fine Friday night, where my girlfriend of two years had just become my fiancé, when the drunk driver operating a MAC truck hit us going a mere seventy miles per hour." He spoke levelly, almost coolly, but he couldn't hide the anguish that spread through his eyes. "I was sure I was dead, but then I saw a group of men that appeared out of nowhere—all dressed in black. I remember being pulled from the car, and some strange sensation, and then I wake up here a week later—my Mortality and fiancé gone, and being told what my new purpose is in this life of Immortality."

Chris cleared his throat, and with it, cleared the anguish in his eyes. They refilled with the trouble that swam in them before. "Do you recognize any difference in our last moments of Mortality?"

Again, I looked at Chris in confusion . . . there were plenty of differences in our stories. I wasn't sure which one he was asking about.

The look he graced me with, led me to believe he thought I had the mental fortitude of a four year old. "How about I give you a hint . . ."—he scratched his head, while his eyes focused on the ceiling above—"to create an Immortal, it takes at least six, strong, senior Immortals. Anything less, and they'd be risking their eternal necks."

Several things clicked together then: John's comments of William's asinine stunt, John's admission of William being comatose just as I had for a week, William's rage at Chris's fetching comments moments ago . . .

Chris noticed the horror building in my face. "And the light-bulb went off." He clucked the side of his mouth, making a popping noise.

"What the hell are you talking about Chris?" Annabelle asked impatiently, tossing her hair with less fanfare than she had for our professor.

"Our golden boy of a professor immortalized Bryn . . . on his _own_."

Annabelle's eyes widened. "On his own?" she repeated softly. "But he should have died—"

"Except he didn't. It appears he's the most capable Giver John's seen. Not that the good professor knew it at the time, of course."

I clutched the leather armrests in an attempt to center myself. "He could have died?" I whispered, barely recognizing I'd said the words.

"No . . . he _would_ have died—that's as sure as the needless air we breathe. It was only after the fact he learned he could Immortalize someone solo, although doing so nearly killed him."

"Geez louise, Bryn. Do you know why Master William would do that?" Annabelle asked, sliding her chair closer to mine; probably eager for another smidgen of gossip.

"That's a very good question," Chris sneered, eyeing me as if I were Pandora's Box. "Any ideas?"

My terror-filled eyes fell upon the door a moment before it swung open. William reentered, and his eyes met mine. I don't know what he saw on my face, but the anxiety already on his grew more advanced.

"Class is excused for the day. We'll reconvene at eight tomorrow," he said urgently, without taking his eyes from me.

Chris leapt up and glided out of the library in two heartbeats, while Annabelle fumbled around with her backpack; stalling, most likely.

"See you tomorrow, Bryn," she called out as she flitted past me and towards the exit. "Thank you, Master William. I'll see you in the morning."

From her accommodating tone, I'm sure her smile was equally so, but I didn't see it. I couldn't take my eyes from his. I looked into those pale blue eyes, marveling at how capable of showing emotion they were, and shuddered when I thought of them lifeless.

The door swung shut with a screech, and he was a blur until he came to a stop beside me. He crouched down and wrapped the arms that were not supposed to be so close, tightly around me. His face leaned into mine, and he inhaled. "It's alright, Bryn—everything's alright," he soothed, rocking my body gently against his.

I shook my head vigorously, not ready to be soothed. "Why did you do that? Why did you risk so much for me?" I asked, sounding angrier than I'd intended, but I _was_ angry . . . almost furiously so. I wasn't, and would never be worth the loss of this man's life.

He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and hurt. "I thought it would be obvious," he whispered, looking down at our intertwined hands. His eyes moved back up to mine, and the intensity flowing in them took my breath away. "Your life is infinitely more important to me than my own . . . I would have no life if you were not in it. That's why I made the choice to do what I did."

His face became peaceful. "Besides, there's no need to get all worked up about it. Everything worked out better than I could have imagined. You're here, and I'm here . . . together, and soon enough we'll both be free of this place," he promised, before pulling me against his chest.

"But you could have died," I muttered over his shoulder.

"But I didn't," he interjected. "It appears my gift is much stronger than we ever thought." He ran his fingers from the top of my head down the entire length of my hair, further quieting the quaking running through my body.

"I'm not worth it, you know. You are so much more than I am . . . than I ever could be." My voice quivered, but I continued, "What do you think I would have done when I woke up and found you next to me, lying dead on the beach? Huh?" I didn't wait for a reply to my rhetorical question. "That I just would've marched back to OSU and continued on with my _enthralling_ life? No . . . I would have curled up right next to you and waited for your fate to find me. Or maybe I just would've let the ocean finish what it'd started with me that night. That would have made it quicker."

William tensed, and his hands pulled my shoulders back from his embrace. His face radiated with pain. "Stop it. Right now. I won't allow you to say these things. They're not true. You are worth more than my life ten times over, and you cannot—you _must_ not—ever hurt yourself."

His hands moved to the sides of my face, willing my eyes to meet his. "I will never be at peace knowing you would hurt yourself if something happened to me. Please, you must promise me right now." His pleading eyes tore at my resolve, and under any other request he made of me, I would have given him whatever he wanted; but I couldn't now.

I wouldn't agree to this, especially since I couldn't be sure I would keep my word. I would follow him, whatever destiny was his to find. The moment he entered my life, our destinies became fused, and he couldn't change that now.

"I can't make you that promise." My words sounded strong, like an impenetrable fortress.

"But, Bryn—"

"No . . ." I reached for his face, trying to soothe the hard lines that had formed. "You know where I stand on this, and you've made your own stance pretty clear as well." I grinned, hoping to lighten his burdened face. "We can talk about this again . . . later. You have my word."

The next thing I knew, he had my face between his hands and his lips on mine. It happened so fast, I could've believed I'd imagined it, except I could still taste that sweet flavor only his lips could leave behind. That, and the burning desire in his eyes, also confirmed it.

"Alright, later then . . . but Bryn"—he looked hard into my eyes—"I won't forget."

I nodded my head in acknowledgment, but there'd been no need for his words. I knew he was not finished with this topic.

"What did John want?" I asked, eager to change the topic from near death experiences and future encounters. I got up from the high-backed chair and strolled to a chaise in the corner of the library.

From William's troubled expression, I doubted if my hopes for lighter conversation would be realized. "There's a bit of a problem down at OSU."

"A problem?" I plopped down on the chaise, tucking one leg beneath me. I reached for the throw pillow in the corner and hugged it to my chest, needing something to squeeze as we breached yet another topic of significance.

"Your friend Paul has formed a search party to find you. They're running searches, hotlines, flyers . . . the whole bit. He's stirred up a media circus down in Corvallis." He talked to the ground while he shuffled over to where I sat. The start of a rain shower could be heard overhead, tinkling against the stained-glass ceiling, sounding like an imperfect melody played against oil drums.

"Everyone thinks I've gone missing . . ." I stated, not yet considering the ramifications I'd left behind in my Mortal world. Of course no one could, or would know the truth.

"No." He exhaled with force while seating himself on the edge of the chaise. "Everyone thinks you're _dead_."

"Everyone thinks I'm dead?" I echoed, gripping the pillow tighter to me.

"Yes, the Immortal way is not an easy one," he said solemnly. He rested his head into one of his hands. "By law, when an Immortal is created, a Mortal death must be staged to lesson the likelihood for these kinds of events taking place." He reached into his pant's pocket and withdrew a folded scrap of newspaper. He rustled open the quarter-folded article and handed it to me.

"When a Mortal just disappears—goes missing—those left behind are forever left with uncertainty, and a hope that their loved one will one day be recovered. There have been problems with this in the past . . ." He trailed off, while I read the headline.

_OSU Basketball Captain and Teammates Non-believers in Bryn Dawson's Drowning._ Below the headline was a black and white photo of Paul standing in front of our dorm, looking ever so Paul—hands in his pockets, and wearing a smile that could bedazzle the light off a firefly.

"I should have told you before you had to find out this way," he said, sounding somber. "A couple of John's men swore to eyewitness accounts that you drowned that night . . . though your body was never recovered, of course. The general populace has accepted that you died. That is, except for Paul. Who is in fact correct."

Below the photo, was a quote from Paul: _Bryn Dawson's still alive. I'm certain of that, and I'm going to find her_.

I shook my head. I didn't deserve such faithful, compassionate people in my life. I refolded the article, not wanting to read the ugly details, and handed it back to William. His expression was collected, but his eyes searched over my face with care.

"Why did John think this was so important he needed to interrupt—" I stopped mid-way through my question, the red-light flashing in my head.

"He thinks this is all your fault . . . creating me, and because of that, now Paul is threatening to find me and potentially uncover what's really happened?"

His eyes gazed up where the oil-drum symphony had increased its tempo with the downpour. "That's correct. He expects me to take care of the problem—to clean up my mess."

"Expects you to take _care_ of it?"—another flashing light—"Oooooh." I jumped up, dropping the pillow to the floor. "He wants you to . . .to . . . " I couldn't say the word, so I substituted. " _Hurt_ him?"

My eyes grew wild, until they settled enough to focus on his, and my worries of William doing anything to Paul abated; but I was sure someone in John's entourage would do what William would not.

The wildness returned.

"Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to Paul Lowe. I convinced John that I have a surefire plan that will take care of this problem without having to end his life."

I grimaced and continued pacing in tight circles.

"Besides, I could never hurt another person who's only looking out for you. As much of a problem as Paul could cause us, I cannot fault him in his goal." He arose and approached me. "I _will_ take care of this."

"Now, for two minutes, can I be allowed some time just to be with you? No talk of Immortals and Mortals, and life and death?" The right corner of his mouth pulled up, attacking my worries. One arm wrapped around me, and then the other, and when he drew me into his embrace, all my worries flitted towards the ceiling and crashed into the stained-glass, creating their own kind of music.

"This was the most tortured day of my life, you know," he groaned. "I barely caught myself—on several different occasions—from leaping over the table at you whenever you'd open that lovely mouth of yours in question, or when those eyes would search with such insight."

"Tell me about it," I whispered against his chest. "I had to contend with the most incredible professor ever created, and sit next to a girl who acts like she'd sell her soul for two minutes alone with you."

I felt him shake his head. "You live in such a state of delusion." His head leaned back and his hands rested over my face, tilting it towards him. His eyes blazed into mine. "There's never been anyone but you, Bryn . . . ever. You've been that one shining star in the night sky, shining brighter than the others, until that's all you can see in the surrounding darkness." His lips rested over mine, for the shortest moment, before they fell away. "Your light is blinding."

Had he really just said I was the one with delusions? Had he missed the fact that he was the most perfect person in the world?

"Come on," he encouraged, strolling back over to the table we'd spent the majority of the day at. "We've still got a couple hours to go over a few more things."

A few hours later, after William had escorted me back to my room, I paced around the confines of my room. The revelations of today were more imposing in the empty room that was monochrome in its white walls, marble floor, and decorative fabrics, than they had been in the cozy walls of the library with William's support.

When he'd continued our _studies,_ minus the other two students, he'd informed me of something I didn't expect to take so hard. The ironic part was that I'd been adamantly against having children in my Mortal life. You know, the whole, _there's enough procreating going on already—don't want to bring another child into this messed up world—the genetic line ends with me?_

No kids.

Besides, I'd have to find someone to make them with, and since I'd viewed that as a near impossibility even weeks ago, it was easy dismissing the whole procreation thing.

But being told that my body, in all its Immortal wonder, was incapable of ever creating or carrying a child, had sent a sadness searing through me I'd not anticipated.

When William had finally reentered the library after giving me some time alone, he'd looked so apologetic, it physically pained me. Witnessing his selflessness and goodness yet again, sent me into another bout of sorrow when I made the connection that he would never have the opportunity to bring a child into existence, either.

He would never be the epitome of what every father should be to a child. Neither of us would gaze lovingly into the face of a baby that had William's full mouth and my round eyes. This was just one of the many heavy sacrifices we made as Immortals—and there were many.

A knock at my door interrupted my train of thoughts, stopping them in their tracks. Hoping to find the person I wanted to see the most on the other side, I swung open the door; only to wish I'd never opened it when I saw the person I wanted to see the very least, before me.

"Good evening," John greeted me, his impossible beauty somehow revolting—probably having to do with the way his lips curled at the ends when he smiled at me and the way his eyes appraised me. "I realized I've been remiss in not giving you a tour of the estate outside the walls of the Manor. As your classes are done for the day, I thought I'd give you a private tour now. How does that sound?"

_I'd rather stuff bamboo shoots up my nails_ , was my gut response, but I knew the role I needed to play until William got us out of here, so I gritted my teeth through an accommodating smile. "That'd be great."

I shut the door behind me, and took a quick glance down the long hall where William's room was. I wanted to see him, at the same time I didn't, because I was sure he'd freak out if he saw John and me leaving the Manor together at this late hour.

I followed him down the steps, allowing him to lead by a couple so I could compose myself for however long and whatever would be discussed during this private tour. Not that I wasn't eager to see the remainder of the estate. From Annabelle's descriptions today—in between the subjects we learned in Immortal High—there was a lot I had yet to see. I just wished my tour guide was somebody else—my professor would have been just fine with me.

"A little birdie told me you're a fan of muscle cars, and while this one isn't vintage, and pretty much _redefines_ muscle car . . . I didn't think you'd mind it being our means of transport tonight." John swung open the front door, holding it open for me. His smile was crafty, but I didn't linger long over his face when something big, shiny, and a staple in my dreams (up until William had infiltrated them, at least), purred in wait in the driveway. But this car was not meant to wait at a standstill—it was meant to go 0-100kph in 3.8 seconds.

"Whoa—" Was all my overwhelmed self could manage.

John chuckled behind me. "Do you know what it is?"

As if in response to John's ludicrous question, the god of racing cars growled.

My head bobbed. "The Maserati MC-12." I spoke with more reverence than the pope on Good Friday.

"You _are_ an enthusiast. I'm impressed."

That may have been true. I did have a bit more knowledge of cars than most teenage females, but this was the _MC-12_ . . . who wouldn't know this baby hit speeds over 200kph, or that it was created so Maserati could compete in the FIA GT, or that this car sold for roughly 700,000 Euros—translating into seven figures in the currency of the country we were standing in. Common knowledge, right?

"Shall we?" John said—in the midst of my drooling and mad specs running through my mind—as he descended the steps and slid into the driver's seat.

Despite my aversion to John, the car beckoned me, causing my legs to jump down the ten stairs leading off the porch in a single leap, and in five strides, my hand was touching the holy grail of race cars.

I gingerly opened the door, not wanting to hurt an inch of the exterior made entirely of carbon fiber. I slid into the interior; an impressive balance of rugged race car and luxury cruising machine. My eyes lusted over the signature oval Maserati analogue clock, and the blue ignition button enticed me like a moth to the fire.

"You like it?" John asked, as he punched it in gear and peeled out.

Ahhhhh . . . the sound of that engine—was a newborn's first cry as sweet in a mother's ears?

"Yeah," I answered, my eyes wide from my _shouldn't that be obvious_ tone.

"How has your stay here been so far?" he asked, accelerating over the road that swept out and around the north of the Manor. It was a private road, but extended for miles in front of us.

"It's been good so far," I edited, not wanting to admit just how wonderful it had been.

"Do you miss anything from your previous life?" he asked, not sounding particularly interested.

I thought about my life prior, and answered truthfully, "No."

"Would you like to hear my story, Bryn? How I became what I am today?"

We'd reached a cruising speed of 100 mph, and it felt as smooth and quiet as 30mph in any lesser vehicle.

"Okay." My curiosity was piqued—not able to resist the events leading to the man driving a million dollar car with the kind of enthusiasm I'd imagine someone to have behind the wheel of a sub-compact.

"It was 1935, and I was twenty-five years old when I threw myself into the Hudson, desperate to put my life to an end once and for all." His tone was oddly even given the topic. "I tried what you did, Bryn . . . water held the most appeal to me when I thought of ways to end my life."

I barbed at his assumption—I'd not been trying to kill myself that night. I'd just been desperate to be close to William, and the ocean offered me the biggest promise of this. I let his assumption pass, though. I wasn't going to get into an argument with John when I knew what my own mind had been that night.

"That's when Draco and his team found me, very near death, and seeing the potential within me, they changed me."

There were lights glowing ahead, growing brighter from the speed of the 6L, V12 charging like the white rider of the apocalypse.

"And of course you know the rest. I became an Immortal and now am a member of our Alliance's Council."

"Why did you jump into the Hudson?" My curiosity won out again over the voice in my head that told me to shut up.

His answer came automatically, as if programmed, "Ten years earlier, my father came home one night from his favorite haunt that had poured enough fluid in him to make him especially foul." John slowed the car as the establishment came into view. It looked like a mini college campus; an expansive courtyard surrounded by several brick buildings adorned with stained glass and medieval style architecture.

"He decided a little game of Russian Roulette was on that night's agenda of family entertainment. He sat my mother and I around the kitchen table as he went around the circle, giving everyone a turn with the barrel of his revolver drilled into their temple."

I tried to force my attention on the buildings we were circling around so I would have an excuse to not look into the eyes that were as calm as if he was discussing the weather.

"Mother got the first bullet. The last sound she heard was my father's pleased chuckle as he loaded another bullet into the emptied gun. After two more rounds with just the two of us, he got the last bullet, and I was left sitting in between two parents with gaping holes in their heads."

I realized I'd been holding my breath—I wasn't sure for how long.

"I guess you could say something like that kind-of _affects_ an adolescent . . . I had a few run-ins with the law and did my time, but ultimately decided life wasn't for me. It turns out it was _Mortal_ living that wasn't my thing." He grinned. "Immortality has been rather good to me."

John came to a stop beside the courtyard and leaned over me to survey the quiet campus. "This is the campus where the new Immortals stay during their training. Some of the professors, as well as the Immortals with low-ranking Stations, stay here as well. Of course, you know where the academic part of the training is held, but we do the strength and talent training out here on the campus."

The campus could have easily been mistaken for some small, fancy, private school, but I doubted the areas of studies matched other school's curriculums.

I wanted to ask why I was staying at the Manor and not here in the dormitory style lodging, but I didn't really want to know the answer. Something in the way William acted around me when John was near, had led me to several conclusions I didn't want to have confirmed from John in the close confines of the car.

"Would you like to walk around the campus and see the rest?"

I thought before answering, reasonably certain I wouldn't sound too rude if I declined. "No, thank you though. I'm exhausted from the long day in class."

"Ah, yes. Professor Winters can be quite consuming can't he?"

He had _no_ idea.

"I'll get you back then. You can take a closer look at the campus another time. I wouldn't want you falling asleep on our poor professor's lesson tomorrow." He chuckled.

Like that would ever happen.

John flipped the car around and hit our cruising speed half a breath later. "You said the Immortals that created you saw a certain _potential_ in you . . ."

John looked smug. "They did. Every Mortal carries within them a latent power—or a gift, if you will—that can only be brought to the surface by passing into Immortality. Some gifts are more _formidable_ than others." A smug smile appeared to match his expression. "They saw a formidable gift within me."

"They _saw_?" I pushed, eager to understand more of the never-ending mysteries.

John exhaled his exasperation. "It takes a team of Immortals to create another—a Foreteller to see the imposing death, a Finder to locate the Mortal, a Reader to ascertain the latent gift—all of these incredibly rare gifts—and finally, a team to generate enough energy to change the Mortal." He glided through the explanation, not allowing my questions to be voiced. "I am a Finder, able to locate any Mortal anywhere in the world. That's why Draco and his team of Inheritors changed me that night when I should have died. They saw the potential within."

We were nearing the Manor, and I should have let the final minute or two before we came to a stop at the front door, go by in silence. I couldn't, of course. "You've always been an Inheritor?" I asked carefully, not sure how kosher my question was.

He snorted. "I always have been, and I _always_ will be. Those weak, complacent Guardians have never taken their calling seriously. The rotting corpses of my parents are evidence enough, as was my Mortal life I was ending when it wasn't Guardians that arrived to help or change me. It was Inheritors," John's voice spewed with his disgust. "No, they've never been able to do their job of protecting humanity, and have only failed worse as the centuries have gone by. I'd rather die—and you know how much more significant dying is to our kind when we have forever on the table—than surround myself with a bunch of feeble Guardians."

John came to a screaming halt in the driveway, and I was all too eager to be free of the confines of the car. Despite it having been the wallpaper on my laptop for several years, there was nothing worth remaining in it with the overpowering man at the wheel who gave me so much more than just chills.

When he turned to me, his face was changed and was no longer locked behind the chains of anger. A familiar look, one that had made me squirm before, was staring back at me now. "Do you like the car?"

I nodded my head, reaching for the handle at the same time.

"That's good . . . since it's yours," he announced, opening his door and sliding out of the seat.

I didn't move, due to the fact my body had flash frozen. Not because John had just told me my dream car—a million dollar race car, was mine. No, the freeze had to do with the intentions behind this over-the-top gift.

John peeked his head back down to look at me. "Is that a thank you?"

"But . . ." My throat grabbed around the word, making it break.

"No buts, it's yours. Think of it as a welcome gift," he said, sounding dismissive.

I wondered how many of his other young Immortals received gifts like this on their second day of lucidity. While I didn't see any reason why John would single me out from the others, I'm sure Annabelle would have mentioned if she was sporting around one of fifty, velocity defying vehicles ever made—she'd talked about everything else. Including every perfect, dreamy detail of our professor . . .

"Besides, I prefer the back seat of a Rolls and a dedicated driver to the speed and rawness of one of these."

For the first time, I questioned John's sanity. My mouth would have dropped if it wasn't locked in place from the freeze.

"It's yours," he repeated. "I'll have George park it in the garage tonight, and let him know who the owner is, so you can take it out whenever your car enthusiast heart so desires." His smile was a mixture of amusement and conceit.

I found the muscle recall in my body, and shoved the door open. I swept out of the car that held too many mysteries and motives for me for one Mortal lifetime. The object that had invoked such an awed response earlier, nearly made me nauseous as I walked around the front and past the glaring headlights—that even in their quiet form, looked fast.

"Thank you," I answered, before my vocal chords constricted.

"A flashy car for a flashy girl," his bass voice crooned, as I past by him with the false smile I'd plastered on my face.

There was something wrong here . . . something not fitting, and while I wouldn't allow myself to let my intuitions run wild, I couldn't fully stifle them either. One part of me was reassured with the knowledge John could have any woman in the entire world; he'd surely never want me with his preference for all things that were showy and flawless.

Yet another part wouldn't let me escape the reminders of the dreadful looks he gave me, the curious favors, and now, the million dollar car. Yes, something was wrong here, but I wasn't sure what. But then again, something very right was here too, and I ran through the door, past the disturbing man, and up the stairs to where that right thing resided three doors down from me. 

### CHAPTER TWELVE

### INDULGANCES

"You will all learn a great deal more about Immortal gifts, including how to develop your own, in your second phase of training." Our professor began on our second day of class.

In true gentleman fashion, he was waiting outside my door again this morning when I emerged early for my new favorite subject. I'd decided not to tell him about the generous gift John had bestowed upon me last night, and I hated that I had to keep something from him—it felt deceitful. But I couldn't tell him the man he already had an aversion to me being around, had given me a seven figure vehicle as if it'd been nothing at all. I couldn't risk William's reaction, and whatever would happen to him as a result.

"Our purpose today is to merely scrape the surface of this most mystical of Immortal makings, and answer any general questions you may have." William turned from the chalkboard, where he'd just scribbled today's extensive agenda in the same amount of time it took Annabelle to write the date on her notebook.

"Have any of you had any presentations of your gifts yet?"

Chris smiled, and it caught my attention since this was an unusual facial expression for him, but I was suddenly distracted by William's hand moving like a flash of lightning to grab something that soared at him from behind. He caught the white, cylinder-shaped item before it collided into his head.

"Thank you, Chris," William announced in a level voice, before turning back to the board with the piece of chalk in hand, and writing down _Mover_.

I looked over at the gloating Chris and glared at him. He exchanged my glare with a wicked smile.

"As we've all just witnessed, Chris is a Mover." William dropped the chalk back down where it had been resting prior to the show-off sitting next to me willing it to fly at his head. William didn't appear concerned, but I kept my eyes on the piece of chalk, making sure it stayed in its current resting place.

"Cool," Annabelle said, sounding awed.

"What's your _cool_ gift Annabelle," Chris jeered. "We all know Bryn's a no show in this department so far."

I had a very sudden urge to take my index and middle fingers and jab them into Chris' smug eyes, but found enough willpower to resist.

"Well Master Patrick says he has a theory on that," she responded, beaming. "He says my gift is being exceptionally beautiful."

"Ah, Master Patrick . . ." William said, as if in explanation, as he shook his head. A smile of mild disapproval graced his mouth.

"Actually Chris, it can take several weeks for a new Immortal's gift to present itself, and even when it does, it is quite weak and underdeveloped. So Bryn and Annabelle,"—he looked between the two of his mesmerized female students—"there's no need to worry that either of you are some kind of Immortal mutant. Just give it some time."

My smile back at him was timid, Annabelle's was the opposite.

"Of course our gifts are not meant to use casually, or for our enjoyment." William shot Chris a look of accusation. "They're to be used to further our cause, and subject to the Council's ruling."

My face did the confusion thing, but my eyes stayed focused on the motionless chalk. William answered my internal considerations. "No one says we can't have a little fun with our arsenal of capabilities and talents." His eyes followed mine to the chalk, demonstrating what he was explaining. "However, if Chris were to be so inclined to move a house and hurl it into the Golden Gate Bridge, the Council would not look so fondly upon his action should he have done this without their commission."

Annabelle's eyes popped. "He could do that?"

William nodded his head. "With the proper training and development—possibly. Although it all depends on the magnitude of the latent gift we were born with. Development and training cannot compensate for a meager gift."

Chris sat taller in his seat, no longer looking like an uninterested slouch. Annabelle viewed him with appraising eyes, and I had to admit, I felt a little jealous.

"What would happen if he did that?" I asked.

William glanced to the side, looking as if he were gathering his thoughts, before answering, "It depends upon the magnitude of the offense. Immortal codes are strict and meant to be followed. There is very little leniency for ignoring these codes. This is why Immortals are such good _citizens—_ mercy is in short supply when an Immortal breaks the rules."

"But we're Immortals, what kind of punishment could really be persuadable?" I pressed, not understanding. I knew William had put his own Immortality in jeopardy that night I'd entered his world, but that had been his choice. Not the punishment of a Council.

"Gosh you're slow. Do you really think everyone would be so civilized and well behaved if they could do whatever the hell they wanted without worrying about putting their necks on the chopping block?" Chris snarled at me under his breathe.

And though I wasn't a Mover (at least not that I knew of), I could still pick up the open book sitting before me, and smack him on the head with the strength of my own hands. Despite my formidable desire to do so, I didn't. My patience seemed to have increased when I learned I'd be around forever.

"In similar fashion to creating an Immortal, an Immortal can be killed in much the same way." William's words were slow, deliberate. "The same energy that is surged into your body to create Immortality, can also be drawn from it as well. Again, a team is needed for this—a team with the same seniority of discipline and focus to draw the radiant energy out."

I kept my expression flat because his gaze didn't move from mine. I didn't want him to censor this part of Immortal destruction because of my internal fear showing itself on my face.

"The energy that runs within us is transitive. It is exchanged between one another when we touch. It can even be exchanged without physical touch when the tie is strong between two beings."

_This_ , I was familiar with.

"When an Immortal has broken one of our codes and is sentenced to death, this transient energy—that is naturally exuded with touch—is pulled in vast, compressed quantities from the Immortal by the team carrying out the punishment."

"Big whoop-dee-doo." Chris twirled his index finger. "So what do I do with all the extra time on my hands now if I have to get the Council's approval before I can have any fun with my gift?"

"As I mentioned yesterday, in addition to your gifts and the missions you will be tasked with, you will have a Station," William said, gliding back to the chalkboard and grabbing up the piece of chalk I was still watching. "As young Immortals, your Stations will be menial—maybe a groundskeeper or a cook here at Townsend Manor."

"A cook?" Annabelle repeated, her face wrinkling with its displeasure.

"Every Station is critical to our ultimate goal. As you mature and prove yourself, your Station will as well."

"So, other than glorified dishwasher and lawnmower, what could we hope to _mature_ into?" Chris asked, and I wondered if in his Mortality, he'd sounded as sarcastic and troubled as he did in Immortality.

"There are hundreds of Stations, Chris," William answered, his patience with the Immortal on my left much more advanced than my own. "For example, you could become a Professor or an Instructor, or perhaps an Enforcer—"

"An Enforcer?" Chris said, leaning forward in his chair.

"They're the Immortal equivalent of police. They see to it that our codes are followed, and if they are not, it is their duty to remind the errant Immortal." I could make an educated guess what Ben and Troy's stations were, and which code they'd been _reminding_ William of.

"That sounds like my kind of Station. Is it too early to put in my request to be considered for an Enforcer position when I've proved myself after a few decades?" Chris's eyebrows danced.

"Try a few millennia," I mumbled to Annabelle.

"So, there's actually some wit behind that pretty layer of skin, eh?" Chris's eyes trailed down my body as he leaned over and whispered, "What else have you got hiding in there?"

My temper, which had never been much of a vice before this lanky Immortal entered my life, exploded. I didn't consciously command it, but somehow my right hand balled into a fist, and just as I was contemplating my target—his throat, nose or mouth—our professor lost his normal cool, and interrupted my right hook.

William skirted around the table and stood over Chris "You're excused." William's eyes pointed at the door.

Chris narrowed his eyes in reciprocation at the formidable professor glowering over him. Chris shot up in his chair, sending it backwards to the ground, and marched from the library. He glanced back at me with a look that made me feel he'd never hated anything more in his life.

"I'm sorry about that, ladies," William said, recovering himself. "It can be difficult for new Immortals to accept the change with as much grace as you two. I think we can make an educated guess as to what Chris's additional gift might be." He winked, and by Annabelle's response, I could tell she'd thought the wink all for her.

"Surliness . . . extreme surliness."

With our lessons done for the day, Annabelle skirted out the library door while I pretended to be consumed with gathering my books. I needed a few minutes alone with the professor that had been on his best behavior for the past ten hours.

The door slammed shut, and an electric surge announced his arrival. "Miss me?" he whispered from behind, as his arms ringed around my waist, making the half day sitting next to Chris entirely worth it.

"Maybe a little," I answered, twisting in his arms. I was just readying my lips to rest over his when his eyes flashed towards the door.

"Someone's coming."

Before he could remove his entangled arms from me, I weaved out of them and shot over to the chaise, grabbing up the throw pillow and heaving into a sitting position at the same moment the door groaned open.

Stella sashayed into the room, her beauty lighting up the room like a magnesium bomb going off. Her hips swayed to the beat of her footsteps as she approached William, not even sparing a look in my direction. Not that I could blame her, everything around William blurred into obscurity.

"Dinner will be waiting for you on the South patio tonight," her cupid-shaped lips announced. "It will be ready in just a few minutes."

"We'll be there shortly." William shot her a brief glance, and then turned to me, eyeing me scrupulously.

Stella must have left, for I heard the door shut, but even in all her goddess-like beauty, she was no match for the man before me when he held me with his stare.

He cleared his throat. "Are you hungry?"

Simple enough question, and in the past, whenever anyone had ever asked me the same thing, it had been a simple enough answer of yes or no. However, William's inquiry unsettled me so much I couldn't respond immediately.

I hadn't eaten a single morsel, or drank a drop of anything since awakening two days ago. Odd at the very least, but what was even more unnerving, was that I hadn't even craved either one. I should have been famished or parched beyond repair, but I wasn't. I didn't feel the need to eat or drink anything. I felt fine—perfectly sustained.

"Should I be?" I questioned, hoping he would be able to explain yet another Immortal phenomenon.

He tried to keep his lips pulled tight, but his forehead was lined with his amusement. "Well no, not necessarily, but perhaps you'd humor me." His attempt at concealing the smile was faltering. "Don't worry, I'll explain this too."

I sighed, and relented. "Alright . . . let's eat."

"Would you like some?" he asked, reaching for the fruit in the crystal bowl I was eyeing.

I looked up at him apprehensively.

"Of course, let me explain how this all works," he said with understanding. He folded his hands and rested them on the table. "You're wondering why you haven't had a single pang of hunger or thirsted for a sip of water after several days now, right?"

I bobbed my head.

He chuckled. "It's remarkable you know—how well you've done so far? You've remained so calm and taken everything so well. I'm starting to worry you're still in a state of shock."

I shrugged. I wasn't able to explain how I'd come to so easily accept I was no longer a Mortal, and had entered this life of Immortality, and everything that came with it. Maybe it was because I'd never belonged in my Mortal life. "Like I've said, I trust you. I'll always believe whatever you tell me." I leaned forward and winked at him. "No matter how insane it sounds."

He shook his head. "You astound me . . . in the best kind of way," he qualified after I raised my eyebrows.

The affection covering every plane of his face overwhelmed me, so I diverted my eyes to the landscape surrounding us. The patio had a stunning view of the rolling hills of the estate's vineyard, where John's famous Pinot Noir grapes were harvested into his infamous wine. There was a light breeze infused with the aroma of sweet grasses that played with the corner of the tablecloth.

A stronger gust blew, and, unconsciously and with startling speed, I thrust my arm out and grabbed the corner before it gusted into a bowl of strawberry preserves. I'd moved faster than the wind, quite literally. I dropped the linen tablecloth and withdrew my hand back to my lap, smiling at the impressed looking man beside me.

Clapping arose from behind.

"Very good, Bryn," someone announced, followed by a genteel laugh that rolled like thunder over a wheat field. "It appears someone's made an exceptionally fast transformation." The clapping tapered off.

John came around the table and stood behind one of the empty glider chairs next to me. "May I?" he asked, looking at me, but William answered.

"Please do, although we were just wrapping up." William responded, readying himself to stand up.

John purposefully eyed the untouched dinner set before us, and raised his eyebrows. "Not in the mood for my second favorite Indulgence, Bryn?" He reached for a glistening red apple at the top of a tower of fruit, and ran his fingers over its speckled, crimson skin. He selected the other seat beside me, and situated himself in it.

I shook my head in reply, and removed my gaze from his hands that continued to smooth over the apple. There was something threatening in the way his fingers glided over the fruit, and with the accompaniment of the smile on his lips, I was reminded just why William wanted John as far away from me as possible.

As if sensing my unease, William interrupted the awkward silence. "Actually, I was just talking with Bryn about the Indulgences. We really should be getting back to the library so we can finish up our lesson on the topic."

"Oh, really?" John appeared pleased by this, tossing the apple between his hands.

"Where have I come into the tutorial?"

"Actually . . ."—William stalled, looking regretful—"at the very beginning," he answered, pursing his lips together.

"Is that a fact?" John looked thoroughly pleased now. "We are very privileged, Bryn, but the gift of Immortality demands much. It requires a superior level of knowledge, power, and devotion. Being young to this life and only seeing a small piece of the puzzle, you cannot fully understand the magnitude of the life you are now living. You are called to a higher purpose in this life, and expected to fulfill this purpose." John's unyielding eyes made me squirm in my chair.

"For our devotion to our calling, we are granted certain Indulgences to ease an eternity of dedication." He tossed the apple high, and with lightening speed, he grabbed a paring knife across the table and stabbed the apple as it fell.

I flinched, and William tensed beside me. John smiled at me, arrogance written across his face. "You see"—he grasped the knife's handle and ripped it from the interior of the apple; juice burst from the white flesh—"food is an Indulgence, as is drink, sleep, and a couple other _pleasures_ which can be discussed at a later time." If John's tone had not given away his innuendo, his expression left nothing to question.

William's hands were gripping the wicker arms of his chair with such force I heard several of the strands snap.

John cut a piece of the apple and removed it with the tip of the knife. "In the Mortal life, food could have been called an indulgence for some, but it was more a sadistic addiction of gluttonous proportions. Mortals over consume—not because of the intricate flavors and sensuous appeal—but as either a form of self-medication or punishment." He moved the piece of apple on the tip of the knife to my mouth. "For us, food takes on a whole new meaning. You've already _reviewed_ the heightened senses brought on by Immortality with Professor Winters, but have you _tasted_ heightened senses?"

I opened my mouth tentatively, and allowed him to place the speared apple slice on the tip of my tongue. I bit down on it, and waited for John to remove the knife; all the while remaining conscious of William's escalating unease.

The flavor of the apple played along the tip of my tongue before I began to chew it. I savored it in its entirety for awhile, astounded by the sumptuous sweetness, before I allowed myself to chew. The revelation of this small piece of apple in my mouth redefined food as I'd known it, leading me to believe I'd consumed mass quantities of cardboard and packing popcorn as a Mortal for twenty years.

I was hesitant to swallow and relinquish the luscious flavors flowing in my mouth, but aware of John and William viewing me with increasing interest, I swallowed the miracle fruit begrudgingly. I expected to be hungry for more, but found myself quite satisfied.

John's dark blue eyes burned with envy. "How was it?"

"Amazing." I breathed, still overwhelmed.

John clapped his hands and leaned back to recline in his chair, laying the knife down on the cutting board. "There's nothing like the first time."

William muttered something undistinguishable under his breath.

John wrapped his hands around the back of his head and looked thoughtful, as if debating his next move. "Has Professor Winters yet to cover the phenomenon as to why Immortals are reborn with those lovely, pale-blue eyes?"

I heard more cracking from William's location, and wondered if any vestige of the arms of his chair would be intact by the end of this conversation. John didn't appear to notice . . . or care.

"No, not yet," I answered tentatively. I was eager to discover the mystery of this enigma, but not from John.

"Hmmm, that's unfortunate. When were you planning on getting to this, William?" John smiled at the fuming man to my left, before returning his gaze back to me. "As you know, we are held to a high ethical code. We would be nothing but measly Mortals that live forever without our unwavering adherence to our rules and codes laid out by the ancients of our kind thousands of years ago. The High Council and every Allegiance's Council's are in place to ensure that these rules are followed—without exception—or extreme and immediate consequences are dealt out."

I moved my eyes from the evil that dwelt in the dark blue of the man to my left, to the pureness of the pale-blue ones on my right. His eyes though, were fixed in a glare at the man across from him.

"Part of the Immortal code is that we must forsake all others, and our corresponding bodily temptations, until the Council sees it appropriate to Betroth us to another. As individuals, we're not allowed to select a partner of our own choice to spend eternity with. The Council selects another for us—one who not only complements who we are, but our unique gift as well—and grants a Betrothal. Once an Immortal is Betrothed, it is binding. What the Council grants, no Immortal can dishonor without harsh retribution."

My discomfort was growing due to the topic I guessed this conversation was orbiting around, so I focused my attention on the intricate patterns of the embroidery in the linen tablecloth and traced the scrolling patterns with my fingers.

"Did you ever read the _Scarlett Letter_ , Miss Dawson?" John asked.

I swallowed, hoping to suppress my distress. "I did."

"The pale-blue color which we Immortals are born with is our own kind of _Scarlett Letter_ , if you will . . ."

William tensed, and I noticed from the corner of my eye that his hands had balled into fists.

"Since purity is a requirement, non-negotiable in the Immortal Code and only to be given to the one you are one day United with, the eyes serve as a convenient means of an infallibly accurate lie detector. Once an Immortal is United with another intimately, the pale-blue is replaced by a dark sapphire blue, informing everyone of their . . . _enlightened_ status." John chuckled, and his dark eyes gleamed, enlightening me of his enlightened status.

"Of course, if someone is United there is no problem with the new color, but if the color is changed without a Union, the highest punishment allowed by the High Council is enforced—no exceptions. As Immortals, we don't give into our physical urges as willingly and carelessly as Mortals, and, as you can imagine from the overwhelming pleasure of a piece of apple in your mouth, the increased temptation of other Indulgences as well." John leaned in closer, until I could feel his breath breaking over my face. "The pleasure we Immortals consciously forgo until we are granted a Union is one of the many distinguishing virtues that sets us above Mortals."

John placed his hand over the one of mine that was still absently fingering the tablecloth. My skin crawled underneath his hand, screaming a string of silent profanities. My eyes narrowed at the unwelcome hand on mine, and I attempted to swallow the hatred that was rising from deep within—it didn't work.

"After that apple," his throaty voice dripped insidiously, "can't you just imagine . . ."

His thumb circled over my skin, and his eyes filled with the darkness of illicit intentions. The crawling sensation became too much for me, and my hand jerked back from his like a reflex, but John kept it firmly in his grip, smiling wider the harder I pulled.

"Patrick!" William lurched out of his chair, causing too much of a raucous for someone as graceful as he was. I was overcome with relief when John released my hand and turned his head to look for whomever William had just called out to.

A young, handsome man in a dark formal suit was crossing the lawn, headed in our direction. His effortless, casual stride, and the way he held his head—high and proud, but not in an air of arrogance—was familiar.

It could have been another Patrick Annabelle had been referring to this morning, but this man's good looks, and apparent knowledge of his genetic superiority—indicative in the way he held his shoulders and his easy smile—left no doubt in my mind this was the Patrick she'd been referring to.

He waved his hand. "William, John!" And then broke into a light jog to cross the remaining space. As he approached, he extended his hand to shake John's, and then William's.

He looked even younger than I'd originally thought; probably close in age to myself. He was attractive, resembling a classic kind of handsome so far removed from guys my age. He had longish, fair blonde hair that was parted down the center and tucked behind his ears. The black three piece suit should have seemed out of place on such a young man, but somehow it felt right on him—as if he'd been born in the suit, lived in it, and would die in it (that is . . . if he wasn't an Immortal).

After greeting William and John, Patrick turned to me and flashed a brilliant smile. "You must be Bryn Dawson." He rounded the table, extending his hand. "It's great to meet you." He shook my hand with enthusiasm, his pale-blue eyes dazzling. I couldn't contain the smile that spread across my lips—even reaching my eyes—from this man's charisma.

John broke in. "Patrick works for me. He's just returned from a business trip." John's lips pursed together, failing to contain a devious smile. "He was seeing to an _acquisition_." John turned to Patrick. "I trust everything went as planned?"

Patrick looked pointedly at me, and when John nodded his head, as if in permission to continue, Patrick answered, "Yes, everything went as planned. The rest of the team is taking care of the"—Patrick cleared his throat, shooting me another nervous glance—"acquisition."

"Excellent." John clapped his hands together. "Well, if you'll excuse me. I've got something to attend to. Good to have you back Patrick." John slapped his back, like a coach would the star quarterback of the team. "Another job well done."

John turned back to me, and winked. "I hope you found our talk enlightening, Miss Dawson. I look forward to more." Turning on his heel, John marched towards the Manor. As if an afterthought, he shouted over his shoulder as he walked through the French doors. "William, twelve more days. I trust you'll use your time wisely."

I spun around to face William, unsure what I'd find covering his face. His eyes lingered on the spot where John had disappeared, and they were filled with anger—not the seething kind I'd anticipated, but a calculating, motivating kind. His hands were on his hips, and he was stone still; silently fuming and deep in thought. Patrick was beside him, also surveying him cautiously. He reached his hand out to place it on William's shoulder.

"Hey-a William." William jerked at the touch, snapping his head towards Patrick. "What's the matter?" Patrick sounded genuinely concerned.

William blinked, and the black anger hazing his eyes cleared when they came open again. Ignoring Patrick's question, he looked to me with the investigative eyes of a surgeon.

I guessed what caused this level of scrutiny. "I'm fine . . . truly." I added, when he didn't look convinced.

When he finally exhaled, I knew the worst was over. I exhaled my own relief.

Patrick broke our tension releasing exhales. "Well that was fun . . . always a joy," he said with sarcasm, teetering back and forth over the heels and balls of his feet. "Let's all sit down and have a glass of water . . . and decompress," he said, eyeing between the two of us with curiosity. "I haven't seen you in days, Professor, and I'd like to get better acquainted with you, Bryn." He smiled widely, showing off his deep-set dimples.

He moved to pull my chair out, but William was already there. He winked at me, and elbowed Patrick out of the way. After getting me settled in my chair, William returned to his.

"So . . ." Patrick reached for the glass pitcher of water, pouring us each a glass before seating himself. "What did you do to end up with the strictest, meanest professor in the Immortal world this side of the equator?" he asked me with good nature.

"Ouch!" Patrick yelped, glaring across the table at William. "Geez, no need to beat on me for proclaiming the truth." He reached down to rub his shin, but he was laughing. "Come on, you know it's true. You're stricter than an old farmer with seven beautiful daughters. I pray . . . _regularly_ , for the newbies that are unfortunate enough to be taught the Immortal way by you."

He turned to me, still methodically rubbing his shin; probably in hopes of gleaning some sympathy. "Come on, Bryn. Back me up on this. I can see you're already wound up as tight as a watch after just two days with this guy." He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a response. "Are you going to make me pry it from you?" He began popping his knuckles, forming them into tight fists, but his face was painted with humor. "Or are you going to serve as a witness to the treachery of his ways?"

William rolled his eyes, and tried to keep from smiling at the melodrama of this new intruder into our few minutes alone, but when he looked over at me and saw how hard I was trying to keep from smiling as well, we both burst out laughing.

"I knew it!" Patrick roared, elated. "Guilty as charged, Professor." He shook an accusing finger at William.

"He is a tyrant, I'll give you that," I said in between the laughter. "And he definitely has me wound up tighter than a watch." I exchanged a knowing look with William, causing his tanned face to redden.

Sure he'd gained an ally, Patrick continued his bantering, "You know, I could see if John would rotate me out of acquisitions"—he shot William a deliberate glance—"and transfer me into a teaching position. I'd be happy to take over your course of study." He smiled at me. "I promise I'd be much more lenient, incorrigibly charming, and wouldn't keep you locked in a library for fifteen hours straight."

I felt the heat burn under my cheeks when my mind wandered to being locked in the library for fifteen hours with William.

"I'll bet he'll have you to the second phase of training tomorrow already, am I right?" Patrick continued.

Gosh, he could talk a lot. There was a half a second of silence in between his next train of thought, so I jumped in.

"Pretty much, we've just about covered it all—Immortal history, codes, gifts, and even creation. William, the selfless martyr here, Immortalized me on his very own . . ."

Patrick's face christened with pallid whiteness, and he shot a look of astonishment at William.

". . . but from what I understand that's not the typical way to—"

"William, is she serious?" Patrick interrupted me, his voice sounding very different now. William's eyes were squeezed shut, the remorseful wince covering his face telling that I'd revealed too much to Patrick.

William opened his eyes and looked to me. I was sure they'd be filled with anger, or resent at the very least, but I should have known better. Instead, they were filled with understanding and a quiet peace. He smiled assuredly at me, and then looked to Patrick.

"Yes, it's true. I Immortalized her on my own."

Patrick's eyes widened with horror, and his words came out like flowing lava. "Did you not realize everything you were jeopardizing? The mission, our anonymity . . . oh yeah, and not to mention your life." Patrick erupted from his chair, grabbing the pitcher of water from the table, and threw it against one of the patio's pillars. The shrill sound of shattering glass seared into my ears with crystal clear pitch.

I gasped; Patrick's ferocity was unexpected. He was acting nearly as crazy angry as I had when I learned of William's selfless act.

William lurched up from his own seat and seized the arm of Patrick's that had thrown the pitcher before anymore fragile items could be obliterated. "You will contain yourself right now, Patrick. That's enough," William warned through his teeth. His veins were bursting against the skin of his forearm from the powerful grip he had on Patrick. "Settle down, or leave NOW."

Patrick closed his eyes and inhaled. After a few more deep breaths, the quaking running over his body diminished nearly as fast as it had presented itself. "Okay, I'm calming down." He managed through gritted teeth a few deep breaths later. William held onto his arm a while longer, and finally released it once Patrick's face and breathing had returned to normal.

"I'm very sorry about that, Bryn. I hope I didn't frighten you. As you can see"—his eyes shifted to the glass shards on the ground—"I have a bit of a temper problem."

I managed a nervous laugh. "You think?"

William didn't take his watchful eyes off the reseated Patrick, as if ready to jump if he went into another wild rampage.

"I suppose I better let you get back to your lesson. Although it appears the Professor's got an exceptionally new gift that might warrant a new chapter on Immortal creation." He stood up rigidly and shook William's hand, and then turned to me. "It was very nice meeting you. Again, I'm sorry for my crazy behavior. Please don't let it make you feel uncomfortable around me." His infectious smile returned. "I'm really a pretty good guy. I'll see you both around." He turned and glided across the lawn in the same direction he'd come from.

"I'm sorry about that, too. I should have known he wouldn't have heard yet about what I'd done, and what his reaction would be." He eyed over the remains on the table. "Actually, it could have been worse. He left a lot of perfectly good crystal intact." He chuckled with stiff amusement.

"I know," I agreed, grabbing a tall crystal goblet. "What a waste."

Convinced I was not stunned by Patrick's over-the-top reaction, he reached for the back of my chair. "I suppose we'd better get back to the library if we're going to get through enough information for me to get you to phase two tomorrow," he said with sarcasm, before muttering something under his breath about Patrick being a wise-guy.

Minutes later, after the tingling warmth of the fading spring sun had melted from my face, we were back in the library, where a new warmth comforted my face when I let my imagination wander again to having fifteen hours alone with William in this room.

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

### CHAPERONE

During our last hour in the library, William revealed what his other gift was . . . his _other_ impressive one.

He was a Foreteller.

The gift of Foretelling was not revealing the future, but seeing _death_ in the future. Through his mind, a stream of death-filled images forever flowed. He saw Mortal's deaths. Not every single one—he wasn't sure why he saw some and not others—but he saw them regularly.

With some, he was able to make out landmarks and timeframes; either a team would be sent to carry out their sworn promise to protect humanity if the deaths were within their power to save (and if he was back in his Alliance of Guardians), or a Transformation team was sent to preview the doomed Mortal, and determine if they would be a needed addition to the Immortal world.

This was how he'd discovered I was in trouble that night in Newport. He saw a Foretelling of my death hours before it nearly took place.

We called it a night after this, and he escorted me back to my room where I now festered; less over today's clandestine teachings, and more over how much I missed being close to him. He was agonizingly close to me for hours on end, but due to Townsend Manor and a stupid, ancient Immortal code . . . he was as far away and off limits to me as Mars.

I was never going to find the reprieve of dreamless sleep with all these musings running through my mind—which was now highly adept at processing multiple streams of information at any one time. If I was still Mortal, I'm sure the heightened mental stimulus would have caused a killer migraine.

In my growing frustration, I punched the sides of my pillow and stormed out of bed, marching through the open double doors leading to the balcony.

The air was saturated with the scent of lilac, and had the heaviness of a rain-filled spring night. I rested my hands on the balcony rail, and closed my eyes to more fully experience the lusciousness of the air. My mind cleared of all the Immortality confusion, and rested on one thing.

My eyes jolted open at the same time my neck snapped to the side, where his balcony was a mere Immortal leap away. He'd done it hadn't he . . . why couldn't I try? If I didn't make it, I'd only fall to the ground, and I was Immortal after all . . . how much damage could be done?

It was decided—I only wished I'd paid better attention to what William had done. Was it a running jump, or had he done it standing still? Had his arms and legs flailed in the air, propelling him forward? Or had he leapt like a long jumper; legs and arms forward, aerodynamically cutting through the air?

I settled upon standing on the edge of the rail and just giving it everything I had from a standing jump. I couldn't decide if I should close my eyes or keep them open, but as I began swinging my arms back and forth, I decided to close them—my eyes wouldn't make the difference if I reached my destination or jettisoned to the ground twenty feet below. I crouched into jumping position, taking one final arm swing back, and then I exploded into . . . _something_.

Something hard and instantaneous.

I was certain it couldn't have been from the impact of the ground below; it was much too instant, and it certainly would have hurt far worse than this impact. While forceful, the impact wasn't painful.

A millisecond later, I was being propelled backwards from the strength of the force. My eyes opened in time to see the face I loved most in front of mine—anxious and determined—as we careened into something soft and swinging behind us. The force of our crash sent the hammock into an agitated swinging fit.

How had he so suddenly appeared? Maybe I'd finally fallen asleep while lying in bed, although this was definitely not a dreamless sleep. It was a million times better. I sighed and reached for his face. It felt real . . . this was a wonderful dream.

"What were you thinking?" My dream William spoke, and he didn't sound particularly happy . . . and why wasn't he kissing me already? The frenzied swing of the hammock tapered off, and then I felt the onslaught of our energies colliding at the weight of him on top of me. It was bewildering. I was aware of nothing else but him and our agreeably positioned bodies.

"Bryn," he said, gentler now. "Please, tell me. What were you doing?"

I had to shake my head in order to clear my thoughts before I could respond. "I was getting ready to jump. What the heck happened?"

His expression sharpened to match the words that came next. "I _knew_ that's what you were up to." His face was inches above mine, so close his breath warmed my neck; it took all my will to focus on his words. "Don't you remember me telling you how weak Immortals are at your age? How fragile you still are?"

"Yes, but—" I wanted to break into my reasoning, but he interrupted me.

"What were you thinking?" he repeated; this time, with less of an edge.

"I just . . . wanted to see you," I murmured, looking away from him to hide my embarrassment. I thought my intention in the matter would have been obvious.

"You wanted to see me?" He sounded surprised, happily so, so I braved looking back at him.

The stress lines along his forehead had melted, and his mouth was turned up in a smile. He reached his hand towards my face and traced his fingers along my jaw-line. "And you thought since you'd seen me leap from balcony to balcony, that you'd give it a try too?" His fingers continued their tracing, now gliding smoothly over the shape of my lips, making it impossible to respond, so I nodded.

"I sometimes forget how tenacious you are," he said, lowering his face to my neck. His warm breath vaporized against the skin of my neck. "Next time you want to see me in the middle of the night"—his lips grazed softly over my neck, barely touching—"why don't you just come out here, and instead of attempting a jump, whisper my name."

His lips ceased their journey, and he lifted his face above mine. He swept his hand over my brows, which were now set in confusion, and chuckled. "I failed to mention my heightened senses are a bit more _heightened_ than other Immortals."

"You've got another gift?" As if Foretelling and the ability to create an Immortal of his own accord wasn't enough, now he had _extra_ heightened senses? If he could hear me whisper from almost a half a football field away, how far away could he be to hear a normal voice, or a blood-curdling scream?

What about his vision? I thought about how next to perfect mine was now, and knowing that his was even more so . . . was it like Superman's X-ray vision? My heart raced thinking of this, and I made a mental note to take advantage of the fancy underwear that remained untouched in my lavishly stocked closet. Just in case . . .

"What are you thinking?" He looked at me with a mixture of caution and nervousness, while I pondered in silence.

"I was just thinking about all your gifts. Your talents—"

He cut in, "I know, I'm some kind of Immortal freak." A grimace shot across his face before he rolled off to the side of me, but he kept one arm wrapped around my back.

I rolled on my side to look him in the face. "No, that's not it at all," I spoke with the kind of conviction that emanates from every molecule of one's makeup. "You're amazing. _Perfect_ , even. I already felt far inferior before I even knew about all this Immortal stuff. Now, I feel utterly insignificant beside you, and it appears I don't even have a single gift of my own." The disappointment I'd been trying to hide in my voice seeped out.

"You really don't see yourself the way everyone else does. If anyone's inferior here, it's me," he said, fingering through my hair. "It's still very early. Our gifts don't normally appear until a few weeks after creation, so don't worry," he reassured me. "You might be even freakier than me." He laughed lightly, but the heaviness remained in his eyes.

"Please promise me next time you're so desperate to see me, you'll just call for me," he begged, as his arm tightened around my back and drew me down to him. His lips kissed the outside corner of my mouth. "I couldn't stand to see you hurt, even for a moment." His lips brushed over mine as he moved to kiss the other corner of my mouth.

"I promise," I replied breathlessly, as the fire began to tear through me.

"Besides, I was just debating making a visit of my own. I couldn't sleep, and having to be so _carefully_ restrained around you these past couple days just about killed me." He grinned irresistibly, before caressing my neck with his lips again.

The fire was scalding, exploding through my body every place he touched me, and as perfect as this moment was . . . I still yearned for something more—the _fire_ craved something more.

Without mercy, he twisted us back into our prior position. I reached for the back of his head and wove my fingers through his hair to pull him closer, seeking his lips with mine. They met, and all was right again, the fire momentarily abated, satisfied with the longings extinguished on each other's lips.

"Eh-hmmm . . ."

I froze when the unannounced third party interrupted our sanctuary with a deliberate clearing of his throat. It appeared my heightened senses were rendered useless when William and I were together like this. William didn't respond to whoever was behind us, he kept his lips moving softly over my now petrified ones, as if savoring the fleeting moment.

"Eh-hmmmm!"

I was terrified to look; afraid it would be John having discovered our affection for one another all because of my weakness and unfailing need for the dark-haired man melting my frozen lips with his presently.

William sighed heavily, placed one final kiss over my mouth, and then righted us both with one graceful movement. "You have impeccable timing as always, Patrick." William hadn't yet turned to see who was behind us, but when I peeked from the side of his shielding body, it was Patrick—slanting against the railing, black three-piece suit and all.

"Yeah, well this is just my way of keeping everything balanced my friend—you know, the whole ying-yang, black and white, good vs. evil, Inheritor versus Guardian thing? The universe requires balance to run efficiently, and consider this—my _impeccable_ timing right now—to balance out my good timing earlier this evening . . . when I showed up just before you were able to launch yourself at dear John." Patrick raised his eyebrows in reminder. "I didn't quite understand why you were so flipping enraged at first. I thought it was because he was distracting one of your students or something, but now"—he pointed his finger between the two of us—"I _understand_ perfectly. Again, I apologize for ruining the moment." He covered his mouth, trying to contain a smile or a laugh. "But I simply had to make the universe right again." He dropped his hand from his mouth, no longer trying to hide his intense enjoyment.

Maybe I should have been embarrassed, but I was instead brewing with worry that Patrick would report back to John who he'd found breaking code number two of Immortality. With one Immortal lunge, I moved from behind William towards Patrick.

"Please, you can't tell anyone." My eyes pleaded in unison with my words. "I'll do anything . . ."

William came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. He didn't seem the least bit worried or concerned that our secret was no longer _ours_.

Patrick continued to glow from his amusement, leaning ever so casually against the railing I'd just come so close to leaping from. His smirk was enflaming a different kind of fire within. I wondered if I was strong enough to kick him over the edge. Sure, he wouldn't be injured permanently, but at least I'd know he suffered a couple minutes of grueling pain before he could announce to the world his discovery tonight.

"Easy, Bryn." He raised his hands and smoothed his face out. "I'm not going to tell anyone. I just wanted to have a little fun with you two tonight. Besides, I couldn't be happier that our William here is finally expressing an interest in the fairer sex." He swaggered over to William and slapped his arm. "What did I tell you? Huh? One day you'd find someone to help you get over her—"

"Patrick!" William's voice thundered despite the controlled volume.

Patrick feinted back from the fury. "Sorry man, enough teasing for one night. I'll shut up." He returned to the railing, and seated himself on the ledge.

My heart crushed under the prickles of pain and the vices of jealousy. I'd always expected there to have been someone else; he'd lived a Mortal life until the age of twenty-two, and as an Immortal for the past two centuries.

There were probably many others, but none-the-less, it stung when I heard it spoken openly. I liked it better when the faceless women of William's past were nothing but _maybes_ in my mind. Patrick's comment had suddenly made them—made _HER_ —very real, causing everything to ache from deep within.

William still had me locked in his arms, but dropped his head onto my shoulder and turned his head towards mine to examine my expression. I did my best to keep my face even, and turned my eyes away from him so they wouldn't betray me.

"So, I didn't just come here to tease you two tonight," Patrick's voice had a new seriousness in it I was unfamiliar with. "I was talking with John earlier this evening and he mentioned that the Council is assembling tomorrow . . . assembling _here_." He shot William a perplexed look as he continued, "I asked him why, but he didn't give me much—just said it was regarding some upcoming events."

William's arms tightened around my waist as he lifted his head from my shoulder. "They're coming here tomorrow?" Worry was thick in his voice.

Patrick nodded his head.

William released me, and rubbed one hand over his lined forehead. "Alright. We'll just leave here first thing in the morning instead of later in the afternoon."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, spinning to face him.

William snapped out of his pensive trance. "I'm sorry . . . I haven't had a chance to tell you yet—"

"I'll say. It didn't look like you were going to get around to the _telling_ anytime soon." Patrick burst in.

One quick, sharp kick; I was so close. I'd relish every moment of his free fall to the looming ground below.

William interrupted my calculating plans right before I took my first physical step towards carrying it out. "Shut up, Patrick. Do you _want_ me to throw you off the balcony?"

It was like he was reading my mind.

"Sorry." Patrick raised his hands, and his eyes glittered through his narrowed slits. "It wouldn't be the first time though, would it?"

William smiled in acknowledgement. "Nor the last if you can't manage to keep that trap of yours shut."

"Okay, okay," Patrick muttered, and then turned his head away from us.

William positioned his hands over the sides of my neck, and explained, "I spoke with John tonight about my plan for Paul, and I got him to agree to release the two of us for a couple of days."

"What plan did you come up with?" I questioned, not bothering to hide the excitement rising in my voice. Two days alone with William outside the confines of Townsend Manor? Two days, and one precious night, all to ourselves . . .

William smiled wryly. "My plan's still not fully formulated yet, but don't worry, I'll take care of everything."

"How did you convince John to allow me to go with you?" I didn't even pause to be concerned William still wasn't sure how to take care of the situation with Paul. I was too elated.

"I informed him how far behind you'd get in your studies. He agreed to let you go so I could stay current with your teachings." His eyes looked guilty. "I should have asked you first if you'd want to go before I petitioned John."

"Of course I want to go!" I threw my arms around his neck. "Just you and me—"

Patrick cleared his throat, turning his attention back to us. "Actually,"—he held up a finger—"you and him, and . . ."—he grinned sheepishly, and pointed his finger at his chest—"me."

William exhaled swiftly. "Let me guess . . ."

"Chaperone," they said in unison.

"Chaperone?" I questioned with obvious annoyance, as my dreams of an amorous getaway with William vanished into the suffocating fog that was Patrick.

"What for?" I shot with accusation at Patrick.

"Easy Bryn. Geez." Patrick hopped down from the ledge and walked over to the hammock. "It's not like it was my idea. John requested that I accompany you two on your little mission." He flopped down on the hammock and placed his hands behind his head. "Hmmm, this is rather comfy," he said, nestling down deeper. "I see why you two are so fond of it."

Before I had time to process another one of Patrick's flippant remarks, William turned into a blur beside me, grabbing up a clay pot and sailing it towards Patrick's face. In another flash, Patrick's hands were wrapped around the vase, stopping it an inch from his nose. He slid his face to the side of the vase to look at William, a smile plastered it.

"Nice throw. Better luck next time?" His eyebrows danced like a vaudevillian actor, and in another blur, he threw it back to William, who caught it easily and set it down in its original resting place.

William snorted. "I wasn't looking to hit you, just hoping to shut you up for a few seconds. I can give it another try if you're disappointed," William tempted with gleaming eyes.

"Not in front of the ladies." Patrick motioned to me. "Besides, you wouldn't want to wake up everyone in the house right now, would you?" He stared up and down at William and me—sporting our pajamas, and our faces still flushed from what we'd been wrapped up in before the annoyance arrived.

"Alright Patrick, you've delivered your messages for the night . . ." William's inflection suggested more of a question than a comment.

Patrick nodded his head.

" _All_ of them?" William pressed.

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Yes, all of them."

"Good. We'll see you first thing in the morning. We're leaving at seven, before the Council arrives." William's brow furrowed. "I don't want Bryn anywhere near the Manor when they're here. This is most unusual." He shot me an anxious glance.

"I could stay and visit for awhile," Patrick cajoled, his eyes sparkling with humor. "Keep you two company if you don't have anything better to do."

"Get out of here." Before William could grab something else to _toss_ at him, Patrick disappeared from balcony.

"He is so annoying," I said.

William rested his hand on my cheek, and the warmth of his skin flowed through every pore. "Don't worry about him. He's a good guy, but yes, quite annoying." He took a step closer, pressing his body against mine. "Now, where were we?"

The butterflies exploded in my stomach. I tilted my head back, kissing him on the tip of his chin, and then glided my lips upwards until they were just below his. I felt his hands tremble on my back, and saw his eyes consumed by a familiar flame.

"Right about here," I said quietly, before I rested my lips where they belonged—pressed against his. I would have sworn that our last kiss on the hammock was the best ever, just as I would've sworn to everyone preceding that, and this kiss was no different.

The best ever. The best yet . . . but there would be more, and I slept unnecessarily soundly that night after William tucked me into bed, looking forward to this.

Awakening the next morning, I found a rainbow of emotions awaiting me—excitement, anxiety, nervousness, anticipation—knowing I would be leaving with William for two whole days . . . with Patrick in tow.

I grimaced when I imagined the torture surely to come. I wonder if there's such a thing as extra-strength duct-tape or gags for Immortals; anything that could keep him quiet.

I felt just as refreshed and invigorated as I had before I'd gone to bed last night, but that would be the norm in my new life where sleep was unnecessary . . . a mere Indulgence. I'd been thankful for it last night though, just to give my mind a few hours of quiet from the chaos racing around up there.

I sprung out of bed and ran into the closet, eager to get on with the day. I threw several pieces of clothing into a bag monogrammed with gold letters. For all my fashion sense knew, it could have been straight off the shelves of some bargain store, but something about the way the fine leather felt led me to believe otherwise.

I completed my packing in less than two minutes. It wasn't because of an Immortal speed thing, it was a Bryn thing—I'd never taken longer than five minutes to pack in my whole life because anything longer seemed a waste of time.

I slung the bag out of the closet and turned my attention to selecting an outfit for the day. My urge was to pull on a pair of jeans, but I stopped to survey the racks overflowing with silks, chenilles, and cashmeres in every hue I'd ever seen, as well as some I hadn't.

I saw it about two rows down. My lips pursed into a semi-evil smile, remembering the distraction William had so casually tormented me with a couple days ago in the form of a strategically unbuttoned shirt. Time for payback . . . try to concentrate on anything else today, Mister.

I slipped into the secret weapon of retaliation, wondering if it was really worth it. I felt more uncomfortable than a turkey in November in anything that wasn't comfortable and cotton. I sucked in a deep breath—and not just to collect my wits, but to get the zipper up.

Despite my dread, I couldn't contain my smile when I reviewed my selection in the full length mirror. The vintage style, knee-length dress slithered down my body in ivory brocade and was finished by a patent leather skinny belt—setting the waist in obvious contrast to the fuller forms of what lay above and below it. Perfect.

I slid into a matching pair of heels and grabbed my overnight bag. I fingered through my hair, in too big a hurry to see him to care about doing anything more impressive with it.

Rushing to the door, I took in a deep breath and did my best to conjure up my inner Audrey Hepburn. I knew he'd be waiting for me right outside my door as he had everyday, so this was my one chance to collect my wits before his face assaulted them. I slid my hands down the dress—smoothing, pushing and adjusting—and hurled the door open.

Whatever stress I'd had over wearing the dress, was worth it the moment I saw his face. His mouth dropped and his eyes looked close to popping out of his head. I watched with satisfaction when he wavered and had to place his hands securely on the rail behind to steady himself.

"Wow," he murmured under his breath, changing his hold on the railing so it no longer appeared to be keeping him steady, but keeping him from getting us into trouble.

I smiled from his verbal and non-verbal praise.

"Bryn." A voice called out from the staircase. William's head snapped to the side, just in time to see John ascend the final step before he was in the hallway with us.

It seemed strange . . . reckless, that neither one of us had sensed his approach before he was practically upon us, especially William. Perhaps I incapacitated his senses as much as he did mine.

John came to an abrupt halt when he looked at me, and a smile formed over his lips that gave me the creeps. "I see you've taken the dress code to heart," he said, referring to the rule William had mentioned in passing regarding John's stringency of "dressing the part" like the bunch of superior Immortals he considered his Alliance.

My fidgeting broke out from the unyielding eyes surveying me—my lower lip took the majority of the beating.

"Extraordinary," John said, taking a step back and rubbing his hand over his chin; as someone would when considering an expensive purchase. My prior fondness for the dress turned to hate—you can take the girl out of the jeans . . . but you _shouldn't_.

"John," William said, sounding more like a warning than an address. His pent up fury cascaded from his tensed body. I could physically feel the heat from it.

John pried his eyes from me. Setting his jaw tight, he narrowed his eyes as he turned to William. John's annoyed glare met William's furious one, and the clashing of their emotions forecasted a hurricane on the horizon.

"I heard this morning of your change in schedule for today's travels, so I wanted to grab Bryn before your early morning departure." He raised his eyebrows in an all-knowing manner. "I've assembled the Council here today, and they're quite eager to meet Miss Dawson." He turned his head to me. "And from your radiance today, I highly doubt they'll be disappointed."

I could feel—more like sense—William preparing to do something very rash. The closeness shared between us transcended physicality and emotionality. I felt what he was thinking—the stronger the emotion, the easier to understand his thoughts—and right now I knew he was preparing to tackle John. As the internal broodings started to form physically when he removed his hands from the railing and balled them into fists, I panicked. I did the only thing I could think of to keep William from attacking John.

The one thing that would stop him—me.

I surged forward and took John's arm, placing myself between William and him. I knew William would never risk me being hurt, as fool-hearty as it was since I couldn't be injured with any kind of permanence.

I shot him an apologetic look and hoped he would forgive me. I wanted to cry when I saw forgiveness was already in his eyes. I felt the fury calming, but quick to replace it, was fear. I knew this fear was for me, and whatever awaited me with the Council. I mustered up all the reassurance I could radiate, and hoped he could feel what was flowing through me, as I could him.

### CHAPTER FOURTEEN

### THE COUNCIL

John escorted me down the staircase, and led me down the west hall when we reached the main floor. He stopped in front of a nondescript utility door and removed a brass key from his jacket pocket. Unlocking the door, he held it open for me, but I hesitated.

A surge of cool air pulsed over me. A long staircase descended down into what must be the basement, although the forever winding stairs led down much farther than your everyday basement. It was dark, except for what looked to be the flickering of candles far below. Even with my inhuman vision, I didn't want to step into the menacing darkness.

John tapped his foot impatiently, and the tone in his voice matched. "They're waiting."

I took my first step down, the cool air intensifying as I entered the darkness, and then another. The door slammed shut and John was behind me, one step higher.

"Can you see alright?" he asked.

The darkness would have been Mortally blinding, but I could see everything around us with my Immortal eyes. From the dark stone stairs winding down as if into the depths of the world, to his hand that laid uninvited on the side of my arm. I could hear faint whispers of what were most likely spoken in normal voices below us, but the most frightening thing around me was what I sensed: a heavy cloud of evil combined with a fog of destiny. I shuddered with more force than necessary, hoping to shake his hand free of my arm.

It worked.

"We haven't got all day . . . and William and Patrick are waiting for you," John said, when my feet wouldn't move from the second step.

That was all I needed reminded of. William (forget the Patrick part) was waiting for me. The sooner I got this whole ordeal over with, the sooner we'd be together; putting dozens of miles between us and this place. I took the next step of many more to come, each one putting me deeper into this dark world that seemed to call me with an air of expectancy.

One hundred-and-seventy-seven steps later, I set my foot down on the stone floor of our destination. My mouth gaped as I took a good look around the cavernous room we'd entered, and it was just that—a cave. The walls were rough, and in the streams of candlelight, resembled crooked fingers tempting one towards them. The uneven ceiling must have reached nearly one hundred feet in places. This place was dark, dank, and vile . . . it looked, smelled, and felt all these things. I was aware of the trembling my body was trying to release, but my mind kept these signs of distress trapped safely within me; not daring to show my dread.

I was aware of the long, rectangular table set before us, behind which sat seven chairs containing six men, but I couldn't focus on this image, because I was drawn to what was behind them.

In the center of the room, where the cragged ceiling was at its highest point, laid a waist-high, solid stone platform which gleamed in its onyx splendor. It was set upon a pillar of stairs leading up from all four directions.

There was one bright ray of light in this entire mass of a room, and it was the bright beam that shown down upon the platform. I had a strong feeling then that I'd seen this all before . . . I'd seen _myself_ in this room before. I couldn't take my eyes from the table looming like the sword of an executioner in front of me. It was calling to me with siren-like persuasion, willing it be that our fates would one day intertwine.

When the next tremor of terror tore though me, it made a very physical appearance when I trembled like a lone leaf in the dead of winter.

"Gentlemen," John's voice rocketed through the room. I blinked, and this small mercy allowed me the escape I needed to remove my hypnotic stare from the platform. "May I introduce, Miss Bryn Dawson."

My eyes came to rest on the six men in front of me. John's Alliance's Council, minus the one who was standing before them, introducing me.

"Bryn, may I introduce—"

These men before me well-suited the room we were in. Their dark eyes were filled with supremacy, and their faces were blank; actually, more stone cold as opposed to blank. A blank face would have been friendlier than the faces that stared back at me now.

"Julius, Lourdes, Ezra, Draco, Simon, and Lucius." Each head nodded at me when John said their names. Such old, antiquated name; names I'd heard studying ancient histories and civilizations.

"The floor is yours, Gentlemen." John bowed, and then swept around to the right side of the long table, seating himself in the last open chair beside Lucius.

My mouth ran dry, and the pungent smell of sulfur and must dizzied me.

"You can relax, Miss Dawson," Draco's voice dripped with as much authority as John's. Given his seat at the center of the table, I assumed he was the Chancellor. "I assure you, we mean you no harm." The flicker in his eyes did little to reassure me of this, but his voice was as pleasant as the sound of my car's engine. He looked like the kind of man that could have played the lead in a Victorian-era movie, unmistakable good looks and an aura of refinement. "We wish to ask you several questions to help us get to know you a little better."

I nodded my head and resisted the temptation to bite my lower lip. Though it had always been a welcome comfort in times of stress, I was determined I would not let these men perceive an ounce of the dread that sweltered in my body.

A small-framed, middle-aged looking man with bright red hair, and lips so thin they were virtually non-existent, spoke next; Julius. "How are you taking to the life of Immortality so far, Miss Dawson?"

There were so many possible responses to this: it's great, or, it's totally freaking me out, or, thanks for leaving everyone to believe I drowned, or, I've been reunited with the one I will spend the rest of forever with.

I settled for, "The transformation's gone well so far. I'm learning new things about this life everyday." The cragged walls threw my voice at varying angles around the room, making it sound stronger than it was.

"How do you like Townsend Manor?" Julius inquired, his uneven, trilling voice reminding me of the sound my bike would make when I used to put playing cards in the spokes.

Again, a myriad of responses were possible for this, but in holding to what I knew of John, and that these men reminded me of him . . . I kept my answers as concise and impersonal as I could. "I like it."

Julius let the echo of my answer quiet before he addressed me again. "Have you found it difficult to cut off all ties to your Mortal life—to be dead to your family and friends?"

The answer to this question should have saddened me, but it didn't. I'd rediscovered the last good thing remaining in my Mortal life, when I'd passed over into Immortality. "No, there's little to miss."

Draco opened up a thick manila folder set before him and thumbed through its contents. "We've seen that from your file . . ."

I could guess what the contents were within the folder he was gazing over as if looking for some recipe in a cookbook, not going through the events and sorrows of one's life.

"Bryn Michelle Dawson, age nineteen," Draco began, reading off the top sheet in the folder that was thicker than my Calculus textbook. "Born and raised in Santa Cruz, only child, valedictorian of your high school, accepted to several Ivy Leagues, enrolled in Stanford until transferring to OSU this past year, conference champ in tennis and the 200 meter, no criminal record—"

It was a strange feeling having my life story read off in the few breaths it took to read the solitary paragraph that held the nineteen years of my life.

"It appears you had a string of medical misfortunes," Draco said, pulling me from my morose memories of my Mortality. He pulled several sheets out and read from them. "You've been in and out of hospitals since you were barely a toddler. Age four—admitted for second-degree burns on chest and stomach." Draco looked up at me, expecting a response.

I played through my reply in my mind before I answered, willing it to sound even and unemotional. "That's right. I burnt myself with a boiling pot of water when I was making dinner."

"You were making dinner when you were _four_?" Draco's dubious tone was familiar—it was the same tone the nurses had used with me when I was admitted that night for my burns.

Like every other night of my childhood, Dad was working late, Mom was away on a business trip, my nanny Lucy was chatting on the phone with her boyfriend . . . and it was dinner time. Thankfully, the scars had healed, Mom gave her two week notice and became a stay-at-home-mom, and I stuck to microwave dinners after that.

"That's right," I answered, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as I had sixteen years ago in the hospital.

"Three years later"—Draco flipped to the next page—"admitted for smoke inhalation. More run-in's making dinner?" He looked up at me, and I heard several muffled chuckles.

"Not, exactly," I replied, having to work to make sure my eyes didn't narrow. "Our neighbor's house was on fire and her cat was still inside." I shrugged. I'd saved Mrs. Maddox's cat from being burned alive and only suffered a couple days in the hospital and a few scratches on my face—a small price to pay by my calculations, even though the cat died three weeks later of apparent "old age".

"Cracked pelvis at the age of eleven." Before Draco's eyes had a chance to look up to me for my response, I broke into it, familiar with the pattern.

"My little cousin ran into the street at the same time a car came around the corner. They didn't see him—it was dark—so I pushed him out of the way, and the car hit me instead." Again, the outcomes of my best intentions never turned out as planned. Ethan suffered a concussion and had to get twenty-two stitches when his head slammed into the curb after I'd pushed him out of the way. In comparison, I'd practically gotten off easy—a run-in with a minivan and one cracked hip.

Draco's expression changed, as if he was surprised by the stories behind the medical records. To someone who didn't know the less than ideal outcomes from these events, I might have sounded like some do-gooder . . . but I wasn't that. No matter what I'd done in my Mortal life, it felt like I never belonged. The world never seemed to want or welcome me. I was an alien in a foreign land. I hoped with all my Immortal strength this vex would not have crossed over into Immortality with me.

"And most recently, a hospitalization for a near-fatal bullet wound." Draco was no longer reading off the white pages of my dark history, but looking hard into my eyes. "Although we're aware of the events leading up to this, as well as the outcome."

Despite being Immortal, my scars somehow managed to throb with pain.

"Your Mortal life was not good to you, was it?"

I was near tears, but I couldn't let them fall. I couldn't let these men be a part of my pain. "Not, exactly," I whispered, breaking Draco's stare.

Ezra burst in next; huge in stature, complemented by hands that looked like they could crush through steel. "After all these bleeding-heart stories of trying to save Mortals . . . or their pets,"—Ezra smiled at John; his teeth looking as if they would give steel a crunching as well—"are you sure she's an Inheritor? She's got the makings of a Guardian written all over her Mortal file." He finished, tapping my folder with his first.

John, who'd remained silent throughout Draco's inquisition, turned to me. "Why don't we ask her? What are you Bryn?"

I answered immediately, the lie easy to speak when I knew the reason I told it—to keep _him_ safe, "An Inheritor, of course." The strength in my voice had returned since we were no longer discussing the painful pieces of my past.

"How do you know?" John pressed, licking his lips and leaning forward in his seat.

"Because it was an Inheritor that freed me from the Mortal life I never belonged in. I belong _here_ ," I said with conviction, because it was true. I belonged wherever the one who'd saved me was, and if he departed to the molten core of the earth, I'd follow him there too.

"Very good, most introspective," Draco complimented, before turning to John and exchanging a look that made me uncomfortable. If John was the would-be buyer in purchasing me, Draco was the seller. I definitely felt like I was standing on the auction block.

"Mr. Winters is your professor, isn't that right?" Simon, similar is his appearance to John; tall, handsome, copper-brown hair, and while the color of his eyes was the same as John's, they did not register the emotion that made me cringe whenever John's fell upon me.

"That's correct," I replied, regulating my heartbeat so the increase couldn't be detected when I talked about him.

Lucius broke in. "John tells us that Professor Winters and you spent some time together while you were still a Mortal and before he Immortalized you—"

"Immortalized her on his own," Simon muttered under his breathe, sounding both furious and jealous.

Lucius continued, "Do you know why he would go to such extreme measures to save you?"

This was one of the questions I was dreading. Painful as it was, I could sit and respond to the pitiful pieces of my former life all day, but I didn't want to talk about him. I didn't trust that my physical or mental constraints could keep him protected. I took in a long breath of the unnecessary air, determined I would say or show nothing that would compromise him.

"He's selfless," I answered simply, having to work hard to keep my two word response unemotional.

"More like _stupid_ ," Ezra sneered under his breath.

"Isn't selflessness part of the Immortal way?" I shot back, my rebuff intended for Ezra, but it was Draco that responded.

"There's a fine lie between selflessness and self-preservation, Bryn. Professor Winter's crossed that line." Then Draco's somber expression flattened, and a smile curled up one side of his mouth. "But there's no need to cry over spilled Mortality . . . Professor Winter's gift is quite exceptional and will come in handy again, I'm sure."

"I think we've ascertained the selflessness of Professor Winters," John said, sounding bored. "I'd like to know how you'd explain his obvious intensity towards you. Whenever I come around you two, I can feel the anger rolling from him," John finished, revealing that William's strong emotions had not only been felt by me.

How could I answer this? It wouldn't be wise to deny William's behavior; John was already convinced. It would be even less wise to admit the reason why he wanted to tear John's head off. My mind raced over the past couple days . . . searching for something . . . some kind of innocent explanation—and then I recalled Patrick's comments regarding William's reputation.

I watched a few sets of eyebrows raise at my continued silence, so I went with the only thing I had. "Well, I'm sure you're aware that Master William has a tendency towards . . . _crankiness_ at times." The lie felt like a sacrilege, but if it kept him safe, it was worth it. "Especially if someone distracts his student from their studies."

John's smile and roaring laughter came instantly, as if I'd just said the funniest thing he'd heard in years. The Council attempted to hide the smirks on their faces; they were also familiar with William's austere reputation. For the first time since I'd met Patrick, I felt grateful we'd been introduced.

"You're an observant one, aren't you? It generally takes a few weeks before our young Immortals pick up on the quirks of our Alliance's most distinguished professor," John spoke in between his continued laughter. "I certainly hope he hasn't embittered your time here too much."

If only John knew. Everything besides William had embittered my stay here. William had been the best part of these past couple days—the best part of my life.

Lourdes cut in for the first time. He had a quality to his face, making it both so equally handsome and pretty, it would have inspired the great renaissance artists. "Going back to your studies, Miss Dawson . . . has anyone gone over the reason we are reborn into Immortality with pale blue eyes?"

Gulp. This conversation had taken yet another uncomfortable turn.

"Yes, John discussed that with me last night."

Lourdes nodded his head, not appearing pleased or displeased. "Then you understand the importance . . . the _requirement_ , we Immortals hold purity to." Lourdes's conviction resonated through every inch of the room. "Our ability to set aside our own desires for the interest of the greater good is what makes us superior. That is why the Councils were created centuries ago—to decide what is best for our kind."

The men around him nodded their heads in agreement as he continued, "It is very difficult for a young Immortal to understand the stringency of our ways—the Mortal desires don't die off right away. It is essential, though, that you immediately adhere to our ways, hard as they may be." Lourdes' face was lined with wrinkles of fervency. "Do you understand the consequences for breaking the rules of our kind?" He didn't wait for my response, though I'm sure I knew the answer.

"Death," he said, as the word vibrated through my body, spreading it's blackness through every nerve, muscle and vein. "Not just Immortal death—to go on completing life as a Mortal—but end of existence death . . . wiped off the face of the planet."

The blackness tearing through me, intensified. I focused my attention on the top button of Lourdes's jacket, not allowing my eyes to look directly into his, because I knew they would betray me. They would betray everything my mind circled around now, and the fear. Extreme fear—not for me, but for William.

"Enough of the severe dogma for one day, my friend," Julius said to Lourdes, lightening the mood with about as much effect as the devil turning the temperature down a degree or two in hell. "No need to completely terrify the girl." He motioned with his hand to me. "Besides, she's already well informed and has been an exemplary Immortal from John's report." Julius looked to John to confirm, and John nodded his head in agreement.

"Absolutely exemplary," he answered, sounding as if his response was filled with a hidden meaning.

"The Council is satisfied. We have no further questions for her, John. We will deliberate and give you the Council's decision soon," Draco said.

"Thank you, Gentlemen." John bowed his head and stood up. "I will take my leave while you deliberate."

John came and stood beside me. I felt relieved since I was certain the inquisition was coming to an end, and I'd passed whatever test I'd just undergone.

"Come Bryn, we're finished here, and you've got to get going. Although, I do apologize that I've sentenced you to two long days with your . . . what was the word you used?" John rubbed his chin with pleasure. "Cranky, wasn't it? Yes, two days alone with your cranky professor." A few low-strained chuckles came from the Council.

John looked at me with expectancy in his eyes, before pointing with them towards the Council. I understood his hint. "Thank you Gentlemen, it was nice to have met you." Did I sound as convincing as I hoped? I was getting better at burying my true feelings, especially when it was needed to keep the person I loved safe.

The six remaining men at the Council table nodded their heads, and a couple even smiled their farewells. John turned me around and escorted me through the cavern. The spring returned in my steps, and my heartbeat changed from one of anxiety to one of anticipation. What could it be, one minute until I saw him again . . . maybe two?

Noting my hurried pace, and mistaking it for another reason, John leaned in closer than was appropriate given our relationship, and whispered, "I do apologize for the formality to this meeting, but it was necessary. The room is a little intimidating, as is the Council, but you have nothing to worry about now." He affixed his hand to my elbow and fingered the surrounding skin in slow circles with his thumb. "Unless you do something to break the code."

From the corner of my eyes, I saw the smile creep onto his lips and I could guess what code he was referring to me breaking. I didn't respond, and focused on not shuddering under his malignant touch. I could see the door in front of us, and my pace quickened again. John pushed open the steel door, and I jumped onto the first floor in my excitement. He shut the door behind us and escorted me back to the foyer, replacing his hand on my elbow.

As soon as we entered the massive foyer, my eyes found him—they were drawn to him as a compass was to north. He was sitting on the last step of the staircase, slumped forward, and his hands were clasped around the sides of his head. He looked up when we approached, and while his body posture indicated something was wrong, his face took my breath away when I saw the despair written across it. I watched a hint of relief wash some of his worry lines clean when he saw me walking towards him, so I smiled, hoping it would eliminate the remaining worry from his face.

"I do apologize for keeping Miss Dawson from her studies this morning, but the matter was pressing," John said, attributing William's discomposure to something else thankfully. "Since you're taking her away for a couple of days, it had to be attended to immediately. She is set to go now, so you'd better get going if you're going to keep her on schedule with her studies." John's eyes searched the room. "Is Patrick here, as well?"

William's eyes didn't leave mine when he responded, "He's pulling the car around front."

"Well, you're on your way then," John announced, and released my elbow to grab my hand. "Have a safe journey."

He raised my hand to his lips and pressed them to it. I felt nauseated, but did my part, and didn't snap my hand away from his lips and smack him across the face like I wanted to. Done pressing their poison into my skin, he removed his lips, lowered my hand, and walked away. "Good journey to you Mr. Winters," he bellowed, before exiting the foyer.

I walked over to where William sat motionless on the stairs, and kneeled beside him. I wanted to raise my hand to his cheek . . . to offer some kind of physical reassurance, but I knew I couldn't.

His eyes wouldn't meet mine. They just glared angry holes into the marble floor.

"Hey, look at me," I asked softly. "Please, William. _Look_ at me."

His eyes shifted to mine slowly—as if trudging through waist-deep snow—and the anger and terror still held them captive, but I didn't let them detour my courage. I smiled. "See, I'm alright. No harm done, I promise," I reassured him. "So please, cheer up. You're killing me with the way you look right now." I nudged his shoulder with mine. "Don't make me do something to you right here on the stairs that would get us into trouble. _A lot_ of trouble."

His face didn't change immediately, but his eyes stared into mine—looking hard and deep like they had on so many occasions before. I held his gaze, allowing him whatever he needed right now.

The torrid emotions finally began to melt from his eyes, but I held his stare. The final remnants were swimming away when he jolted up, guiding me up with him at the same time. "Let's get out of here," he whispered urgently.

He reached for my hand, and despite the fear the Council had just impressed upon me minutes ago, I couldn't shy away from his touch. At that moment when he touched me, I didn't care. I didn't think about the Council and their warnings, and the code admonishing the right for one Immortal to choose another of their own accord to spend forever with. His hand in mine made everything right, and any of the remaining dread from the Council and that awful room, followed by seeing William slumped in misery, melted away and I felt nothing but content.

He rushed me out the front door, still gripping my hand in his.

"My bag," I reminded him, looking to the top of the staircase where I'd left it as he pulled me out to the front porch.

"It's already in the car," he answered, as my eyes continued to scan over my shoulder for anything that I might have left behind.

"Please, Bryn." He screeched to a stop. "I need to get you out of here. _Now_."

I startled at his abrupt response; there was so much urgency in his voice. Viewing my reaction, he softened some. "I don't mean to alarm you." He attempted his most convincing, mischievous smile. "I'm just eager—to put it lightly—to have you to myself the next couple days," he said, and even though the smile wasn't _quite_ right, it still gave me crazy heart palpitations.

"Not completely to yourself, Professor."

Patrick came out of nowhere, and was standing at the bottom of the stairs. He was dressed in his usual black three-piece suit—although today's version was pin-striped. William's Bronco was behind him and running—they were both in a hurry to get out of here.

"Holy smokes, Bryn," Patrick exclaimed, letting out an exaggerated whistle. "No wonder William's having a panic attack wanting to get you out of here." His eyes appraised the dress I was planning to burn as soon as I got out of it.

"Were you trying to give all the Council members heart attacks?" His dimples were drilled deep in his cheeks from the huge smile on his face. "If death were possible for us, I wouldn't mind going from the coronary croak caused by staring at you."

William and I rushed down the stairs, and he threw a good punch into Patrick's arm in passing.

"Oh, come on," Patrick continued. "Don't pretend you're not trying your darndest to keep your eyes off her right now."

William stopped, and his glare moved from Patrick, to survey me. "Are you planning on wearing that for the rest of the day?" he asked, his face looking undecided.

"I guess." I shrugged. At least until I could change into the familiar cotton that had never betrayed me as today's foreign number had.

He looked over at Patrick, and without hesitation, said, "You're driving. I don't think I could concentrate on the road with you beside me in that weapon of mass distraction." He motioned at my dress with his hands.

Patrick let a sharp laugh out behind us. "I knew it! You're not as focused as you let on."

William rolled his eyes as he opened the door for me. He shut the door behind me and I buckled up automatically.

I smiled as I remembered William telling me how long it'd taken him to overcome his Mortal habits—like fastening an unnecessary seatbelt. I removed it and glanced in the back. My bag was there, along with two others.

William leapt into the backseat from the passenger side, selecting the seat farthest from me. When I gazed with confusion at the space between us, he smiled—understanding.

"Only temporarily, I promise—just until we're safely away from the overabundance of watchful eyes here." As if reminded, he scanned the grounds. "As soon as we've got a couple miles behind us, I'll be right there"—he patted the middle seat between us—"faster than you can form that lovely lower lip of yours into a pout," he finished, tapping my lips to prove his point.

Patrick jumped into the driver's seat, and wasting no time, he hit the gas; leaving Townsend Manor and the Council in the dust.

"What did the Council want?" William asked me, but kept his eyes forward and stared unseeingly through the windshield.

"I don't know . . . nothing, really," I answered. I hadn't yet processed what had been the reason for the formal interview, and as I did now, I could come to no solid conclusions. "They asked me a few things about my Mortal life, how I liked Townsend Manor, what I thought of my professor . . ."

William's face remained burdened, and not being able to bear it any longer, I said, "Don't worry, I told them you were the best professor I've ever kissed."

That got both William and Patrick's attention. Patrick looked at me through the rear view mirror with incredulous eyes while William's eyes were amused. "You were much too generous," he said, with sparks in his pale-blue eyes—reminding me of something.

"Why are John's eyes . . ."—I stumbled, not sure how to phrase it—". . . _enlightened?"_

William raised his eyebrows in disbelief, and Patrick snickered.

"I know _why_ ," I emphasized quickly, shooting them both back with the same looks they were giving me. "But I've been told with severity two times in the past twenty-four hours what the consequences are for this taking place without a Union granted by the Council . . . so I'm assuming he must have had a wife somewhere along the way," I said, watching William's face go blank again. "Where is she now?"

"Six feet under," Patrick mumbled, sounding grave.

William cast a warning look in Patrick's direction before turning back to me, with the unreadable expression on his face he wore whenever he was about to _edit_ certain information from me.

"If you're not going to tell me the whole truth, I'd rather hear what Patrick has to say on the matter," I said, crossing my arms.

"Bryn—"

"No, I'm serious, William," I argued back, when he tried to calm me with his placating voice and expression to match. "I understand why you understate certain things . . . you don't want to terrify me—but there's too many things going on right now I need to know about. No more editing, underemphasizing, or half-truths . . . okay? I need to know what you know."

Patrick was shaking his head and laughing silently. "Boy does she have you pegged. That's what you get for picking a smart girl, William."

William sighed, but the unreadable expression dropped to display the discomfort hiding behind it. "The rumor is—" William stopped short when Patrick turned his head and raised his brows in disapproval.

"Okay . . . what _most_ likely happened," he sneered at Patrick, and continued, "was that John had Julianna, his wife of twenty years, killed a few years back." William paused, looking at me carefully, but I was keeping all my shock locked within me. "John and the Council said that Julianna ran off, although she's not been seen or heard from ever since."

"Why would John do something like that?" I asked. This caused William's face to wince. Patrick even seemed uncomfortable with my question, as he tried to separate himself from the conversation to gaze out the window with feigned curiosity.

"John has a"—he looked as if he were trying to select the right word—" _preference_ for more than one woman. Julianna supposedly discovered this, and threatened to expose his adultery to the Immortal community . . ."

I reached across the seat for his hand and squeezed it. "I see," I assured him, so he wouldn't have to go into anymore of the gruesome details he was so uncomfortable sharing with me. Despite the reassurance my voice had managed, I felt anything but, as I imagined this poor woman at the mercy and whims of John Townsend.

We all remained quiet for awhile after that, gazing with artificial interest at the passing scenery. The Oregon countryside was beautiful, but I couldn't enjoy it right away. I was too chilled by the knowledge William and just imparted on me, and busy checking behind us, paranoid that John would appear out of nowhere and make us go back.

Patrick started humming some tune I wasn't familiar with, and keeping beat with his thumbs over the steering wheel. I sighed and closed my eyes, reassured that if we'd already made it this far without being turned around and sent back, we were in the clear.

I felt a sudden surge of electricity as my eyes opened, and William was beside me, wrapping his arm around me. "I told you," he whispered in my ear. I leaned into him, resting my head on his chest, and was immediately lost in him. My worries of the Council were gone by the time I felt the first heartbeat pound in his chest.

He kissed the top of my head and lingered there for awhile. "I would have had an aneurism, if it were possible, when you walked out of your room this morning," he whispered. "You look so good, I'm having a tough time being good."

"Alright you guys, I'm trying to drive without throwing-up, could you cut it out, please?" Patrick whined from the front seat. "Let's not forget I'm doing you a favor. If I wouldn't have gone, there's no way John would have let the two of you out of there together."

Patrick was probably right, but I wasn't in the mood for his melodrama, nor particularly concerned about his gag reflexes; and to prove it, I lifted my head from William's chest and pressed my lips forcefully to his, not in a hurry to remove them. I saw the initial look of surprise in William's eyes turn swiftly into that burning I'd become so familiar with when his lips moved over mine in reciprocation.

I noticed Patrick peering at us through the rear-view mirror. When my eyes caught his, he flashed them away and to the road again. I was pretty sure I saw some color added to his cheeks, but I couldn't miss my opportunity to pay him back for all his jesting at our expense.

I placed one final kiss on the corner of William's mouth before turning my head forward. I smiled coyly. "See anything you like back here, Patrick?" William muffled his laugh into my shoulder.

Patrick colored even deeper, and he muttered something under his breath about not being paid enough to supervise a lover's weekend getaway.

I smiled, pleased I'd rendered a counter-attack on the all-too-quick and witty man in the front seat. For the moment, I'd had the last word, but I knew it wouldn't last long.

I found my way back to the haven of William's arms and let my mind fast forward over the possibilities the next couple of days could hold.

"Where are we going?" I asked, having no idea.

"We'll be staying in Pacific City tonight and we'll drive down to Corvallis in the morning," William answered.

I lifted my head and looked at him with a serious expression. "Has your plan _formulated_ as to what you'll say to Paul tomorrow?"

While Paul and I were far from best friends, he was the closest thing to a friend I had at OSU, and someone who'd shown an exceptional level of concern and kindness for me. I wasn't going to let an ill-formed plan lead to his demise.

William's face fixed in concentration, as if thinking how to best respond.

Patrick spoke up first. "Oh come on, just admit to her you don't have a clue what you're going to do with our smitten Paul." He winked at William through the rear view mirror. "Although, after seeing a picture of the strapping young lad and his zeal for finding Bryn, I understand why you wouldn't want to come up with a plan for him either . . . why you'd want John to take care of him for you." Patrick laughed wickedly.

William heaved forward and smacked the side of Patrick's head, throwing it into the side of the Bronco.

"Geez, you've really had a string of over-reactions lately," Patrick whined, rubbing his head. "You should be happy to know I don't think you caused any permanent damage."

William reached across me and rubbed the small indentation Patrick's steel-like head had left into the frame of his Bronco. "I don't care about your head, but stop hurting my car," he complained, fingering the dent.

Patrick glanced at the dent and shook his head while chuckling. "Oops, sorry about that. I'll have Henry fix that when we get back. He's getting pretty familiar with this vehicle."

I didn't allow their rough-housing to detour me from my objective. "So . . ."—I turned to William, examining his face carefully—"do you, or do you not, have a plan for Paul?"

His eyes turned down and he shook his head. "No, I don't. I've been so focused and consumed with trying to keep you out of John's way, and as far removed from the Council as possible, that I haven't spent more than a minute's time on Paul."

"Alright then," I announced formally, sitting up straight in my seat. "I've got a plan. It's a little different . . . but I really think it's the only thing that will work . . . and since it's the only plan we've got, I say we run with it."

William looked at me with a mixture of confusion and enjoyment written on his face.

Patrick lifted his eyebrows in speculation. "Let's hear it."

I was more than a little nervous to voice the plan that had taken shape in my head last night. I already knew how adamantly against it William would be, and Patrick would probably just laugh and call it ridiculous. I also knew it probably wasn't the best plan, and if it back fired, it would be extremely dangerous for all parties involved, but it was all we had . . . and with that knowledge, I proceeded.

"Paul is already convinced that I'm alive, and there's little either one of you could say to convince him otherwise. If eyewitness accounts aren't enough to convince him, I'm certain neither one of your assurances or guarantees that I am in fact dead, will do anything to change his mind." I looked at both of them, waiting for some argument, but none came . . . _yet_. "So, I think the only thing that would work here, and get him to disband the search efforts is to confirm what he already believes." I waited again, knowing that surely both of them would break into bouts of protest.

All I saw were a couple of puzzled faces, so I continued, attempting to be more specific. "He already _believes_ I'm still alive, so let's _show_ him that I am."

And that was the tipping point. They both simultaneously erupted—Patrick throwing around profanities and speculations that I was insane, while William shouted that there was no way he was going to allow that; intermingled with warnings to Patrick to watch his language.

I remained the calm in the middle of the storm. Their arguments with my plan were not legitimate; insanity, my protection . . . these were not relevant objections to detour us from saving an innocent person's life, and they knew it as well as I did.

William turned to me. "I can't allow that, Bryn. If John or the Council found out, their punishment would be . . ." He hesitated, not wanting to say the words.

"The punishment would be quick and severe," Patrick, not caring if he scared, terrified or chastised me, spoke what William could not. "Are you so ready to meet that possibility head on, Bryn?"

I thought about that for a few moments before answering. "Yes, I am." I was indeed. If this _possible_ consequence was all that would keep us from saving Paul from a _certain_ death, then yes; I was more than willing.

Patrick huffed in the front seat, and William sat silent beside me.

"Girl's got guts, William. I say we hear the rest." I was taken aback by Patrick's half compliment, but ecstatic to have gained an ally.

William threw a look of hatred Patrick's way.  
"William, please . . ." I rested my hand on the side of his stone hard face. "You know there's no other way." I placed my hand over his heart, feeling its anxiety-induced thrumming. "This is the only way to save Paul from whatever John has planned for him, and while you've not vocalized it to me, I'm fairly sure what John's plan is, and I cannot allow it. I will not allow it."

His face was contorting into a slew of unpleasant emotions I hated to see, but I couldn't give up now, not with Paul's life on the line. I stirred up the last bit of courage I had as I stared into the anguished face I loved beyond reason, and continued, "I'll tell Paul that I ran away—that I was tired of school, my friends, and everything. That I needed to let go of everything from my past and start fresh somewhere else. Once Paul sees I'm alright and I impress upon him the necessity to keep quiet, I know he will keep silent. I _trust_ that about him."

William's eyes blazed slightly with a new intensity of emotion I'd not seen there before—jealously, perhaps?

"The only reason he's doing this is because he cares about me. Once he knows I'm safe and all is well, he will stop all of this, and we can all go on with our lives—his Mortally, and ours Immortally," I finished, looking at him expectantly.

He let out a distressed sigh, his eyes looking defeated. Before he opened his mouth, I knew I'd won. Patrick was already on my side, and William knew I was right, no matter how much angst it caused him.

"Alright, we'll try it your way," he said with hesitancy. Then his eyes flamed. "But if I suspect even the slightest danger to you, I'm getting you out of there and we're aborting this ridiculous plan," he warned. "Do you understand?"

I figured these were the best terms I would get; actually, they'd been more than I'd anticipated from him. I thought it would take several hours of Patrick and me beating him down. I was thankful it wasn't necessary and that he conceded to what we all already knew—there was no other option. Now we could just enjoy the rest of the day. And night . . .

I nestled my head under his chin, but he was so tense his body felt hard as steel. A few minutes later, I felt the rigid muscles in his chest and jaw relax. He tied both arms around me and his fingers searched for my lips. He found them, and I kissed each one as they brushed over them.

He whispered to me so softly Patrick couldn't have even heard it, "I can't lose you, Bryn. Not now that I've finally found you." Then he lifted his mouth from my ear and looked straight ahead. "I _won't_ lose you."

Perhaps he was announcing for Patrick and I to both hear his vow, or maybe it was spoken just for himself, but either way, its passion and strength bloomed in me like a an oasis in the Sahara.

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

### THE HAYWARDS

It was around noon when we pulled off of Highway 101 to take the Three Capes Scenic Loop, which was a detour to several of the most beautiful areas along the coastline that were often bypassed by tourists eager to get to Tillamook to enjoy the infamous cheese factory's ice cream (which didn't really make any sense to me . . . who would go to a cheese factory looking for ice cream?), or anxious to get to Lincoln City and the monster-sized oceanfront casino.

At least this is what Patrick had prattled on about for the past thirty minutes, after he'd been gracious enough to pull over at a rest stop so I could be free of the confines of the ill-fated dress, and into something more me. I threw the dress and heels in the garbage can that looked like an oil drum; wishing I could set it ablaze and watch the crumpled ball of brocade burn.

We drove through the tourist area of Pacific City, and turned onto a residential street dotted and dashed with several beachfront cottages. Patrick slowed the Bronco as we came to a dead-end in the road. I was certain he'd gotten lost and would have to turn around to get back to the tourist district to find a place to stay for the night, but he turned into the cobblestone driveway of the last oceanfront cottage instead.

Patrick turned to face William, a devious smile covering his lips. "I'm going to let you explain this next part all on your own, Brother." His eyebrows danced, and before William could punch his shoulder, Patrick was out the door in a flash and jogging up the walkway to the front door of the house.

I looked to William, my curiosity screaming. "What's he talking about now? Are there _more_ secrets I'm not aware of?"

He closed his eyes and squeezed a forceful breath through his teeth before he responded. "I do have something important to tell you, but I wasn't trying to keep it from you—I was just looking for the right time to explain," he said with strained words. "There's been so many important topics to cover lately, and this wasn't a top priority. I should have used the rest of the ride down here to prepare you . . ."

"It's alright," I said, after he looked to be searching for the right words. "You can tell me anything."

His hand reached for my cheek, and his eyes looked determined. "Patrick is my brother, Bryn. Not through the bonds of Immortality, but my flesh and blood brother when we were Mortals. He was born two years after me in 1760, to our parents, Charles and Catherine Hayward."

I concentrated on the breath I was pulling in slowly through my teeth, hoping this less conspicuous reaction would keep my mouth from dropping in shock.

He moved his hand from my cheek and grasped my hands, giving them a tight squeeze. "My name is William Hayward, I still carry my Mortal name, although I've gone by William Winters since infiltrating John's Alliance of Inheritors. I should have told you when I had you alone that first night, but it didn't enter my mind, and it was far too dangerous to mention within the walls of the Manor," he finished, his eyes searching mine, as if looking for acceptance or understanding from me. He had both—he had whatever he needed from me.

"Alright, well that wasn't so bad, right?" I said with a light tone, knowing I'd get used to the idea in a few . . . _decades_. "So you're related to that idiot." My hand waved towards the cottage where Patrick had departed. "I can get used to that . . . since I don't really have a choice." I laughed, and he joined in, but it wasn't his usual musical, full laugh. He looked as if he was plagued by something else—some other secret.

"There's more," he said slowly.

I couldn't control the grimace that betrayed my face this time.

Noticing it, he hurried. "It's not awful, really. It's just that"—he glanced at the cottage, where a spiral of smoke was twirling into the grey sky—"there's more family waiting inside there, too—more flesh and blood family."

I tightened my hold around his hands, willing them to keep me centered. More family? More flesh and blood family from when he'd been Mortal? How many more? My mind got caught up in a numerous series of questions, none of which could be verbalized fast enough before another one raced to mind, vanquishing the prior.

All too familiar with my overly inquisitive mind and the frustrated, distressed look that accompanied this trend, he leaned forward and kissed my forehead, keeping his face close to mine after removing his lips. "How about we go in there and meet everyone, and then we'll all do our best to answer your questions?" He pulled his face back to look into my eyes. "Does that sound alright?"

I nodded my head, at the same time I felt a brace of panic take hold. I wasn't sure who would be waiting for me behind that door. Would they like me? How much did they know about William and me? What would William think of me after his family met me? Too many questions to consider and worry about.

Through some miracle, the man beside me cared for me in a way that was inconceivable given the glaring differences between us—it was like a lump of coal placed beside a diamond. How could I ever convince his family—who I already knew would be just as exquisite as he was—that I was worthy of their acceptance . . . that I was worthy of _him._

I couldn't.

There was nothing special about me that would glimmer like the diamond sparkling beside me. This knowledge made my heart pound as if it was bruised. Each heartbeat throbbed with pain. I had to escape before it would explode.

I heaved the car door open and was out faster than my Immortal legs had carried me yet. The hurt in William's eyes had me fighting against my better judgment to lunge back into the tortuous confines, and have him hold me for the rest of eternity, not caring if my bruised heart would burst. A milli-second before I threw caution to the wind and found my way back into his arms, he stepped out of the car with his arms raised.

"I'm sorry, Bryn." His voice was tight with concern. "I know how much this is to take in, and I'm pushing too much onto you." He focused on the ground, where he began toeing at the earth between two stones in the driveway. "I've had more than two hundred years to discover what it is I want." He glanced up at me and smiled shyly. "That _something_ being you. I sometimes let myself forget that you are so very new to this Immortal life and may not be ready to commit to the first man you meet—"

"Are you serious?" I interrupted, knowing I sounded more bewildered than someone that'd just been told they'd won the lottery.

He certainly looked as if he was serious, though. The reasoning behind this was incomprehensible, and I knew I wouldn't be able to convince him in a bout of rhetoric—he was much smarter and more articulate than me. I thought of something he'd used to convince me of his feelings, and decided to see if it would work as well on him as it had on me.

I marched over to him, still flabbergasted, but intent upon my mission at hand. "Feel this," I ordered, grabbing his hand in mine and tugging it to my chest, where I positioned it over my heart. Where it throbbed with a different kind of pain now—the kind derived from the knowledge that he'd actually doubted my feelings for him.

There was color rising in his face, and his eyes darted to the side; probably due to the location where I held his hand. With my other hand, I raised it to his face and encouraged his tilted head back to me until his eyes looked into mine. "I've lived every beat _loving_ you, since I first met you."

Recognition started to appear in his eyes, but it was not assured. How could he not have known it had been all over the moment he entered my life? How I'd never felt so on fire before in my life. How I'd known immediately that I _loved_ him, and not just loved him, but loved him with every single fiber of my existence—both as a Mortal, and now, as an Immortal. It was the kind of love that never gave you a moment's doubt. The kind of love that you knew, if you were not allowed to be with the object of it, you would choose to be with no one at all. The kind of love that would make everything you'd ever done, or would do, pale horridly in comparison. It was beyond comprehension, and far beyond words.

I felt like the wickedest of creatures as I realized he was genuinely unsure of my feelings for him. That he'd been tortured not knowing I would give anything for him. I would give my life—not only just in turn for his life—but even just for his happiness.

I wanted to scream contemptuous things at myself for torturing him so, but that could wait until later. There was something else that required my immediate attention at the moment.

"William," I whispered, "I've loved you from the first day I met you, as I will the rest of my existence."

It was more freeing verbalizing my feelings than I'd imagined it could be, and while I could've gone into many other in-depth descriptions of my love for him, I didn't need to. I saw when I laid those simple words out, the anxiety of him not knowing melted from his face, and the emotion that took its place was breath-taking. It was the most beautiful thing I'd seen.

Minutes later, after our eyes had been unable to move from one another's, he closed his eyes and exhaled the longest breath I'd ever heard. He leaned his forehead against mine, and I allowed his hand to leave the place where he'd felt just a handful of the beats whose sole purpose was worshipping him.

"You know my feelings for you go beyond reason. I love you so much more than can ever be held in feeble words, but maybe . . ." He sighed again, and looked as if he was recalling something pleasant. He pulled his forehead back from mine and grasped my face between his. His eyes were still brimming with his happiness. "I love you, Bryn Dawson. I am yours, and yours alone, to the very end."

He was right. The spoken words held more power than I could have imagined, and I felt my joy paint its bold colors across my face.

The sun had moved a noticeable distance in the sky before we were able to force our eyes from one another again. William sighed reluctantly when his eyes left mine, regret apparent in them. Reaching into the Bronco he pulled our bags out with one hand and reached for mine with his other. He turned towards the pathway leading to the front door.

"Shall we?" he asked. My smile was answer enough for him. "That was a good line, it seems as if I've heard it somewhere before . . ." he said, eyeing the location where I'd held his hand to me.

I smiled, remembering. "It was, wasn't it? It was the best thing I could think of to get it through your thick head that I don't need two hundred years to realize I've never wanted anything more."

A clearing of a throat in front of us broke our smitten gazes. "You guys can ogle at one another inside here too . . . in case you want a change in scenery."

I didn't have to turn my eyes from William to identify who was speaking. His teasing tone would have been identifiable standing in the center of the New York Stock Exchange.

I wasn't sure how long Patrick had been waiting for us, and hoped it hadn't been since he'd first hopped out of the car. His uncomfortable expression and reddened face was telling that he'd probably been privy to more than William or I would have liked.

"All ready to meet the Haywards, Bryn?" Patrick asked, as we stepped through the doorway.

I nodded my head. "As ready as I'll ever be . . . _Brother."_ I punched him lightly in the arm, and he mocked falling under its absent power. William's face lit up, maybe at my casual acceptance of Patrick being my brother too . . . one day.

The inside of the weathered cedar-slat cottage was inviting, warm, and personal. The walls were plastered with framed photographs, so much so, the sky-blue color of the walls barely seeped through.

Some were old and showing their age; like the portraits you saw of great grandparents that were tucked away in attics. Some were recent, printed on silver paper. No matter the age of the picture, they all contained the same faces, although the faces remain unchanged. His face was easy to find, and in many of them. I wanted to stop and look at each one; to experience the pieces of his past, but he persuaded me forward with a tug of my hand in his.

I heard the gentle cadences of several voices coming from a room in front of us. The voices sounded cheerful and comfortable, and then the scent of baking bread—banana-nut if my carb loving nose was correct—permeated the house, and my fear and hesitation over meeting the Hayward family, diminished some.

Patrick strolled in front of us with his hands in his back pockets. He was no longer in his black suit, but had changed into a pair of faded jeans, a grey polo, and was bare footed. While I'd previously thought the black suit was fitting and natural on him, I realized, seeing him now, I'd been wrong. This look was much more Patrick. This picture was more fitting of a little brother I could imagine William having, as opposed to the confident man dressed in black who headed up John's _acquisitions_ department.

Patrick hadn't been witness to the entirety of William and my episode in the driveway, as evidenced by his wardrobe change, and I was immensely gratefully for the mercy of a little brother wanting out of a stuffy suit.

William wrapped a strong arm around me, and shot one last smile of reassurance my direction before we rounded the corner into a large open kitchen, where the pleasant voices and smells were coming from.

There were four others grouped around a large dining table, and they were surveying me with as much interest and curiosity as I was them. The two females were seated next to one another, one of the males stood behind them, and the other male towered in front of the table, with arms crossed and a wary look covering his face.

I managed as warm a smile possible given the discomfort I felt from the giant of a man looming in front of me, as if positioning himself between me and the three strangers behind him.

"At ease, soldier," Patrick chuckled, addressing the tower of a man before us. "She's just a newbie and quite harmless." Patrick reciprocated the light punch I'd given him. "She doesn't even have any crazy cool gifts we've identified yet." He looked at me factitiously. "Isn't that right . . . _Sister_?"

I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes at him, not wanting to immediately offend his family. Patrick's reassurances didn't relax his brother in the slightest.

William stepped in, making the introductions. "Bryn, this is my older brother Nathanial." He nodded at the mass of a man, still staring at me as if I was an unwelcome intruder into their happy family. He reminded me of the Incredible Hulk, at least in terms of his size and scowl—he wasn't green, thankfully.

Nathanial didn't nod, blink, or say anything in response. He just kept his eyes fixed on me, until one of the women got up from her chair, came around the table, and laid her hand on his arm. His eyes didn't move from me initially, but then she whispered something in his ear and he slowly began to relax, moving his eyes to her and unfolding his arms.

William continued, "This is Abigail, Nathanial's wife."

Abigail looked at me as she forced a smile. "How do you do?" she said conventionally, but it was obvious she'd only mustered up this politeness out of courtesy to William. She was of average size, and had black hair that hung like a velvet curtain down to her waist. She reminded me of what one would consider timeless beauty, and next to Nathanial's roughness, they created a picture of opposite extremes. Abigail's eyes moved from me as quickly as she'd laid them there, and went back to her seat beside the other female.

I pressed closer into William as my discomfort grew. His arm tightened around me. This wasn't going as well as I'd hoped.

William introduced the next male. "This is Joseph, the youngest of the brothers." Joseph met me with an easy smile, full of acceptance and happiness. He lit up the room with it. When I looked at him fully, I gasped. He was a near clone to William.

Patrick chuckled. "Look familiar?"

I ignored him, and continued to revel over the likeness. Despite the baseball cap, it didn't hide the nearly black hair that held a promise of wave in the way the long tufts curled at the ends. He had the same lips that were full and precisely drawn, and the same chiseled facial features—although Joseph's were a little softer around the edges, not quite as defined as someone more senior—and while the eye shape was the same, full and deep-set, Joseph's were dark-sapphire blue. He couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen when he'd been Immortalized, I guessed.

"And this is Cora, Joseph's wife." William motioned to the final woman sitting at the table, explaining where that shade of sapphire blue came from.

Cora was small framed, and had shoulder-length, golden-blond hair. Like Joseph, she met me with a brilliant smile, and her sapphire-colored eyes sparkled with vigor. Cora bounced up, and upon standing, I realized how much more petite she was than she'd looked sitting down. She placed a quick kiss on the side of Joseph's cheek and danced over to where William and I stood.

"I'm so happy to see you, William." She beamed at him, like an adoring sister would at her older brother. She gave him a hug that held nothing back, and then turned to me, wrapping her tiny arms around me with just as much completeness. "I'm so glad he found you," she whispered before releasing me.

I looked at her puzzled—there'd been something hidden in her words I didn't understand.

She noted my confusion, and distracted herself by reaching for the bags in William's hand. "Let me take those. We'll put Bryn in Patrick's bedroom tonight." She grinned at Patrick. "You'll have to make due with the sofa tonight, I'm afraid," she said, prancing off to a couple of closed doors behind us.

Patrick whined beside us, where he was sitting up on the counter riling through the kitchen cabinets, muttering to himself again, "Some kind of homecoming this is."

William walked forward with me in tow. "Good to see you again, Nathanial. It's been too long."

"You say that every time," Nathanial replied, smiling crookedly at William. With the softer expression, I was struck by how much Nathanial looked like Patrick—although much larger and scarier. Nathanial patted the side of William's arm. "We were worried about you. It's nice to see you again."

William glanced over at Abigail. "Nice to see you too, Abigail. How have you been?"

I was hoping that perhaps Nathanial and Abigail's welcome for me had been indicative of subdued personalities, but when I saw the warm smile grace Abigail's lips at William's greeting, I knew the cool welcome had _everything_ to do with me. "Quite well, thank you. We've missed you." Her deep blue eyes matched those of her husband's, and I felt awkward realizing the pale blue that lingered in mine—a sign to all of my innocence.

"So this is her, huh?" Nathanial asked William, but stared pointedly at me.

"Yes," William answered, his tone full of love and pride. "This is my Bryn. The one I've told you all about for so long." His eyes looked into mine. They were full of something so wonderful it became difficult to keep my composure.

Nathanial nodded, as if understanding exactly what William had said.

"Wait!" Patrick roared behind us, jumping down from the counter and marching over to where we stood. "This is _her_?!" He glared with accusing eyes at William, inches away from his face.

William met his younger brother's surprised expression with a flabbergasted one of his own. "Yes, of course this is her. Who did you think she was?"

I felt like I'd been left out of some important telling of a joke. I was present for the punch line, but none of it made sense without the prelude of the joke. What did Patrick and Nathanial mean . . . was I _her_?

Patrick was still gaping open-mouthed beside us, his head flying back and forth between William and me. He was making me dizzy.

Not looking like his bewilderment would abate anytime soon, William spoke up. "Nathanial, Patrick, Joseph?" They all turned their heads to him. "Could we excuse ourselves for awhile? I'd like to have your thoughts on some important matters."

I shot him a worried look. While I figured I could make due with Cora, I was terrified to be left behind with Abigail, and her disapproval that was wrapped up in the shell of her courteous attitude.

William turned to me and ran his thumb down my cheek. "Only for a short while. I'll be back soon." His soft touch soothed me, giving me the kind of courage that could get me through a week alone with Abigail locked in a coat closet. "I need to speak with my brothers about a few things. Will you be alright here for awhile?"

An angelic response came from behind us as Cora flitted back into the kitchen, "Of course, she will be. I've got oodles of questions for you, Bryn!"

She commenced grabbing each of the brothers and pushing them towards the glass slider door which led out to the sandy shore. "Get out, go on." She grabbed William by the cuff of his shirt and began dragging him away. He placed a hurried kiss on my lips before he was pushed through the door. Cora grabbed Joseph last, and was kind enough to give him a sweet kiss before she scooted him out the door with a smack on his backside.

When the last brother had been thrown out onto the sand and the slider door was fastened securely behind them, Cora flew over to me and grabbed one of my comparatively large hands in her tiny one. "I'm so happy to meet you. The _real_ you!" Her eyes were dancing with excitement. "William's talked about you non-stop for eons and I was almost beginning to believe like the rest of them—that you were just a figment of his imagination . . . a happy place his mind had created as a safe haven from the deaths—"

"Cora!" Abigail scolded, her eyes ablaze.

Cora shot her a confused glance, which then turned indignant. "Settle down, Abigail. She has a right to know." She pointed outside towards the forms of the brothers that were growing smaller as they walked down the beach. "If he's too big a lug-head to admit to her how important she's been in his life, that's not my fault."

Abigail sneered at her. "That is _his_ business. You should know better than to interfere—William knows what's best for him and this family."

Again, I was reeling, trying to keep up with the conversation I felt disjointed from. I reached for Cora's shoulders and grasped them tightly. "Slow down, please. I'm lost," I pleaded. "Can you explain?"

Her eyes sparkled brighter. "Of course, I will. Why don't you have a seat and I'll grab us something to drink."

Happy I'd be enlightened soon, I released her shoulders and selected a chair.

"Abigail, would you like some iced tea?" Cora sung from the kitchen. She didn't wait for Abigail's answer before she danced back to the table seconds later, carrying three tumblers of tea. She sat one in front of me and handed another to Abigail, and sat down in the chair beside me.

She took a sip of her tea and tilted her chair towards me, lifting one leg up to curl it to her chin. "So what do you want to know?"

"Ummmm . . . how about you start at the beginning?" I said, not knowing where the beginning was.

She took another sip before beginning. "Has William told you about his gift?"

I wasn't sure which one of the many she was referring to, but took a guess. "Do you mean his ability to Foretell Mortal's deaths?"

She bobbed her head and continued, "When William was first Immortalized, he was horrified by his Foretellings. To him, they were just dark, evil visions that never left his mind. He couldn't escape them, and was too young to be able to divert himself from them. Joseph's told me about how miserable and lost William was the first few decades of his Immortality . . . how he became a slave to his Foretellings."

I ran my fingers down the sides of my glass, which had started to sweat small beads of condensation. The cool beads of water sliding underneath my fingers helped center me from the torment I imagined William suffering early on in his Immortality.

"Several decades after his Immortalization, William had a dream of a young woman, and to his great surprise, it was not a Foretelling of her death. For the first time, he'd dreamed an everyday sort of dream of this woman, and that was it for him. The small ray of light he needed to get him through the darkness had arrived, and he clung to it. His life was lived from one dream of her to the next—the dark visions taking place in between, the price he had to pay to see her again."

I noticed Abigail shift stiffly in her chair, making her disapproval known with pursed lips and crossed arms. Her iced tea sat untouched beside one of those shiny black cell phones that doubled as a handheld computer.

"William became strong, able to make judgment calls and decisions for the greater good of the Guardian believers and his family—unhindered by the bonds Nathanial and Joseph had formed with us," she said, motioning to Abigail and herself. "Sure, Patrick's never been United, but he's too flighty . . . too indecisive. William became the natural leader of our family and the Guardians. His strength, intelligence and devotion to our mission made him the obvious choice. The quiet rumors started to go around that he was the one—"

Abigail's assailing disapproval for whatever direction Cora's story was taking, was materialized through the hissing that came through her teeth. She sounded fierce, and I was not the only one that saw her that way. Cora's story took an instant about-face.

"About fifty years ago, William grew more distant from the family, spending more time away . . . for months on end at times. He excused the time away due to the missions he was sent on, but we all knew there was something else going on."

The timer went off on the stove and Cora bounced up to remove the rectangular, bread pans from the oven. She removed them with her bare hands, not even flinching at the 350 degree heat burning hot on the metal pans. She continued, while removing the rounded loaves from their tins onto cooling racks, "One day, the boy's father followed him on one of his commissioned missions—"

"Whoa . . . did you say his father?" I said with bewilderment. This family was getting larger by the minute. "As in, his _biological_ father?"

Cora glanced over at me and a smile of apology crossed her face. "I thought William would have told you about his father . . ."

Abigail huffed in her seat, but Cora continued, ignoring her, "Yes, his biological father. Charles is the Chancellor of our Alliance of Guardians."

My eyes widened somehow even more—not only was William's family pretty much perfect, the head of it just so happened to be one of the most powerful Immortals in existence. Great, nothing like feeling like I was in love with the son of a priest-slash-king-slash-ruler of the galaxy . . .

"Charles followed William on a mission, and he discovered the truth for William's extended absences and increasing distance from the family." Cora looked up at me through her full, light-brown lashes, and she sighed wistfully. "He was looking for her . . . _searching_ for her."

So this had been the woman Patrick had referred to yesterday. The one he was sure William would never get over until he met me. The woman I didn't want to know anything else about, but my darned curiosity wouldn't allow me to ask Cora to stop . . . not to say anything more about this mystery woman William had spent his life dreaming of and searching for.

"Charles was furious—he told William he was on a fool's mission—that this girl didn't exist, and if she did, he would never find her. She was lost in time and he would never know if she'd already existed, or if she hadn't yet, when and where she would exist. Even if he did manage to find her—against all odds—how could he ever be with her when she was a Mortal?"

I gazed out the slider doors to the ocean waves yards in front of the cottage, and then down the shoreline where the four brothers had disappeared. I wanted—more like I needed—to be in his arms right now. To be convinced of his love for me, and assured that his decades of devotion to some nameless woman didn't matter to him anymore. That the scars she'd left behind no longer held sway in his life since I'd entered it. I needed him to whisper those three words I thought would sound so insignificant next to the way I felt for him into my ear, over and over again . . . for at least ten years.

"It was following this argument with his father that William took on one of the most dangerous missions our Council dared to call out to our Alliance—infiltrating the inner circle of the Inheritor's most dominant and prestigious Alliance. He volunteered for it readily. He said he was eager to face death if he and this dream woman would never meet, and that he might as well put his death to good use by gaining valuable information."

A chill ran through my body at the thought of William dying. Would the world continue on as usual with the greatest of its creation gone? I was sure it wouldn't.

The phone in front of Abigail jittered over the table from it's vibrate mode. "Excuse me," Abigail said formally, grabbing up the phone and exiting the room. I heard her answer it before she shut the door of the room she entered.

"She's a Coordinator," Cora explained, as simply as one would say their husband was an accountant.

My eyebrows must have pulled together, because she further explained, "Abigail's Station is a Coordinator—she's the one that takes the calls whenever a Foreteller has a vision. She gets the information to the right people and assembles the team."

I nodded my head, but didn't want to ask any questions as I normally would whenever a new tidbit of Immortal information was presented—I needed her to finish William's story before I was ripped in half by the anxiety.

"A week later, William was gone, only occasionally able to check in with us to let us know he was alright. Patrick left a year later, practically begging for a commission similar to William's, and our Council—greedy from the valuable information William was forwarding to them—was all too eager to let another brother from the same family infiltrate John's circle of Inheritors." Cora returned to her seat, and placed her hand over mine that was still wiping vertical streaks down my glass.

"Is this too much information for you, Bryn . . . am I giving you too much at once?"

I raised my eyes to look at her. There was no denying her genuine concern for me. "No, I'm fine. Please continue," I said, attempting a smile.

"Alright," she said, patting my hand affectionately. "We all moved here about ten years ago, splitting our time between here and our home in Montana. We wanted to see William and Patrick, and since they could only steal away from John and his crew for a day or two at most, we purchased this home so we could all meet here and be a whole family again from time to time. Things had been pretty quiet lately—no real news of anything good or bad happening up there in Newburg—until one night a couple of weeks ago, we got a frantic call from Patrick letting us know William had been caught interacting with a Mortal. He was panicked, not knowing what punishment, if any, John would have dealt out to William. Joseph and Nathanial got so worried they were planning a trip up to Newburg to rescue William and take Patrick with them, back to the safety of our Alliance and aborting the entire mission."

This was the part in the story I was familiar with. I was the Mortal William had been caught interacting with. I was the reason the family had nearly called off the entire mission William and Patrick had fought for so many years. I felt a sickness swirling in my stomach as I let my mind wander to what could have happened if Joseph and Nathanial had tried to escape with William and Patrick. Who could have been hurt, or much worse?

"Patrick called us a few days later and explained what had happened. You can imagine our surprise when we learned of William's additional gift." Cora's eyes widened and she shook her head, as if she still wasn't certain she could believe it. "Patrick said he'd call us back when he could, but assured us that both he and William were safe and well for the time being, so Nathanial and Joseph stayed here and we waited. We didn't get another call until last night when Patrick called and told us they'd be making a stop here today, and they'd have one other in tow." She smiled as she pointed at me. "I could tell Patrick had no idea who you were—why William had risked so much to save you—but we all immediately knew who you were once we heard the whole account."

Cora's face lit up like a child's would at the conclusion of a fairy tale when the happy ending is revealed. "You were _her_ . . . the one he'd searched the world generations for. He'd found you, beyond all possibility and all reason, he _found_ you."

Her smile was blinding, but I was too stunned for it to take effect. I felt like a punch had just been delivered into my gut. My breath was swiped out of me and my mind was wiped clear of any rational thought. All I could hear was Cora's voice in my head repeating, _You were her . . . he found you._

_I_ was the woman Patrick had been referring to yesterday. I was the woman he thought William would never get over, and, beyond every miracle, I was the woman he never would. It was too much to process, too much joy to take in at once. It overtook me in waves, with growing speed and frequency.

My body . . . my heart, couldn't take it all in, and as I felt the instinctual response taking hold of my mind and body, all I could see was the image of his face above mine. He was wet, like he'd just been on a swim, and the starry night sky loomed above his perfect face. He was looking down at me, unequivocal concentration surrounding the aura of his face, while the center radiated with love.

My William screamed, "No, Bryn. Don't go . . . stay with me."

And as I felt my body rocking back in the chair, before my mind shut down temporarily from the overload of emotions running within it, I recognized this vision of William was not a dream; but when he'd pulled me out of the ocean that night and tied me eternally to him when he shared his Immortality with me.

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

### COLLISION

"What did you two do to her?"

An angry voice stirred my peaceful slumber which had been fraught with the happiest of dreams.

"It's Cora's fault. She couldn't keep her mouth shut." Another angry voice broke through the diminishing haze.

"I didn't mean to upset her," a trembling voice added. "She was fine one minute, and went out cold the next."

I didn't want to open my eyes. I knew there'd be multiple pairs of sapphire and pale blue staring down at me anxiously; but I knew the pair I loved the most would be nearest, and with that reassurance, I opened them.

"I didn't think Immortals could pass out like that," said a husky voice, which sounded like Nathanial's.

A loud, rolling laugh—definitive of Patrick—roared. "Hey William, I think I've figured out what Bryn's gift is."

William ignored him, and relief soothed his wrinkled face when my eyes fluttered open.

I couldn't let Patrick's comment slide like the saint looming above me could. "Hey Patrick," I called out, and the surrounding laughter was instantly silenced when everyone heard and saw I was awake. "If my talent is passing out, what's yours . . . being the most obnoxious Immortal in existence?"

William was the first to erupt in laughter, and the rest joined in soon after. I was pretty sure I even heard Patrick join in about mid-way through.

"Actually, smarty-pants." Patrick walked over so he was in view. I'd been laid out on a sofa and a pillow was positioned under my head. "My gift—or _talent_ you might call it—is casting a hypnotic spell on beautiful young women with my good looks and debonair charm." He smiled his most charming smile, as if to prove his point, but it had no affect on me.

All I could do was roll my eyes and return them to the man I loved, still hovering beside me. When I looked at him, I was reminded of the many times he'd put me in a near hypnotic state, and knew Patrick was wrong—it was his older brother that possessed this _talent_.

"How are you feeling?" William's hands ran over my face as a mother might search for a fever on her child.

"Stop fussing over her, she's fine," Patrick directed, taking a seat on the fireplace edge. "She's back to her sweet old self—verbally abusing me every chance she gets." Patrick formed his mouth into an overstated pout.

"I'm fine," I assured the face hanging above mine. "I can't believe I went out like that. I'm sorry you had to come back so soon." I reached up and ran my fingers through his hair.

"Don't worry about it," he reassured me, as he reached for my hand and drew it to his lips. "We were on our way back anyways."

He pressed his lips into my palm. "What happened?"

The reminder of the knowledge I'd acquired before my body shut down from the overwhelming joy that had flooded it, caused all the euphoria to return. The muscles in my cheeks ached as they pulled my smile wider.

"Dinner's ready!" Abigail called around the corner before I could answer his question. "Don't even think you're not going to sit around the table with your family tonight, William. It's been months."

I saw William's mouth open in objection, but I raised my finger to his lips before he could offend his sister-in-law. I wasn't going to give her another reason to not like me, and William didn't look like he was planning on leaving my side.

"Let's go, that banana bread has been calling my name all afternoon." I swung my legs around and stood up without a problem, but William couldn't resist the urge to assist me in everyway possible. He practically carried me into the kitchen, needless as it was.

"Let me know if you need any more help there, William. She's looking a little pale again," Patrick called out as we rounded the corner.

William turned his head, examining me carefully for signs of another swoon on my horizon. I scowled at Patrick as he took his seat at the table and stuffed his mouth with a heavily buttered piece of bread. He met my scowl with his own toothy smile, continuing to chew through it.

William sat me down in a chair at the end of the table and he took his seat at the head. Nathanial sat opposite him at the other end. When everyone was situated and sipping their coffee in between mouthfuls of the bread that tasted even better than it smelled, and laughing merrily as a family should, my eyes fell on the quietest member of our party of seven.

Abigail's eyes sparkled as she gazed with love at every member of her family sitting around the table, minus me, the wannabe Hayward. If William was the head of this family, Abigail was the mother. Her maternal instincts were apparent in the proud gleam of her eyes, to the way she made sure everyone else was taken care of and eating before she took her own seat. This family was her life.

The informal dinner continued; endless stories were told, and retold, and the eruption of laughter was infectious. I found myself laughing close to tears on several occasions. My favorite part of the whole gathering was witnessing the light-hearted joy that flowed from William. With his family, his smile was as easy as Patrick's and as brilliant as Joseph's.

His laughter rang throughout the entire house and reverberated off the walls. It was the purest sound I'd ever heard. The family ties were strong, and given these two couples would split their time in two locations just to see their single brothers on occasion, their love and commitment to one another was without question.

We were finishing up dinner when William squeezed my hand. "Do you mind if I steal you away for awhile?" He lowered his voice. "I've been dying to get you alone all day, and it doesn't appear they're going to let that happen unless I grab you and escape." His pale blue eyes sparkled with excitement, causing my mouth to go dry. I'd been wondering—more like hoping—we'd have some time alone to ourselves soon.

"Steal me away," I whispered back.

William smiled and stood up, pulling me with him. "Thank you so much for the amazing dinner, Abigail." Her face lit up at his thanks. "But if you'll all excuse us for awhile, Bryn and I are going for a walk."

As soon as he'd made his announcement, a chorus of objections was yelled, Joseph complaining the loudest. "Come on, William, you're not doing this to us again. You know the tradition—dinner, followed by a game . . . and it's my turn to pick!"

It was comical how serious Joseph was—he was truly upset his big brother was ditching out on the tradition of a game of Charades or Scrabble . . . whatever they played.

"Let him go," Cora soothed her husband. "They need some time alone." She probably figured her revelations to me today were the reason we needed this.

"Oh, pleeeeease . . . my big hero of a brother who I idolize, and look up to, and dote on." Patrick pulled his best vocal impersonation of Joseph. "Why would you want to leave with a beautiful woman to take a romantic moonlit walk when you've got board games and family waiting?"

Patrick continued his whining impersonation of the youngest Hayward brother, until William signaled to Joseph with a wink, and in a split second they charged Patrick and tackled him onto the loveseat behind them. Nathanial couldn't contain himself, and another second later he was on top of them all, sandwiching the beautiful, dark-haired brothers between he and Patrick.

Cora, Abigail and I watched with grins on our faces, enjoying the camaraderie of the four brothers and cheering for our own Hayward boy. It was hard to tell who won, or if any of them had, but William was the first up. He ran to me and grabbed my hand, while his three brothers continued their brawling on the assaulted loveseat and the overflow of the floor.

"Come on, let's go." He pulled the slider door open and we ran at a full sprint— leaving the cheer and warmth of his family and the cedar-planked cottage—for the sparkling, white sand and the ocean striped by moonbeams.

We didn't stop running until we were a good mile down the beach. William obviously wanted to put some distance between us and his family, in case his rowdy brothers decided they weren't going to let him go so easily. Slowing to a walk, we sat down to remove our shoes.

"Your family is amazing. They _adore_ you," I said. We stood up and walked down to the surf's edge, carrying our shoes in one hand and holding hands with our other.

"I don't know about the adoration part, but they're certainly wonderful. They've been there for me through many hard times." His eyes squinted as if he was remembering something from his past. "They never gave up on me—loving me far more than I deserve."

I squeezed his fingers. "I highly doubt that. It would be impossible to love you more than you deserve." I stared up at the moon; it was high and bright tonight, and the way it highlighted the planes of William's face made me feel I was hovering in a dream as opposed to real life. His thumb massaged gently into the side of my hand, and I closed my eyes so I could experience nothing but his touch and the current that he emitted into me: steady, gentle and intimate.

"So," he said hesitantly. "You were going to tell me what happened before you passed out tonight. Would you mind telling me now?" he asked so shyly, it would have melted any resolve I had against telling him.

"Of course, I'll tell you." I didn't admit to him if he used that same tone with me again, he'd be able to derive anything from me he wanted. "Cora was telling me some stories—stories about you and your history."

"What stories?" he asked slowly, stress lines forming on the outer corners of his eyes.

"The one about your visions of me."

I was relieved to see his anxiety melt and a slow smile pull at the corners of his mouth. "Oh, _that_ one." His eyes looked deep into mine with mind-numbing wonder. "I was really hoping I'd be the one to tell you that one," he said, looking a little regretful, but his smile did not falter. "That's actually what I had planned for this evening's agenda."

"Tell me anyways." I jumped in front of him, stopping him with my hand.

"Please . . . I want to hear it from you." He hesitated, looking thoughtful. "Please," I begged again. "It would mean a lot to me."

He lifted his hand to my face, and I molded my cheek against it. "Of course, I'll tell you. I will never keep anything from you, but it appears even if I wanted to, I'm completely unable to say no to you. You're either incredibly convincing, or I'm a hopeless pushover."

"Sorry, it's in the blood. If you were born into the Dawson family you didn't really have a choice in which career field you went into. You had Harvard Law or Stanford Law—that was about the only choice," I joked as he pulled me down with him onto the shimmering sand.

I heard the grin in his voice as he curled his arms around me. "Thanks for the warning. It's a good thing I'm on your side."

He let a few moments pass in silence where I could feel him putting together the details of his story.

"I don't want to go into a lot of detail about the darkness that was in my life before you were there, Bryn. It was an unimaginable time for me, and it's difficult for me to think about those early years, let alone talk about them." He exhaled forcefully through his nose. "Besides, the critical piece to my story is you—none of the blackness or evil held sway once I saw you for the first time."

He paused, and his head tilted back, as if he were examining the constellations he probably knew everything about. I kept my eyes on the white, frothy waves hurling themselves against the shore. "You were my light in the darkness. So many think of light as something that merely helps balance out the darkness, but if that light doesn't overtake the majority of the black, then the darkness still holds the most power in one's life . . . but that's not the way it is at all. Once you've lived in nothing but darkness, when a light suddenly shines through—even the faintest glimmer—it's all you see, all you focus on, and the only thing you live for."

My eyes followed William's upward gaze. A white streak burst through the sky the moment I looked up. I watched the shooting star until it burnt to its end, vanishing into the dark night sky.

"Seeing you freed me from the clutches of the darkness in my mind. They were still there, and always will be, but they don't hold power over me any more." He leaned his face into the side of my neck, whispering in my ear, " _You_ do. I've lived every single day of my Immortality—for more than two centuries—seeing you, searching for you, and loving you."

I struggled to restart my stalled heart.

"Does that sound crazy?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

I pushed out of his arms and twisted around to look at him. "Don't you ever say that . . . none of that sounds crazy. That's pretty much the most romantic thing you could say to me."

His eyes drowned in their relief.

"And while it tears me apart knowing the pain you've gone through, and continue to go through, knowing you loved me generations before I was even born fills me with the most indescribable happiness." I was almost guilty of gushing by the time I'd finished, but I didn't care.

My gushing complete, something important occurred to me. "How did you find me?"

He chuckled. "It wasn't by mere coincidence I can assure you."

An extra tenacious wave hurled against the shore, spreading its liquid plane up to the ends of my toes. "Will you tell me?"

He smiled, looking at me through his black fanned lashes. "I _found_ a photo in the sports page of a California newspaper of a high school tennis champ . . . the woman I'd spent my life searching for."

I remembered it. It had been taken the fall of my senior year after I'd won the conference match. "You just happened to fall upon this photo?" I asked with a teasing undercurrent in my voice.

"Not exactly," he replied, sounding apprehensive. "In my spare time I sorted through newspapers, yearbooks, school photos—"

"In your spare time?" I said with awe, positive he was underemphasizing again. "How did you know I was in California?"

"I didn't," he said, his apprehension more pronounced.

"What . . ." I muttered, not understanding.

He responded quickly, "Let's just say I had my work cut out for me. The internet was a godsend."

"Wait," I said, not believing the conclusion I'd just arrived at. "You're saying you scoured through every newspaper in existence . . . and threw in a few yearbooks and school photos to boot?"

"Yes," he said, looking sheepish. "In addition to several other sources . . ."

"Other sources?" I mumbled, more to myself than to him.

He opened his mouth, probably to go into more detail, but I raised my hand to it. I still couldn't come to grips with him perusing random newspapers looking for a photo of me that would have never been printed had I not fired an ace over the net at game point that last game.

Serving had always come natural to me—like walking—and that serve might have had enough room for a hair to fit between it and the net. It was like destiny had been messing with that ball, willing it to hit the net so that photographer from the Santa Cruz Sentinel would never take my picture, and so William would never stumble upon it . . .

"That was two years ago," I said, verbalizing my train of thought.

"It didn't take long for me to get a little backlogged with the population boom and corresponding number of papers in circulation," he explained, sounding ashamed.

He'd misunderstood my time reference. I was stunned he was only two years behind. Actually, I was lucky. With anyone less determined than him, they would have come across that photo of me decades down the road and found me a wrinkled, silver-haired woman.

"How did you find me at OSU?"

A grimace of sheepishness flashed over his face. "I _borrowed_ some files from your high school."

I raised my eyebrows in an attempt to look scornful, but knew the most severe I looked was mildly disappointed.

"That's where I learned you'd gone to Stanford, and that's where I _borrowed_ more files from to find you'd transferred to OSU that last quarter."

His recollection had me understanding why he was so furtive and effective at Townsend Manor—espionage was another one of his specialties.

"And I just happened to be assigned as your last minute tour guide on a Friday night . . . since I already know you were never enrolled," I said, smirking at him.

This time, his eyebrows elevated in a way that led me to believe he was impressed by my own information I'd dug up . . . or at least gotten from Paul.

"No, I actually arrived the Friday before and"—he cleared his throat, eyeing me cautiously—"followed you around."

"Followed?" I repeated, thrilled by the idea he'd been with me before I even knew.

"Maybe spied would be the truer word."

I shook my head, astonished by his dedication. "I can't believe you spent all that time looking for some random picture of me you might never have come across."

His forehead wrinkled. "What would you have done then?"

I looked into the face that had somehow grown even more beautiful from today's revelations, and thought about what I would have done had our roles been reversed, and it was me having visions of him and trying to find him. What would I do? It didn't take long to find my answer.

Anything . . . absolutely anything.

"I wouldn't have done a single thing differently," I said, causing his smile to burst. I reached up to touch his mouth, but my lips immediately became jealous, and I removed my fingers right before my lips crashed into his.

They barely grazed his lips before I pulled back, but his hands reached up and encouraged me back to him. With inhuman constraint I resisted, and his encouraging hands did not press me.

"What's the matter?" he asked. His uneven breathing and moonlit eyes tore at my resistance. In terms of what he was asking, there was absolutely nothing the matter. My entire being wanted to be close to him—there was nothing wrong with him at all.

It was me. I couldn't trust myself to stop when the time came; and the longer an intimate touch lasted, the more exponentially it crushed my resolve. By pulling away so soon just now, the scorching flame that ignited within me only had a second to make its appeal.

I looked down for a moment, embarrassed to admit my weakness. "Nothing's the matter, I just . . ." I couldn't find the right words to explain. I'd never had to breech anything close to this topic before. I witnessed the agony build in his eyes while I fumbled for the right words, and when none came, my frustration built, increasing the agony on his face. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't muster up the courage needed to bridge this delicate topic.

"What is it? Please tell me," he pleaded. His eyes begged me, and he kept his hands on the sides of my face, not allowing my escape.

I darted my eyes down and left them there until I was certain they were free of emotion, knowing he could easily call my bluff if my words didn't match the emotions playing in my eyes.

"I can't talk to you about this right now." His eyes continued to plead with me, begging me to let him in on the internal fight, so I shouted, "Please don't make me talk to you about this!"

I leapt up, and ran hard and fast away from him, before he could witness the excruciating pain in my eyes that had peeled back the layer of nothingness. I knew he would follow me—that he wouldn't allow me to be alone. In fact, I wanted him to come after me, because I didn't want him to be alone either. What I did not expect was how fast he would catch up to me. I'd barely gone twenty strides before I felt his strong arms grasp around my waist.

"Please, Bryn." He pulled me tight against him, my back pressed so firmly against his chest I could feel the frantic trilling of his heart, and it sickened me that it was not racing due to the all out sprint he'd just run, but because I'd confused him.

His heavy breath raced next to my ear. "I will never force you to tell me something you do not wish to. Please understand that."

Why had I acted so idiotically? Of course I knew he would never do that. It could have been as simple as me telling him I'd rather not talk about this right now, and gone right back to lounging in his arms and gazing at the stars above.

I'd ruined the moment when we were finally alone, and there was no taking it back now. It made me feel even worse that he was acting so apologetic, as if he was to blame for my lunacy.

"But, please"—he turned me around so I could face him and witness the sincerity on his expression—"don't make me walk back without being beside you, holding your hand." He lowered one arm from my waist to draw my hand to his lips. "I've lived for two hundred years with only the imagination of what it would be like to touch this,"—he moved my hand over his mouth, kissing each knuckle—"to hold this . . ."

When my breath became weak, he lowered it from his lips, but kept it firmly in his hand. "Please allow me to escort you back to the house?"

The fact that he felt he had to ask formed a lump in my throat, making it impossible to respond, so I nodded my head and turned my face from him so he couldn't see the tears forming.

He remained silent the entire journey back, content in just holding my hand in his. There was only the glow of one porch light as we approached the cottage. It appeared everyone else had already retired to their respective rooms for the night, tired of waiting for our return.

Before pulling open the slider, William smiled at me with such rawness in his eyes, I was sure I wouldn't be able to bear it. Right before I threw my arms around him to beg his forgiveness and tell him about the torment that flamed within me, he raised his finger to his lips, and motioned with his head in the direction of the earlier brutalized loveseat where Patrick now lay.

He looked to be fast asleep, and his elongated frame hung ridiculously over the ends of the tiny couch. He wore nothing except for a pair of bunched-up boxers and was snoring with the expertise of an old man.

William guided me through the dark, quiet kitchen, and back to one of the closed doors. The door creaked open and he motioned me in, whispering, "It's not much, but the bed's quite comfortable and I promise Cora put fresh linens on the bed . . . so no need to worry about Patrick's foul stench awaiting you between the sheets." He attempted a smile, but it fell short. He looked positively lost.

I was a loathsome creature for creating so much unnecessary stress in his life.

"Can I get you anything?" He squeezed the hand of mine he still held in his. I shook my head and tried to keep my eyes from his so he could not detect the glossiness that was inundating them. I just needed the night to clear my thoughts, and then I would explain everything to him in the morning.

"Good night." He kissed my hand. "I'll be right next door if you need anything." His voice was so filled with a mixture of love and sorrow, I couldn't stop myself from sneaking a quick glance at his face. Even in his sorrow he was stunning. I murmured a soft good night before he shut the door behind me, leaving me alone to contemplate the insanity of my actions.

The distress I'd witnessed on his face tore at me, and I longed with every fiber of my being to throw open the door that connected our rooms, and cement myself to him forever; begging his forgiveness with each new breath I took. Yet I couldn't, because I knew my weakness and desire for him would ultimately lead down a path that could destroy us both.

I drudged over to where Cora had placed my bag on the antique bureau opposite the sleigh bed, and pulled out the short, linen nightgown I'd packed with such high hopes for tonight. I peeled off the jeans and sweater I was wearing, and pulled the nightgown over my head. I could feel the electricity emitted from the man just one room away from me, and I could hear his healthy heartbeat. Its beat sounded like a siren's song, beckoning to me with spellbinding force.

I sat on the side of the bed, farthest from the door adjoining our rooms, and closed my eyes. I focused on inhaling through my nose, and then exhaling through my mouth. I focused my mind on nothing but the continuous intake and outtake of air, but I could not clear my mind of him.

He was more essential than the air I'd needed as a Mortal, and the air I now used to calm myself; or the blood my heart pumped. He was the essence of my soul, and to try to make him disappear from my thoughts was impossible.

As if confirming my epiphany, I heard his breathing intensify in the room beside me. Before I made a cognizant choice, I was across the room, placing my hand on the doorknob and opening the portal for which I knew could hold both unimaginable wonder and inescapable punishment. The punishment seemed insignificant at that moment though, and paled in comparison to the need to be with him as fully as tonight would allow.

The plank wood door creaked open, and I was sure he'd be alert and staring in my direction when I peeked my head around the door. To my surprise, once I edged through the open door into his room, he was lying still in bed with his eyes shut tight. The solo white sheet that covered his body was pulled to the bottom of his stomach, and the moonlight shining in through the tiny window behind him cast its pale light upon the bare, rippled planes of his upper body.

The rushed inhalation and exhalation of his chest positioned the rolling muscles below his skin in intricate and appealing patterns, and I could have stayed there all night admiring the beauty unveiling before my eyes, except the desire to reach out and touch it overcame me, so I took a step towards him.

The floorboards groaned beneath my foot and I froze, waiting for his eyes to shoot open. They remained shut, and the distance I'd closed between us allowed me a more investigative look at his face. It was pressed together in anguish, as lines of sorrow rolled between his forehead, his eyes, and then his neck. I guessed at the reason for his distraction and pain.

He was seeing a Foretelling—some Mortal's death was flashing through his mind, sending him into the blackness he dreaded, yet had come to accept as part of his duty in the Immortal world. The horrors reflecting on his face had me reaching for my stomach, trying to steady myself from falling beneath the pain I felt seeing him this way. I remembered something he'd told me just an hour ago, and quicker than I could contemplate, I whispered his name—praying it would release him from the blackness that looked to be suffocating him.

His eyes flashed open, and he blinked several times at the ceiling, as if clearing his vision. Then he turned his head to me and his eyes lit up. "Bryn," he murmured, his face flushed with happiness.

His eyes held me captive. "It's even better than I imagined," he whispered, as a wide smile crept over his face.

My eyes strained to keep away from his bare chest, as I inquired, "What is?"

He leaned up onto one elbow. "Being brought out of the darkness by the _real_ you."

I fidgeted from the words he'd just said, and the way they filled my heart beyond capacity, but mainly I fidgeted because of why I'd entered his room. I was glad I'd interrupted his nightmarish vision, but I needed to explain something to him, and knew if I didn't tonight while my resolve was weakened, I might never.

I stared out through the picture window above his bed, and concentrated on the shimmering stars above as I delivered my message. "You know how I said I didn't want to tell you what was bothering me tonight?" I kept my eyes on the stars, too much a coward to look at him, but I saw him nod his head.

"Yes, I remember." The words came out slow and deliberate, as if they were traversing over eggshells.

"I don't think I can find the right words to explain to you, but"—my fingers fretted over the hem of my nightgown, but using up my last reserves of courage I forced my eyes to meet his—"can I _show_ you?"

The puzzled expression left his face as it went contemplative for one moment—looking as if he was thinking through something at lightning fast speed—and then he closed his eyes and exhaled.

When his eyes opened, they penetrated the physical control of my bodily functions: causing my Immortal legs to weaken, my lungs to labor to keep my short breathes coming, and of course . . . my heart raced with such acceleration it would have certainly killed me if I'd been Mortal. His eyes burned with a beauty and a need I wasn't sure I'd ever understand.

"Please show me."

I crossed the small room to his bed in three deliberate steps. His eyes never left mine, their beauty and need growing stronger as I got closer. He was still resting on his side, leaned up on one elbow, and if my eyes weren't so content with the union of being with him right now, they would have professed their new religion to gazing in wonderment and memorizing every line, plane, and muscle of his upper body. His eyes held me though . . . at least for the moment.

I sat timidly on the side of his bed, and with less timidity, laid my body down beside his so I was facing him. Our heads shared the same pillow where our consumed eyes met, now only inches apart. I heard the acceleration of his breathing before I saw the visible signs of his chest falling harder and quicker above the pressing of his lungs, and I finally allowed my eyes to search over the dimly lit planes of his chest.

I reached one hand forward when my eyes could bear gazing no longer, and rested my palm on the area above where his heart was, fingering the skin around it until I felt goose-bumps appear. I let my hand lie still on his chest, reveling in the strength and speed of the blood pumping organ beneath the surface—its speed nearly matched my own. I could hear the pieces coming together in William's mind, now understanding my explanation, but he did nothing to stop it.

When my hand was satisfied with the pounding of his heart, I traced my fingers down the deep crease in his chest and followed it down to the hard, etched planes of his stomach. I stared at William's body in front of me—the rolling muscles beneath his flawless skin . . . like velvet covering hardened lava—and I knew I could never tire of staring at him.

While my fingers traced the rectangular muscles of his stomach, I saw his eyes close, as if no longer able to withstand the power of the current running through our bodies. My own hand was ablaze with the electricity of our energies colliding with such ignited might.

He trembled when my fingers reached the bottom muscles of his stomach, so I drew my hand from his stomach and ran it up his body until it rested on the side of his blushing cheek. I looked away regretfully from the perfection of his body, but it was forgotten once I looked in his eyes. The fire in them before had turned to a blaze—an unstoppable, manic blaze that could only be put out one way.

I smiled before I pressed my lips to his. He responded to the shyness of mine with his own apprehension. I ran my hand from his cheek to the back of his neck, interlacing my fingers through his long tufts of hair. In stride, his hand cupped behind my neck and he drew me tighter to him. Our lips responded simultaneously with the forced closeness, and soon they were moving over one another with strength; the prelude of shyness long forgotten.

I laid flat against the bed and pulled him with me so his upper half was positioned over me, and his lips reacted with the same intensity mine did at the volatile colliding of our bodies against one another.

Abruptly, he pulled his body back from me. The torture of the separation was physically painful, and I saw from his grimace that he felt the pain as well. Our labored breathing did not help the pain of separation.

"What are you—"

He cut me off before I could get my question out. "Is this what you've been having such a hard time with?" he asked, motioning between the two of us. "Is this what you didn't want to talk with me about?"

The forced air sliding quickly in and out through his parted mouth sent a new stab of pain through me. I nodded my head and answered, "Yes."

His eyes were gentle. "Why?"

"It's hard to explain . . ." _That's why I wanted to show you_ , I thought. "It's just that being with you in even the smallest physical way is sometimes hard to bear."

I looked to the side and began tracing through the ripples of the sheet. "Even the smallest touch is torture, and then anything more"—my eyes widened and I sucked in a large breath—"is like some rare kind of sadistic torture."

I saw him trying to smother the smile that was forming.

"Listen to you," he said proudly, as he covered my hand that continued to trace the sheet with his. "You're explaining this very well, and _believe_ me"—he raised one brow for emphasis—"I know exactly what you're talking about. The intensity of something as simple as this"—he led my eyes down to where his hand held mine—"is so perfect and ignites a longing that is difficult,"—he chuckled, tilting his head to the side—"if not impossible, to withstand."

I nodded my head fervently, ruffling the pillow and causing it to swirl his scent into my nose. He'd said everything I'd been trying to . . . with far more eloquence.

"Why . . ." He raised his hand and affectionately cupped my chin while tracing the bottom line of my lips. "If you don't mind me asking, didn't you tell me earlier—or show me—how you felt?" he whispered, winking at me. "It's obviously caused you a great deal of discomfort."

I didn't answer immediately. His eyes suddenly widened as he looked at me in disbelief. "Did you think for even one moment I didn't feel the same?"

"No, that wasn't it," I assured him. "It's just . . ." I stammered, as I gazed into the beauty and paleness of the very reason for my reservations. "You _know_ why, William," I whispered.

And the reason lay in my eyes as well—the pale blue reason.

"Oh, Bryn—I, more than most, know the laws we Immortals must follow, and the punishment dealt out to those you disobey, and I would—without a moment's hesitation—go against this most ancient of Immortal codes for the basic right for any kind of being to be with the one they want more than anything, love beyond reason, and would happily give their life for."

His speech left me wordless, and the pace at which it flowed made it seem as though he'd spent large sums of time contemplating this topic.

"I want you. I love you. I'd give my life for you. If this is truly what you want"—he smiled mischievously—"believe me . . . I want this even more."

My face flustered, as did every surface inch of my body. While I hadn't really doubted it, it was still a relief to know William wanted me just as much as I wanted him.

He leaned back down over me and laid one hand on my hip, as if testing the waters to confirm if his assumption was correct. His beautiful face leaned cautiously over mine, and his lips parted faintly as they prepared to cover mine.

I don't know where the otherworldly strength came from, but I somehow managed to turn my head from his advance. The knowledge of what I'd just turned away from singed my tongue, throat, and lips—leaving an acrid taste behind.

"No." I had to keep my eyes closed or else my strength would falter. "Please wait."

I felt the air stir from the rapidity of his retreat, and I cursed myself again when what-could-have-been flashed through my mind.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, his breathing labored. "I misunderstood."

"No!" My eyes shot open. "That's not it."

He was far enough away that I could allow my eyes to look upon him without giving into temptation. "I can't imagine you not existing. I couldn't bear what would happen to you if they found out,"—my voice waivered from the very thought—"and there would be no way to hide it." My hands grazed over his eyelids, imagining the beautiful sapphire that would replace the present hue if we allowed ourselves the full expression of our love.

"Do you think I could imagine you not existing so much easier than you can me?" he asked, shaking his head. "I would never allow something to harm you, let alone threaten your very existence."

I looked at him speculatively. What had he just been endorsing when his hands and lips reached for me?

Noting my confusion, he responded, "I have a plan in place, of course."

"A plan?" I didn't hide the dubiousness heavy in my voice. What plan would allow what we wanted—without a Council's blessing of a Unity—without the sudden, severe condemnation that would follow?

He didn't appear affected by my doubt-filled tone. "If this is what _you_ want, this is what _I_ want, and if this is what you want _tonight_ "—he shrugged, as if the answer was simply obvious—"we run away tomorrow morning."

"We run away?" I annunciated each word slowly, so I could register longer over what he'd just said.

"But your family, the mission you've invested years into . . ." It was too flabbergasting that he was so ready to give up everything he had to be with me.

"My family would understand," he reassured. "They're fully aware of my feelings for you and what I would give to be with you, and as for the mission"—his tone turned matter-of-fact—"the reason I took it no longer exists."

"Why did you take it?" I questioned.

"As an escape from the watchful eyes of my family so I could find you, or, if my father was right"—he set his jaw and paused—"that I would never find you, then I knew the danger of infiltrating John's Inheritor Alliance would someday result in death, and that would be better than the pain of never being with you."

He reached his hand toward my arm, hesitating before touching it, and when I didn't flinch away, he placed his fingers against my skin and brushed them up and down my arm. "It's better than perfect—if there is such a thing—being here with you . . . loving you and having you love me back. It somehow makes the dreams of you that sustained me all these years seem so inadequate," he whispered, looking at my arm where his fingers continued to brush. "They didn't do you any justice to how I imagined you would look, and how this would feel." A surge of electricity ran from his fingers through my arm, proving his point.

His face turned serious, and his hand tightened around my arm as he leaned his face closer to mine. The stare of his eyes was all-encompassing. "Is this what you want?"

And while there was no enticement or hint of seduction in his tone, I knew exactly what he was asking. I didn't wait for my mind to object, or my body to course through the checklist of overreactions. My response was out before the air had a chance to cool from his heated question.

"Yes."

And then his lips found their way back to mine, smothering them with the release of the restraint he'd built to protect us. A moment later, my mouth responded in equal. He sighed when I parted his mouth and touched the tip of my tongue to his. He rolled on top of me, holding his weight so as not to crush me, but I wanted his body crushing against me—I craved it.

The combination of William's sigh, and his body fully elongated over mine, ignited the controlled fire inside me into an out-of-control inferno. My body burned for his, and I felt his reciprocation. I wrapped my arms around him; one running through his hair, trying to pull him closer, and the other gliding over the undulating smoothness of his back.

His mouth moved from mine to brush over the skin of my neck—I arched it closer, enticing his lips in their journey. I marveled at the passion ignited in him, and I was more in love with him than I'd thought there room for.

My body, mind, and soul were fully consumed and used up by my insatiable desire for him, so I don't know where the faint glimmer of anguish came from, but as his lips progressed and our passions increased, the glimmer grew until it was casting a definite shadow on my euphoria.  
He reached his hand down to caress my thigh, slowly making its timid way up, skimming under the linen of my nightgown. His fingers trembled when they reached my hip, and now—to add to the shocking electricity—was a tingling sensation concentrating over several locations on my body.

When his warm, quaking fingers hooked under the side of the satin material that I'd strategically exchanged for the usual cotton, the ray of anguish exploded and overtook everything with the intensity of an atom bomb.

"No, William." My voice sounded like a scream in the sanctuary of the silence that held us. "Please stop."

His hands were off me in an instant, and his body was a flash as he righted himself, coming to a standing position beside the bed, as concern, confusion, and remorse congealed in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I can't do this right now." I hoped the lie would not be detected by him, but his erratic breathing and worried pacing seemed to take up most of his concentration. The muscles beneath his skin tightened and defined under the pressure of his expanding lungs, and my body ached to have his next to mine again; but I couldn't overcome the debilitating vision that had shown itself to me.

That vision being William's life being taken from him—phased from eternal Immortal to decaying death—and the knowledge that my selfishness and desire had destined this fate. I could not allow this picture singed into my mind to ever become a reality.

I'd seen John and the Council surrounding his body, pulling the life from him without reservation, as his beautiful face became expressionless and lost forever to the clutches of death. There was no pleasure or desire that would ever be worth chancing this nightmare becoming reality. I would protect him at all cost, against all that threatened his existence—including myself.

He continued pacing; his hands on his hips and his face pulled into hard lines. He finally spoke, "I fully understand and appreciate you not being ready for this." His pacing slowed, but his breathing did not. "But you must promise me Bryn, you must swear to me"—he kneeled beside me, commanding me with his eyes—"that you are not doing this because you are afraid of the Council or what they would try to do to me."

He looked like he was fighting reaching out to me, still not sure if it was appropriate given my latest reaction, so I reached for his hand and pulled it to me.

He continued, "We should be free to live our lives as we choose. If you want me—in any way—we shouldn't restrain ourselves because of some archaic law." His fingers wrapped tightly around my hand. "You promise me right now you are not letting this come between us." He didn't blink or move while he waited for my response, ready to call my bluff for what it was if he sensed even a hint of deceit in my answer.

I'd not fooled him.

He'd felt the response and longing I had for him, and the liberation of one who knew there was no fault in what they were partaking. He'd felt my love for him as much as I'd felt his for me, and he wasn't going to make it so easy for me to lie—but I had to convince him.

There was no way I could now enjoy this most sacred of experiences, when the gruesome picture of him falling into shadow played on repeat before my eyes. I would not allow this picture—nor the even more horrifying potential reality of this coming true—to taint my right to the paradise that should be mine when joined with him fully.

My eyes locked on his, and I felt my resolve return in heightened quantities as I answered, "I'm so sorry. I've been such a horrible tease tonight, and I'll never forgive myself for the agony I can see I've caused you, but I'm truly not ready." I held his unblinking stare and attempted a coy smile. "Not _yet_ , anyways."

His eyes stayed fixed on mine long after, still trying to find some fissure of weakness, some hint of a lie; but apparently finding none, his face softened.

"There's no need to apologize. This has been the best night of my life," he said, and then flashed his mischievous smile. "Up to this point, at least."

He'd believed me. I couldn't allow a sigh of relief, but I celebrated the success from within. I'd done my part to keep him safe—free from reproach or conviction.

"I'm in no hurry and will never pressure you." He pulled my hand to him and kissed it. "It's more than I could have hoped for, just to have you reciprocate my love for you."

He looked at me for awhile, his smile never fading, and then stood up from his kneel. "I'll let you rest. You look comfortable there, so I'll take Patrick's room for the night." He turned to step towards the open door, which had served as the portico to a night of awe and almost realized perfection.

My hand reached for his as it departed from me. "Please don't go," I pleaded. I slid to the far side of the bed and patted the empty space beside me. "Just because I'm not ready for all the better, more pleasurable uses of a bed"—I flashed a knowing smile at him—"doesn't mean I wouldn't love to spend the night in your arms."

I looked at him, waiting for his response—hoping he'd choose to stay, but understanding if the torture of unrealized hopes tormented him beyond repair when he was forced to lie quietly, and fully clothed, beside me.

His eyes flickered, and he leapt onto the space I'd created for him. He had me in his arms quicker than my overjoyed laugh could emit, and a moment later he drew the disheveled comforter over our intertwined bodies.

I rested on my side with my back against him, and found a deep pleasure in feeling the more relaxed, steady rise and fall of his chest against my back, and the warm, soft breath on my neck. Where these sensations would have earlier served as crushing boulders to my resolve—having now seen with amazing realness what would happen if I allowed what I wanted most—the satisfaction of being with him in any way possible was perfectly manageable.

When I felt his breathing and heartbeat return to a semi-normal rate, I pressed my leg back and intertwined it between his. I giggled with pleasure when I heard the instant and overwhelming jump in both the formerly normalized physical reactions.

"Temptress," he whispered accusingly, not missing my enjoyment in his torture.

"Two can play at this game, though," he whispered, with definite enticement this time into my ear, pricking up millions of goose-bumps on my body.

And our perfect night continued—restraining ourselves from what our bodies would one day fully enjoy if we both had our way, and the universe dealt us a generous hand.

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

### MORTAL STORIES

I awoke the next morning to the sound of a percolating coffee maker and the scent of the smoky-sweet liquid brewing in it. William was no longer lying beside me, but in his place was a folded paper crane. In between its wings was a separate piece of paper containing his note;

The guys got me this morning and wouldn't take no for an answer. We're out surfing. I'll be back soon, but wish it was even sooner.

I love you,

William

With reluctance, I left the heavenly confines of the bed, grabbing the crane and note up as I walked into Patrick's room to retrieve some clothes from my bag. I threw on the same pair of jeans I'd worn last night, and patted back into William's room.

I felt a little snoopy opening one of his dresser drawers, but reassured myself with the excuse of needing to find something more appropriate to wear since I'd only packed a tank-top. While temperature didn't affect me any longer, it would stand out to Mortal eyes if I wasn't wearing something fitting for the cool coastal morning. If I was being honest with myself, it was more a matter of wanting to be surrounded by something of his, and knew his clothing would be permeated with my favorite smell in the world.

I found a grey sweatshirt on top of the meticulously folded stack, and pulled it out, letting it unfold before me. Eight very familiar letters were written in scarlet across the chest. I threw it on, so it would remind me to ask him about it when he returned. I was right—his scent wafted over me like a dreamy cloud.

I made my way out to the kitchen where the wonderful coffee smell was originating from, and sadly found that the pot was missing from the maker. I didn't see any sign of Abigail or Cora, so I walked over to the slider to head out for an early morning stroll along the beach in hopes of catching a glimpse of the four brothers skimming the waves.

When I stepped onto the back patio, I found Cora and the missing coffee pot together. She was curled up in a blanket in one of the patio chairs, staring off into the distant ocean. A large cobalt colored cup was steaming in between her hands.

"Good morning, Bryn," she welcomed, without looking back.

"Good morning yourself," I answered, as she swirled her head to look at me.

Her golden-blonde hair was pulled into two braids she'd tucked behind her ears, making her look somehow even sweeter. Her smile was just as easy and genuine this morning as it had been last night.

My eyes drifted to the large pot of coffee sitting on the glass tabletop where an extra mug waited beside it. Odd as the combination was, the aroma of coffee mixed with the brackish morning air sailing off the ocean was tantalizing.

Cora noted my stare. "I know—it's silly isn't it? This is one Mortal habit I can't seem to overcome." She held up her almost empty cup of coffee. "Joseph keeps telling me caffeine cannot affect my body now, but I just ignore him," she said, taking a long sip. "I _know_ I need this."

I laughed with her. She was so comfortable to be around, and was the least intimidating and most human acting Immortal I'd met.

"Come on, pull up a seat." She pulled aside one of the chairs beside her. "I brought you an extra cup so we can share in this ineffective indulgence—as Joseph likes to call it—together."

We laughed in unison while I took a seat in the chair she'd pulled out for me. She poured the aromatic liquid into the extra mug.

"Here's to absolutely _essential_ indulgences," she said, as we cheered our cups together.

"I'll drink to that," I responded, before taking a long drink. My fondness for Cora grew even more as soon as I tasted the wonderful elixir. It was positively the best cup of coffee I'd ever tasted . . . and I'd tasted a lot. I could easily make this a morning ritual, no matter the futility of the caffeine.

"Hey, we match," she said, eyeing over the kipped sweatshirt I had on, and dropping her blanket to show me hers. "It's Joseph's." That would explain why she looked like she was drowning in it.

"Joseph went to Stanford?" I asked.

She nodded her head. "He did. He's followed in William's footsteps just about every step of the way." She smiled fondly before taking another drink from her cup.

My nose wrinkled. "William went to Stanford too?"

Her expression grew wary—probably due to the fact she was gun shy sharing unknown information with me regarding William, given my fainting spell last night. "Yeah, that's where he went to med school . . . the first time around." She smiled at me from the side.

"Med school . . . the _first_ time?" My voice had perfected the awe sound as of late, since that's what I was the majority of the time.

"William's Station in our Alliance is as a Doctor. He's gone to med school several times and received three specialties."

I shook my head, letting my awe dissipate. "Well that explains a few things." I said, thinking about his all too quick and able hands that night I'd split my head open. "But you're Immortals, why do you need a doctor?"

"You're not in Inheritor country anymore," she said, tucking her knees to her chin and somehow balancing her cup on one knee. "His Station as a doctor is to keep with the Guardian mission of protecting Mortals."

"Oh. Yeah," I replied with chagrin. That should have been obvious.

"Of course, he can't work out of a hospital—the fact he's in a twenty-two year old body that never ages makes that impossible—but he and Joseph go where they can remain undetected for the most part: war zones, disaster areas, third world countries. They're good men." Cora said proudly.

The words _disaster area_ reminded me of one of the first conversations I'd had with William weeks ago when we discovered we'd both been in Java providing medical care after the earthquake.

She laughed, disrupting my thoughts, and motioned with her head towards the raging ocean waves in front of us. "The guys picked a great day to go surfing—William's got to be loving this. It looks like he's been showing the other three up all morning." Her eyes watched four figures far out in the water.

I'd not noticed them until now, but my new and improved vision allowed me to make out each one of their faces until they fell last on his. Cora was right; his face was alive with excitement. I smiled witnessing his happiness, and again admired the perfection of him surfing. A tremble ran through my body when several memories from last night flashed through my head.

"So . . . how did you sleep?" Her eyes looked at me from the side with a teasing glint of evil, as her lips pursed together to keep from smiling.

I reddened immediately, and muttered a quick reply, "Very well, thank you."

The embarrassment was instant. I'd never stopped to recognize—that with five others in the small cottage with heightened senses—William and I would never have privacy from the illusion of a closed door. I could feel the redness streaming into my neck too, trying to recall every private word and intimate moment.

She giggled joyfully. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist," she apologized, still laughing. "Joseph made me promise to tease you because he said he was really going to give William a hard time out there today." She leaned in as if wanting to whisper something to me, but her volume remained unchanged. "Let's just say you're getting off much easier than he is."

I smiled my thanks, not sure what to say next, but Cora bridged the gap for me.

"I know there are some in this family that disagree with me, but I want you to know how I feel on the matter, because you can be sure those who feel differently will make their opinions known."

Her face turned a little more serious, but I couldn't imagine Cora ever able to convey the finer workings of those less savory emotions. "I've been a part of this family for over a century—a long time—and I've never seen William so . . ."—her forehead crinkled—"peaceful," she settled for finally. "He's always been a good man, far beyond good actually, but there was a tangible sadness that surrounded him. Seeing him yesterday was like seeing the same man, but without the chains of darkness that held him down."

She smiled when one of the far off surfers careened into the water. "You've given him the hope and love he's always searched for, and you two should not let anything, or anyone, stop you from being together." She turned her eyes to mine and the sapphire color was ablaze with conviction. "Your love shouldn't be subject to some ruling of a Council." She stopped and poured herself another cup of coffee.

I stared at her for a moment, wanting to ask her a question, but I didn't want her to think I was being nosey. The warmth of her face helped me to decide.

"But what about you and Joseph, and Abigail and Nathanial? You were all Betrothed and then United by the Council and you all appear to be perfectly happy with the ones the Council selected for you."

"We are," she answered simply. I blew at the wisps of steam flowing over my cup, waiting for her to explain. "I'm not saying our code and the Council's ways are bad—I'm saying that if you already love someone with such magnitude, you shouldn't have to gain the approval and blessing of the Council to be together."

I shot her a puzzled expression, so she continued, "From the day an Immortal is created, we are taught the codes of our kind, so it is cemented into our minds that we are not the ones to select our mates, but to carry out our callings with selflessness and restraint and when the time is right, the Council will grant a Betrothal." Her eyes squinted from her concentration. "But with you and William, it's different. He's loved you since the first time he saw you in his dreams. He's spent two hundred years loving you, and you fell in love with him when you were still Mortal, so of course that love translated when you were Immortalized." She looked at me knowingly, as if waiting for a rebuff. I kept quiet though. I _had_ fallen in love with William as a Mortal.

"The code should have no right to deny or punish such righteous love." She sat her cup down and clapped her hands as she sat up. "So . . . that's all I'll say on the matter. I love William, and because he loves you, I love you as well now. His and your happiness are my concern, not the Council's," she finished, standing up.

She collected her mug and the empty coffee pot, and slid through the slider door. "I'll talk to you later, Bryn. Patrick wants to have a word with you." She shot me a sisterly smile, and disappeared into the cottage.

When I turned to look at the figures riding the thrashing waves, there were only three. My eyes fell upon the missing fourth who was jogging up the beach towards the cottage. I stood up as he approached.

"Hey-a, Bryn," he shouted, beaming. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

I looked up at the nearly black, rain-filled clouds above, and then to the form of the dark-haired older brother that sailed over the storm-induced waves. "Yes, it is," I replied wholeheartedly.

"Can I steal you away for awhile?" he asked, as he stuck the end of his surfboard into the sand beside the patio. "As soon as he gets back,"—he motioned to the surfing figures on the horizon—"I'll have lost my chance."

"Sure, of course." I was feeling especially generous today. Must have something to do with last night.

"Super. Let me get changed real quick and I'll be right back." His black wetsuit was dripping wet.

"Good idea," I agreed quickly.

When he walked past me, he shook his head violently and his long blonde hair released a ring of wet spray, his target obviously me.

"Don't press you luck, mister," I warned, wiping away the droplets of ocean water on my face with the sleeve of William's sweatshirt. "I may be in an extra good mood this morning, but it seems to run out quickly with you and your antics." I smiled my warning at him.

"Yeah, I _bet_ you're in a good mood this morning. You know, we all took bets last night as to what color eyes you two would wake up with today," he said, as he scrambled through the open door before I could find something to throw at him. "I lost fifty bucks!"

Since there were no clay pots lying around, I settled for sliding one of my sandals off and chucking it through the door where he'd almost rounded the corner out of view. Almost.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed, as I choked on the laugh I tried to stifle. "It's a good thing you and William can't procreate. With his speed and your accuracy, your kids would be deadly throwing machines," he yelled back at me.

I turned my eyes back to the thundering ocean waves at the three remaining surfers; although, I really only noticed one. I took my seat and continued my lustful affair with the steaming cup of coffee while I waited for Patrick.

"Your weapon of choice, milady." I startled as Patrick threw my sandal into my lap.

He'd changed in less than a minute, and while the rolled up khakis and cable-knit sweater had replaced his dripping wetsuit, his long hair was still drenched and had formed a wet ring around his sweater.

"Do you mind if we talk and walk?" he asked, motioning to the endless beach in front of us.

"Absolutely not." I stood up and removed my remaining sandal and followed him onto the sandy loam.

Patrick was silent as we ambled down the empty beach. The cottage had long been out of sight, and Patrick still hadn't uttered a single word. Wasn't he the one that said he wanted to talk?

My silent patience ran out. "Just spit it out, Patrick. Really, I can take it." My thoughts were on what Cora had said about other family members not agreeing with her, and even as annoying as Patrick was, I genuinely hoped he wasn't one of them.

He stared back at a couple of stray logs lying at the bottom of a tall dune, and motioned to them. "Do you mind if we take a seat?"

I answered him by walking towards the sun-bleached logs and seated myself on one of their smooth surfaces. Patrick situated himself on the log across from me. His face was locked in seriousness and his eyes looked everywhere but into mine. I grew more anxious every second he kept silent, knowing whatever he was going to speak with me about held a great deal of significance.

I exhaled my anxiety when he started talking. "I love William the most of all my brothers." He chuckled, somehow managing to make it sound serious. "Actually, we'd all say that about him—he's been the leader of our family from the beginning, even when we were Mortals, and we all know there isn't anything he wouldn't do for us."

He grabbed a long crooked stick resting at his feet and began drawing in the sand. "Being the leader comes with a high cost, and he's suffered a great deal. More than any of us can imagine."

My stomach felt sick when I thought of the suffering he'd endured.

"Any of us would do anything to protect him from more pain. He's tried his whole life to shield us from it, but we were all trying to keep him from the same thing. The Foretellings create a hell that none of us can even begin to understand, and then there was before—" Patrick stopped abruptly, and looked into my eyes for the first time since we'd left the cottage. "Has he told you anything about our Mortal lives?" he asked, his eyes filling with grief. "How we became Immortals?"

My throat was too dry to reply, so I shook my head. I'd been desperate to know since I discovered the magnitude of his blood family that were Immortals. I'd guessed it had to have been horrifying, but I couldn't ruin the bliss of last night by asking William.

Patrick's head rolled back, his eyes closed, and he took in a deep breath; as if preparing to unleash some unimaginable horror. "It was 1780, and we were living outside of Charleston. Our parents were well-to-do and had strong ties with the separatist movements. There were five of us children then." His face flinched, and he looked away from me. "Nathanial, William, me, Joseph and our little sister, Elisabeth. She was only ten—far younger that any of us—but we adored her."

He looked off into the distance, smiling as if remembering something from the past. "She was the female equivalent of William and Joseph combined—happy and likable like Joseph, and intelligent and compassionate like William." He chuckled and shook his head. "She was fortunate she didn't take on the rougher characteristics of Nathanial and me."

I tried to imagine the Hayward brother's little sister and how much she took after her brothers; with the wide, full-lashed eyes of William, and the quick, brilliant smile of Joseph's.

"We were all avid colonialists, eager to be rid of Britain's tyranny, but William was especially. So much, he started his own militia, and before long, they were well known throughout the colonies as an imposing threat to the British. The Colonialists idolized these brave young men, while the British prayed they would never meet them in battle. William was fearless and a natural leader. Men wanted to follow him . . . they gravitated to him, and soon his militia swelled in numbers."

I heard the raucous chortle of seagulls overhead, but I paid them no attention—I was transfixed in the scene Patrick was painting for me of the Hayward's Mortal lives.

"A traitor in William's militia gave up the name and location of its leader, and the British surmised an army to march upon our plantation. William was on an unusual leave and enjoying a couple days away from the war when they came for him." Patrick's voice began to waiver, and he focused his eyes on the sand below him.

"We were all outside, just preparing to have supper, when they marched through the front gates. There had to have been a hundred. My father begged William to escape, to run away before they captured him, but he wouldn't go. He wouldn't leave his family behind."

I bit the side of my tongue, trying to focus on that small pain so I couldn't focus on the larger one growing inside me as Patrick's tale progressed.

"William immediately surrendered, but they weren't appeased with just him—they came for so much more." Patrick's eyes grew wide, and I bit down harder on my tongue, praying for the physical pain to chase away the emotional that was accruing.

"They grabbed our mother, Nathanial's new wife, and"—he sniffed harshly, and the glassiness in his eyes paralyzed me—"they grabbed Elisabeth too. We tried to fight, but there were nearly twenty armed men to each of us. They bound our arms behind our backs, wrapped pieces of cloth around our mouths, and marched us to the large sycamore that stood in the front of our plantation. They had our mother, Emma, and Elisabeth already strung up and sitting on horses, and once they crippled our knees out from underneath us so we were kneeling mere yards away from them . . . they pulled the horses out from underneath the three woman we all loved, and we were forced to watch them die the slow, agonizing death of a merciless hanging." Patrick buried his head between his hands, dropping the stick to the side.

"Elisabeth was the last to die. She didn't have the weight the other two did to expedite her death . . . her eyes flew franticly between the five of us—the five men she idolized and trusted to keep her safe, begging us to save her. William tried more than once to make a run for her, each time being crushed back down beneath the butt of a rifle or the end of a bayonet," Patrick's whisper was so tight with sorrow, it sounded like it would snap.

"When Elisabeth took her last breath, the scream that ripped through William's body was terrifying. He sounded like the angel of death coming to tear apart every last living thing on earth, down to the last remaining organism."

A lone tear ran down my face, but my body was so paralyzed, I couldn't move my hand to wipe it away.

"And then, his face just went blank—empty. There was nothing left. The brother that we'd loved and idolized, the strongest militia leader in the colonies, was just . . . gone."

Patrick lifted his face from between his hands, and it was so lost in sorrow, I reflexively reached my hand out to place it over one of his.

"They lined the five of us men up, still on our knees in front of the lifeless woman before us, and shot us each once in the stomach, leaving us behind to die a slow death."

I restrained the scream that begged to be released from my throat. The thought of each one of the Hayward brothers being shot in the stomach, and lying beside one another as they awaited death, grated my hold on sanity.

"We were all too ready to die, the only thing we wished was that death could have found us sooner," he said, and his voice sounded steadier. "That's when Noah found us."

"Noah?" I questioned, my voice sounding hoarse from the long silence.

Patrick nodded his head. "Noah was a man that lived on another plantation near ours. We'd always considered him an old recluse, but now understand the reason for his reclusion. He and his group of Guardians were the ones that Immortalized each of us. They'd seen the smoke rising from the fire the British had set to our house, and reached us just before we all passed on to whatever awaits us after this world. It was too late for our mother, Emma and Elisabeth . . ." he finished, as his face grew weary.

It had taken a great deal of strength to relive this gruesome event that had forever cemented this male family of five.

I moved from my seat and sat beside him, wrapping one arm around him and drawing him close to me in a weak attempt to comfort. But how could one ever comfort this kind of pain? I didn't know how to react or what to say. I felt like an unwelcome intruder into a very private moment.

"I'm so sorry, Patrick." The words sounded even more inadequate than I'd imagined. "Thank you for telling me. I truly appreciate it."

He sat up straighter, and his eyes grew more composed.

He patted my leg. "You're welcome. I knew you'd want to know." He hesitated, blankly observing the screaming seagulls still above us. "I didn't want William to have to tell you."

I didn't need to ask why. I remembered Patrick's prelude to his telling of the Hayward family massacre when he said he'd do anything to protect William. This was one way of doing so—by not making his brother revisit the ghastly memory.

"I should get you back before he goes into withdrawals." Patrick's charming smile was back in almost full form, so I felt I could remove the comforting arm still wrapped around him.

We stood up from our makeshift bench and walked down to the edge of the surf, letting the waves lap at our ankles.

"Can I ask you a question?" I knew it was needless to ask because I knew that he, above anyone else, would always give me the cold, hard truth; no buffering for my benefit or to protect my feelings.

"Shoot," he answered, matter-of-factly.

"Why is it—with Nathanial and Abigail, and Joseph and Cora being United so long now—has the Council never granted you or William a Betrothal?"

He guffawed, grabbing his stomach during the hysterics. I glared at him with annoyed eyes. "Gosh, Bryn . . . the way you said that makes William and me sound like losers."

"No, that's not what—"

He held up his hand, shaking his head. "No, I know that, but when someone puts it that way . . ." He looked amused, and he stroked his chin with his index finger. "For me, the Council hasn't found anyone gifted or beautiful enough."

I shoved him aside into the waves, rolling my eyes in the process.

"No, really, it's probably because they haven't found anyone patient enough to put up with me and my _antics—_ isn't that how you put it?" His taunting eyes gleamed.

"I'm sure that's not it," I responded, refusing to be baited by his antagonism. "You'd make a very fine husband if"—I lifted an eyebrow and raised one finger—"they find you a saint for a wife who's on a mission from God." I laughed while he feigned a sad puppy face.

"I'm just teasing," I assured him.

"I know, but I deserve it." He leaned down to pick up a flat black rock and threw it with stunning force into the ocean. Even with my new vision I couldn't track it.

"As for William, the Council's tried and tried to Unite him with several women."

The taste in my mouth became bitter.

"But I bet you can guess the one reason those never worked out."

I look at him puzzled.

He rolled his eyes and lifted his hand, holding out a finger and tapping the end of my nose. "You."

I smiled my response.

He just shook his head, looking bewildered by my ignorance.

There were no more surfers to be seen now, and just as we turned to trudge through the billowy sand towards the cottage, Patrick kneeled down for what looked to be a broken half of a sand dollar. When he pulled it free of the sand, he revealed a whole one. He wiped it clean on the end of his sweater and handed it to me.

"For you." His eyes wouldn't meet mine and he stood as if he was suddenly shy. "You know, it's nearly impossible to find a whole one—a perfect one."

I glided my fingers over the sandpaper-like shell in my hand as he continued.

"Just like"—his eyes flickered to mine for a moment before they shied away again—"you."

Before I could react, his eyes darted to something behind me. I turned to see what had caught his attention. It was William, standing on the edge of the porch. He waved, and I waved back as he loped into a jog towards us.

I turned back to Patrick, but he wasn't in front of me any longer. I caught a glimpse of his figure sprinting with blinding force in the direction we'd just come from. Remembering the sand dollar in my hand, I looked long and hard into it, hoping its stained white surface would hold the explanation for Patrick's unusual behavior. I sighed and frowned at the shell when it revealed nothing to me.

The frown dissipated the moment my eyes were distracted by the man jogging towards me with a smile on his face that cleared my mind of all else but him.

### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

### SAVING PAUL

"Thanks for everything," I said, after Cora released me from a hug.

"Anytime. Sorry I'm such a blabber-mouth, but this guy can be kinda tight-lipped when it comes to anything that makes him look like an even bigger saint than he already is," she said, encouraging her husband away from the good five minute embrace with his older clone.

Joseph's eyes looked shinier than normal when he was pried from William, and while Cora embraced William, Joseph did the same with me.

"You're like a sister to me now," he whispered. Despite every physical appearance, his voice was not identical to William's. It was not golden and rich like honey—it was tighter and a couple notes higher. "Take care of him, okay?"

I could only nod my head, too moved by his words to trust my vocal chords. He released me and wrapped his arm around Cora, who'd just pulled away from William after whispering something to him.

"Don't worry about it, you're forgiven," William said to her, pulling me under his arm and moving to his older brother and wife; trusting I needed his physical support where they were involved.

"It was good to see you, Nathanial." William withdrew his arm from me to grip his brother in an embrace—they looked like two bears wrestling from their overbearing size.

"You, too. We'll miss you," Nathanial replied, patting his brother's back.

"You'll see me again soon enough. I've finally found my reason for settling down." William pulled back, and he and his brother exchanged a knowing look.

William moved to Abigail next, leaving me and Nathanial to look awkwardly at one another. A simple good-bye didn't seem appropriate given everything, but neither did an embrace. He offered a suggestion; he extended his hand.

"I enjoyed being here. Thank you," I said softly, reaching my hand for his. They connected and he froze—his eyes grew wild as he glared at me as if I was the most dangerous creature to ever walk the earth. His hand snapped back.

My feelings were more than hurt, but I tried to put all this aside as I moved to Abigail, extending my hand to her to say good-bye.

Nathanial charged to her side and pulled her behind him, his face still screaming shock.

"Nathanial?" William questioned, sounding perturbed. He wrapped his arm around me, steadying me.

"Have a safe trip," Nathanial growled, before whisking past us with Abigail in tow, back into the cottage.

I turned to William, close to tears. He was glaring at the closed door where his brother and sister-in-law had departed. Why did they hate me? I knew I was far from worthy for their brother, but couldn't they see that I'd give anything for him, including my life?

"He can be such a jerk sometimes," Cora scolded, sounding the meanest I'd heard her yet. "It's a good thing you and I got the good brothers." Her voice lightened and she walked over to wrap an arm around me from the other side.

"Where's Patrick?" I asked, looking around for him in an attempt to distract myself.

"He's off moping somewhere. He's the odd man out now," Cora said, as William opened the Bronco door for me.

"He'll meet up with us tonight before we get back to the Manor," William explained, still seeming furious over Nathanial's behavior.

"Don't worry about your car, Bryn," Joseph assured. "Patrick's is here too, so they can keep each other company."

I smiled as my eyes targeted the open garage in front of us where my Camaro laid in wait beside Patrick's restored'68 Mustang. It was a beauty—red with white racing stripes and a turbo-boost—and he'd already made an impression on the black beauty beside him. She looked like she was swooning beside the muscle and flash to her right.

William had called Joseph a couple days ago and asked him to pick up my car where it had remained in Newport, and they said it could stay here until we found a more permanent spot for her.

"Keep your eyes on them, okay?" I replied, stepping into the Bronco. "He's got too much of Patrick in him." I eyed the Mustang with parental warning.

"Will do," Joseph said with mock authority. "We'll be sure to protect your Camaro's virtue if you promise you'll protect my brother's." Joseph's smile curled devilishly at the corners.

Cora snickered and elbowed her husband, as William rolled his eyes and shut the door behind me, and we set out to save Paul Lowe's life.

The former gray clouded start to the morning had faded, and blue skies graced the Oregon sky. I had my hand hanging out the window, soaking in the sunlight saturated by the sticky ocean mist. William and I hadn't said much since leaving his family a half hour ago—neither one of us wanting to breech the topic of Nathanial's odd behavior. My guess was that he had some insight as to why Nathaniel had acted so oddly, but I wasn't going to push him to tell me—I knew he would when he felt the time was right.

"How are you planning on finding Paul?" William asked, breaking the silence. "You know you can't go marching around the campus looking for him—"

"I know that," I broke in, pleased I was a few steps ahead of him for once. "I had Cora make an anonymous call to him this morning. She told him she had some information regarding my whereabouts, and to be at a diner downtown at two o'clock today." I smiled, waiting for the impressed look to come across his face.

"You called him?" he questioned, his expression guarded.

"No, Cora called him." I stopped, understanding the reason for his question. "I had his number." I shrugged, trying to sound casual about it.

He was obviously a little put out—even jealous perhaps—that I had Paul's number, but there was no reason for William's jealously. No reason at all. Paul held about as much interest to me as any other human being that walked the earth. Basically, there were only two kinds of people now—William, and everyone else. By definition, Paul fit into this everyone else category.

"He gave it to me when I first moved into the dorm. He knew I was new and wanted to be nice, I think." I felt ridiculous explaining this after everything, but then I remembered how bitterly jealous I'd been when Patrick mentioned the Council had selected several women throughout the years to be United with William, and empathy created understanding.

He didn't look fully appeased with my answer, but his eyes returned to their normal openness. "Patrick talked with me this morning after you two came back from your walk. He told me what he explained to you."

I watched his face, looking for any signs of distress. There were none showing. "I'm sorry I wasn't the one to tell you about my Mortal life and the events leading up to our Immortalization. Those brothers of mine mean well, but they're always trying to protect me from anything painful. It's rather irritating," he admitted with a half smile.

"I want you to know if you ever have any further questions on the topic—despite what Patrick would have you believe—I am plenty strong enough to talk with you about this part of my past."

He closed his eyes for one moment, but I'd noticed the pain that had punched its way to the surface. When he reopened them, it was already gone. "They have no idea how strong I am . . . what I can endure," he said, turning his head to me. "Do you promise you'll never be afraid to ask me anything—anything at all?"

I gave his hand a quick squeeze. "I promise," I vowed, while I leaned towards him and kissed the neck area just below his ear. "I know how strong you are and how much pain you've been through, but I won't deny that I'm just like one of them. I'd do anything to protect you from more pain as well."

"I know you would," he said, sounding grave. "And because of that, I fear you doing something for me that could put you in harm's way." Lifting our intertwined hands up, he kissed mine. "But that means you have to understand and accept that I would do the same for you."

I just nodded and basked in the after-burn of his words.

We pulled into Corvallis a little past one-thirty, and had no trouble finding the diner. I'd selected this location because it was public enough Paul couldn't attempt anything crazy, and I knew by 2pm the diner would be nearly empty; the lunch diners long gone, and it too early for the senior citizens (who adhered to an absurdly early eating schedule) to arrive for dinner. He parked into a diagonal parking space a block down from the diner. He looked nervous, and I felt nervous, but I tried not to show it.

"William." I removed my seatbelt so I could look at him straight on. "I need you to stay here and wait for me." Before he could object, I grabbed his hands in mine and continued, "Paul will recognize you and he isn't particularly"—I bit my lip and searched for the right word—" _fond_ of you."

William's face blazed. "I'll bet he isn't, but I'm not letting you go in there alone." His jaw clenched and the words came out muffled. "Something could happen to you before I could get to you. I won't allow it."

I shot him a challenging look. "You won't _allow_ it?"

His face softened minutely when he spared me an apologetic smile. "I don't want to sound like a dictator, but you have to be reasonable. There's no telling what this Paul character"—his voice grew fiercer, while I concentrated on not smiling—"will do when he sees you after believing you were either dead or missing this past week, and there's no way he's going to let you out of there once you're done telling your story of lies to him. No man could ever do that with the woman he loved."

"Wait!" I held my hand up, my eyes bugging out. "You think Paul loves me?" Now this was too much—the smile burst through.

William glared as harshly as one could at the object of their affection. "I _know_ he does," he seethed, and from his intensity, I almost believed him. "Why do you think he's gone to such extremes to find you?"

I contemplated that for a moment, thinking as well of the extremes William had gone through to find me, and while Paul's efforts didn't even register next to William's centuries of devotions, they were still significant.

When I remained contemplative, William broke through, his tone flat. "He's inside—in the far back booth beside the window facing the street."

I'd expected the jealousy to return in his voice when he saw Paul, but I couldn't detect any. He pulled me into a tight embrace before leaning back and grabbing my face between his hands. "You promise me, Bryn, that if I let you go in there alone," he said, anxiety dancing across his eyes. "You will be out in less than thirty minutes."

I nodded my head in agreement, surprised by how quickly he'd relented. Probably, because he knew I was right. Paul was not a fan of William's, and his presence would only exacerbate a situation that was nearly impossible already.

"I'm not finished yet," he informed me sharply when I reached back to open the door. "Can you swear to me that Paul Lowe will not hurt you—that he'll not place a hand on you?" His voice was fierce, matching the emotion in his eyes.

I hesitated before I replied, not wanting to answer so quickly he thought I was merely appeasing him, but I was positive Paul would never hurt me intentionally. He was a good person after all; such a good person he'd assembled search parties to look for me when he'd not been convinced of my feigned death. Why would William feel so uneasy that Paul could hurt me in any way?

"I promise you." I smiled at him reassuringly. "And I'll be in and out in less than thirty minutes."

"Go, then. I'll be close by." He grabbed me strongly to him again and embraced me, and then he let me go, just as sharply. His face was expressionless as I reached for the handle and swung the door open.

"Thirty minutes," he reminded with one last fleeting look, and then his eyes charged ahead to where I could make out Paul in the window seat William identified.

I shut the door without another word and walked towards the diner. I was relieved when I pushed through the shiny chrome door and found the black and white tiled café— known for its one hundred different flavors of malts and half pound cheese-burgers—nearly empty.

My eyes searched through the diner, pretending I had no idea where the person I was meeting sat. My eyes moved nonchalantly to the string of booths along the window, making their way to the last one where I found Paul staring back at me.

His normally tanned complexion was ashen white, his eyes were wide with shock, and his hands were pressed flat into the laminate table. I shot him a quick smile, and before the hostess could greet me, I walked towards him as fast as I thought prudent. I'd been remiss in factoring in his likely state of surprise, and prayed he wouldn't faint, scream, convulse, or any one of the other reactions appropriate given the situation.

"Bryn," he mouthed, looking bewildered. He slid out from the shiny red booth as I approached. There were sweat marks where his hands had been planted over the laminate table.

"Is it really you?" he asked with astonishment once I was standing in front of him. Slivers of his tan complexion were starting to show through the whiteness now, and his face was forming into showings of elation.

I smiled shrewdly. "It's me."

"I knew it!" Paul exclaimed. He threw his arms around me, drawing me into a hug that nearly took my breath away. I patted his back, unable to fully join in his excitement of the reunion. His hold didn't feel like it would come to an end anytime soon.

"Need . . . oxygen . . . Paul." I tapped at his shoulder, attempting to sound as out of breath as my Immortal body was able.

"Oh, sorry." He released me after one more tight squeeze. "Have a seat." He motioned to the bench seat across from his.

I resisted the temptation to take a look at the occupant in the vintage Bronco a block down. I convinced myself that I'd only find a seething face glaring at Paul from the extra long embrace he'd just forced on me. I wished Paul would have picked a table in the back where William wouldn't be tortured having to watch every play-by-play of our meeting.

Paul slid into his seat swiftly. The confident smile normally gracing his lips was replaced by one of pure exhilaration. "Wow, you look great," he complimented. "Different, somehow, but still great." His eyes scrutinized my face, as if trying to identify the change.

I'd been careless by not factoring in the impressive eye color change. "I got contacts," I lied, sliding my eyes to the side so he couldn't see the lie within them.

"Oh yeah, I like them. That's not it though," he continued, his eyes narrowing even more on my face. His head tilted to the side. "It's something else . . . you're _glowing_." He settled on.

A flush was added to whatever glow Paul was referring to—the temptation to look back at the man a block down became impossible to reign in, knowing he was the reason for the glow. To preoccupy my eyes, I glanced needlessly at the neon-lit clock in the back above the jukebox. I already knew how much time I had left; twenty-five minutes and counting.

"What happened?" he asked, as he crossed his arms over the table and leaned forward. The stiff orange leather sleeves of his letterman's jacket rustled in the process.

I'd practiced my speech and replayed it in my head several times this morning, so I was prepared. I was just opening my mouth to begin my oration when a waitress approached our table, her eyes barely glancing at us.

"What can I get you?" she asked huskily, and with an edge that suggested she resented the thousands of times she's already had to ask this question in her life.

"Ladies first." Paul gestured to me, with an expression on his face that led me to believe he thought himself quite chivalrous all the sudden.

"I'll have a lemonade please."

"I'll have a chocolate toffee malt and"—he glanced over the laminated menu—"Would you share some chili-cheese fries with me?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, knowing my time limit would probably be up by the time they arrived.

The waitress scratched down our orders and left without another word. Two minutes had gone by.

Paul lifted his eyebrows in expectation, so I commenced, "I trust you, Paul. Do you know that?"

His eyes sparkled at my confession. He nodded.

"I came to see you today so I could tell you the truth, but I don't want anyone else to know." I fixed my face into a stone of graveness. "You cannot tell anyone I'm still alive."

His nose wrinkled in confusion. "Why? I don't understand. Your friends, the university, the community . . . everyone thinks you're dead. They're in pain, they're mourning for you, and here you sit." He threw his arms in accusation my direction. "Why would you put them through this? Why do you want to _continue_ to put them through this?"

I interrupted before the frenzy in his voice continued its escalation. I was sure the hostess was already straining to listen in on our heated conversation as she stood behind the counter, feigning focus on rolling silverware into white dinner napkins.

"Shhhhhh!" I hissed at him. "Control yourself or I'm walking out that door right now," I threatened through my teeth.

He took a couple deep breaths and the ruddiness in his cheeks—that had screamed its alarm as fast as an expensive car—started to dim. "Okay, I'm under control now." He cracked his neck. "But please, explain."

Content he wouldn't pop a vein in his neck (at least immediately), I began.

"Everything just became too much—my past, school, life in general. I wasn't who I wanted to be, or living the life I wanted to live."

A twinge of hurt played at the corner of his mouth.

"I know it's extreme, to say the least, but I needed a full break from everything and everyone. Changing schools, or taking up a hobby, or even intense counseling"—I said, mixing in a laugh to lighten the mood—"wouldn't have been enough. I needed the opportunity to start a new life."

"But you're here with me," Paul said quickly, leaning forward.

"And?" My eyebrows creased in confusion.

"You just said you needed a complete break from everyone and everything, but you're here with me now." His eyes were twirling with ribbons of hope.

I internally cursed at myself for not foreseeing this rebuttal from him. Leave it to Paul to find the silver lining.

"Why?" he urged, still eager.

_Saving your life— is that reason enough for you?_ I thought acridly.

I couldn't tell him the truth though, so I'd have to let him believe whatever he wanted. "I care about you, Paul."

The look on his face broke my heart, because I knew I'd never be able to reciprocate that look. William had been more right about Paul's feelings for me than I had. "I saw in the paper about all the search parties you had looking for me. I didn't want you wasting your life looking for someone who doesn't want to be found." I had to look away from his face as the reason for my meeting registered—I was not here for the reason he'd hoped for.

I continued, with fifteen minutes left. "I respect you enough to tell you the truth. I _owe_ you that." He cringed and turned his head to stare out the window.

I was thankful for the interruption of the waitress returning. She placed a tall glass of lemonade in front of me and Paul's malt in front of him. She padded away as quickly and silently as she'd arrived.

I took a long sip from the straw, stalling for a few more seconds before I could brave continuing, "This is the last time we'll ever see each other. I came to say goodbye." A knot was forming in my throat, making my words come out all ragged sounding. I hadn't expected this to be so difficult, but I'd bet on the fact that Paul was nothing more than a friend . . . perhaps a friend with a crush. But as I saw a very human tear materialize in the corner of his eye, I knew how far off I'd been.

"You have to disband the search parties and stop looking for me. You've succeeded in your mission having found me alive as you suspected, so there's really no need to continue." The smile I tried to reassure him with felt ridiculous.

He brushed his hand quickly over his eyes before turning his head back to me.

"Succeeded?" His eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You call this a success?" His voice was magnifying with every syllable. "Sure, here you are—still kicking and breathing—but I will never see you again, and you're telling me I can't ever tell anyone the truth. Do I have this all right?" His head was shaking, and his hands were balled into trembling fists. He reminded me of the way Dr. Jekyll would look before convulsing into Mr. Hyde.

"You do," I whispered, hoping to influence his volume with mine.

"Well . . . crap, Bryn!" His fists beat down on the table. The hostess's eyes jumped to us. "I don't know if wondering if you were decomposing at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, or believing this BS you're feeding me now is worse."

The harsh words he spoke were less furious, but more desperate, as if he was trying to hold onto something that could not be held.

"Paul, please," I begged, eyeing the overly-curious spectators.

Our waitress appeared again—oblivious, or not caring about our explosive conversation—and set down a couple of appetizer plates and a steaming platter of chili-cheese fries.

Paul had a moment to gather a breath and decompress before the waitress left.

"What are you going to do?" he finally whispered, sounding defeated. Concern now colored his face.

For the first time since our meeting, I smiled with genuineness. Paul's concern for my future, despite my crushing blow, touched me.

"Anything I want." I smiled wistfully, knowing already what I wanted. "A fresh start."

My momentary lapse into dreaminess alerted Paul. "Does this have anything to do with _him?"_ The hints of a revelation were showing on his face. "Did he make you do this?" he asked, seething through clenched teeth.

"Who?" I questioned, keeping a level innocence in my tone.

He smirked at me. "You know who. I told you he was after you, Bryn—that he was a real creep," he was shouting again, his voice breaking over every few words. "Why didn't you listen to me?"

Now that he'd come to the conclusion for my rejection of him, he was not going to let it go. He was so certain there could be no other reason than William, as to why I would go through such extremes in my quest for a new life. It made me furious, and I almost questioned why I was going through such great efforts to protect this jealous, immature boy in front of me.

"You're being ridiculous—I'm leaving." I glared at him through the glassiness that had formed over my eyes.

"Leave then!" He fumed, thrusting his arms in the direction of the door.

At that moment, the waitress magically reappeared, a tall glass pitcher of lemonade in one hand. Oblivious to me exiting the booth, she reached the pitcher over the table to fill my empty glass. I continued to slide out and just as I turned to stand up, Paul lashed his arm across the table, grabbing my wrist.

"No, don't go." His arm also hit the waitress's arm, sending the glass pitcher falling from her hands.

"Let me go!" I screamed at him, at the same time the pitcher came in contact with the table and shattered into hundreds of jagged pieces, spewing lemonade everywhere.

Neither Paul nor I were hardly aware of what was going on around us; we were only focused on glaring intently in each other's eyes and not letting the other have their way.

"I mean it, Paul," I warned, remembering my new strength. I wondered if it would stand its own against a man known for benching nearly three hundred pounds.

"Let me go," I repeated. I pulled my wrist away from his hand with force this time, and to my surprise, it came out far easier than I'd expected. The downward pressure I employed when pulling against him sent my arm careening into the glass shards covering the table with unequivocal force. The table groaned its protest and I heard the splintering sound of particle board when my arm crashed into it.

"Ouch," I whined, more as a knee-jerk reaction than actually due to any pain it had caused. I'd felt a quick shot of pain—what reminded me of when I was Mortal and when a nerve would suddenly make itself known through a quick, single shot of pain—noticeable, and not exactly pleasant, but certainly not anything to get worked up about.

I was busy shooting a final glare at Paul while launching myself out of the booth, when Paul's eyes fell on my newly freed arm. He gasped. "Your arm . . . I'm sorry." He turned his head to the shock-faced waitress. "Go grab a towel or something!"

I followed his petrified stare to my arm. There was blood—quite a bit of blood, actually—flowing from my arm. Wasn't I an Immortal now? Didn't this come with freedom from cuts, bruises, scraped knees, and BLOOD?

My arm began shaking as I carefully lifted it off the table, attempting to rotate it so I could examine the damage.

From out of nowhere, he was there.

"Bryn," he said with controlled alarm.

His voice was all the healing my body would ever need; my oozing arm was instantly forgotten. William reached for my arm gently and pulled it to him. His button down shirt was already removed and was being skillfully wrapped around several deep gashes that were oozing crimson blood. "Are you alright?" he asked, trying to hide the worry in his voice. He finished wrapping my arm, and then raised his hands to my face. "Bryn?" His eyes were drowning in their worry.

"I'm alright," my voice quivered. "It was an accident."

As if being reminded of something, he spun around, keeping me behind him. "What the hell were you thinking?" The hateful venom carried to every corner of the café, and now _all_ the employees and few remaining diners were staring at us with interest.

"William, please." I grabbed his shoulder with my good arm, trying to turn him around so we could leave. But there was no moving the rock of muscle and anger standing guard in front of me.

Paul's eyes released the shock that had clouded them as he moved his fixed stare from the lemonade and blood mixture to William. His eyes filled with a twisted pleasure, as if consoled in having been right about William being the reason for my extreme lifestyle change.

"So you are involved?" he accused, his eyes taunting. "Look what you've done to her." He thrust his hands towards me, as if in explanation. "Isolated her from her friends and family, allowing everyone to believe she drowned—"

William jumped in, signaling towards the blood swimming over the table. "Look what _you've_ done to her!" he shouted, his anger close to spilling over.

Paul's eyes looked apologetically into mine. "I'm really sorry about that, Bryn. Really, I mean it."

He turned his fierce eyes back to William before I could repeat that it had been an accident. "What you've done to her is far worse than anything I could ever—"

The pent-up anger boiled over, and William lunged at Paul, pushing him against the back wall. A few diners shot up in their seats, and I saw one of the bigger cooks from the kitchen make his way towards us. "That's enough you guys, take it outside," he threatened. "Or I'm calling the cops."

Neither of them was listening. Thankfully, William had not pushed Paul harder than any other Mortal-strength shove, but the second Paul rebounded off the wall, he was charging towards William.

I lunged with my Immortal speed between the two, managing to stop Paul's incoming force with my good arm and placing my bound up arm against William— knowing he would not advance.

Paul's face covered in surprise—trying to process the speed or the strength, I wasn't sure—but his eyes met mine with questioning bewilderment. William reached his arm protectively around me again, trying to adjust me out of Paul's grasp.

"Wait . . . please, William." I turned to him, reassuring him with a smile. He stopped trying to pull me behind him, though he kept his arm securely wrapped around my waist, ready to move me from harm's way in an instant.

I looked into Paul's face with renewed conviction, knowing with certainty if I was not successful in my mission today, he would be dead tomorrow. I couldn't allow it. I had to convince him, against _all_ odds now that he'd seen William.

I could almost feel his Mortal life slipping between my fingers.

"Paul,"—the arm that had stopped his charge moved to grab one of his hands—"Do you care for me?" I knew this was a low blow but I had no choice; I was grasping at anything to keep him alive.

His eyebrows hardened on William before he met my eyes. "You know I do," he whispered, sounding ashamed.

I squeezed his hand. "Then will you swear to me you will do what I asked of you earlier?"

His eyes shot to the side and he started to shake his head violently. "No . . . no, I can't do that, Bryn."

I released his hand and reached for his face, turning it back to look into mine. I could feel William's grip tightening around me even more. "Please," I begged into Paul's glassy eyes. I saw their resolve weaken before me, and celebrated an early victory. "Please—swear to me, Paul."

He exhaled harshly and his shoulders slumped forward in defeat, but his eyes did not leave mine. "I swear to you, Bryn. _I_ will not do anything to hurt you." While his eyes remained fixed to mine, the last part he'd clearly intended for William's ears.

"Thank you," I whispered, as a wave of relief slipped over me. I'd saved Paul, and while I realized he would never fully comprehend what I'd done, it did not diminish my joy.

"Come on. It's time to go," William said urgently, pulling me with him as he moved towards the door.

I twisted my head around to Paul. "Take care."

His face was blank, revealing none of the emotions that so commonly played across it. I'd hurt him—I was sure of that—but the hurt would melt away soon enough and he could go on living his life, and I found solace knowing this.

As William pulled open the door and led me through, carefully cradling my wounded arm in his, I heard a final, "Goodbye, Bryn."

I flinched when the words hit my ears. They sounded lifeless.

Once we were on the sidewalk, William picked me up into his arms. "How's your arm?" he asked, eyeing anxiously over my forearm wrapped in his make-shift bandage.

"Fine." I lifted the arm, turning it over to examine it for myself. "Actually, better than fine. It doesn't even hurt anymore." I was surprised to see there wasn't any blood soaking through the layers of William's shirt. His skillful, tourniquet-like wrap had been extremely effective.

He opened the passenger side door with one hand, continuing to hold me in his other, and lifted me onto the bench seat of his Bronco. I took one final look at the hunched-over figure in the last window booth, and then William was in the driver's seat beside me. The engine roared and we accelerated over the road; leaving behind one problem and heading in the direction of a far greater one. Of this, we were both certain.

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

### TARANTULA LEGS

After pulling into a turn-off on the highway back to Newburg, we met up with Patrick. It shouldn't have surprised me to find him waiting for us in the middle of nowhere, with no hint as to how he'd gotten there—leaning against the rippled-metal barrier fence, his arms crossed and his face smug—but it did. I couldn't help the wonder I felt from another mystery. I could see from Patrick's patronizing face he was hoping I'd inquire into how he'd gotten here, so I suppressed my curiosity and placed an unimpressed look on my face as he entered the backseat.

"Hey-a, Bryn . . . William." He playfully nudged the back of his brother's head. "Did you miss me?"

"Hardly," William responded. I rolled my eyes.

"What happened, Bryn," Patrick hollered, when his eyes fell on my arm bandaged with William's dress shirt. It'd been a good thing the shirt's owner was wearing an undershirt, or he'd have been hard-pressed to make it to our rendezvous point with Patrick tonight. Even with the undershirt, I'd had to sit on my hands to keep them from misbehaving.

"I had a little run in with some glass," I said, trying to sound blasé. "Which reminds me . . ." I reached with my other hand to start unwrapping the light-blue shirt. The pain was long gone and blood had never shown through the cloth, so I was anxious to take a closer look at the collateral damage.

"I thought you were on a peace keeping mission," Patrick teased. "Doesn't look like there was much that took place. What kind of injuries did you inflict on your college boy enthusiast?"

William shot a menacing look at Patrick, and then leaned across the seat. "Let's take a look at that." He reached for my arm and unknotted the ends of his shirt, unwrapping each layer with care.

Patrick leaned over my shoulder to view the damage. I was afraid to look, mostly because I'd learned from experience that looking at something as beat up as I knew my arm would be, would create an illusion of pain. Patrick let out a low, impressed sounding whistle as I felt the last of William's shirt leaving my arm.

"Good as new," William said, sounding pleased as his fingers brushed over my arm. "Look," he encouraged.

I was shocked into silence when I forced myself to look at my arm. My brain wouldn't be convinced what my eyes were transmitting to it could be accurate. There wasn't a single gash, scab, slash or scar to indicate my arm had been shredded by glass only a couple of hours ago.

"What?" I stammered, sounding baffled. "How?"

Before my bewilderment could run away with me, William answered, "Because you're so young, you are relatively breakable, but you are still Immortal. While you can bleed, you can heal at an unbelievable rate." His fingers continued to trace over the top of my unscathed arm. "After a couple years you won't nearly be so breakable, and nothing will be able to pierce your skin."

"Wow," I muttered stupidly, wishing I could have healed as fast in my Mortal life as I could now—it would have saved me a lot of scars. "Thank you . . . _Doctor_ Hayward," I said, raising my eyebrows in an all knowing kind of way. "Or should I call you a miracle worker instead?" I continued, unable to contain myself. "Stocking medical carts and wrapping gauze . . ."

He looked chagrined. "I forget Cora nearly has as big of a mouth as Patrick."

I shook my head with amusement. It was amazing how uncomfortable he was with his many talents and accomplishments. "Cora said you went to med school three times. What exactly are your specialties?"

Patrick grunted from the back seat. "Besides everything?"

"Pediatrics, Cardiology and Trauma," William answered quickly, before glancing back at my arm in an attempt to change the topic.

"I guess I won't have to punish Paul with the nine most heinous forms of torture known to mankind," he said with partial jest. I scowled into the pale blue eyes, while he continued to turn my arm over in his, searching for even a hint of damage still showing.

"Although I most certainly want to," he said, smiling the one that made me more mesmerized than his others.

"So have you told her about your escape plan?" Patrick interrupted.

"No, not yet—"

"We're leaving soon?" I interjected, my voice bubbling with eagerness.

"You're leaving," William answered with emphasis.

My eyes squinted with confusion. "What do you mean, _I'm_ leaving?'

I heard Patrick shift uncomfortably in the back seat.

"William?" I questioned, my impatience growing when his silence drawled on.

His sigh was heavy. "Joseph will be coming to get you next Sunday morning. He'll take you back to Pacific City where the rest of the family will be."

I tried to keep my voice steady. "And you?"

He grimaced, and looked like he was bracing himself for my forthcoming reaction. "I've got to remain behind—"

"What?!" I burst in, breaking the substandard brace he'd readied his body into. "I'm not leaving without you."

"Bryn, please calm down," he pleaded.

I crossed my arms and slammed my back against the seat to demonstrate my outrage. "I'll calm down once you stop being ludicrous."

"I'll only stay for a few weeks, a month tops—just long enough for John to be convinced there was nothing particularly unusual in your disappearance. If we both disappear at the same time, it will arise too many suspicions, and I will not endanger you that way."

I shook my head like a stubborn two-year-old. "No, I'm staying with you—wherever that happens to be."

"That's not possible."

"You promised, William," I reminded him, glaring into his eyes. "That we'd be together _forever,_ and I think me leaving you behind kind of breaks that promise, don't you?"

"We will be together, but I will do my part to make sure I do this right—so no harm comes to you—"

"Nothing will happen to me."

"Please don't make this any more difficult than it already is."

Neither one of us was going to yield—it was apparent. His eyes were dead-locked and focused on his objective, and my crossed arms and glaring eyes were symbols of my unwavering stance.

Patrick peeked his cautious looking face in between us and turned to me.

"Think about it, Bryn. It's only a matter of time before John finds out about you two." His eyebrows rose, tempting my objection, but I remained silent. "I know you two are trying to be cautious, but all it would take is one slip, and after last night's little rendezvous—" An evil smile formed, showcasing his gleaming teeth.

"Be serious, Patrick." I hissed at him. I wasn't in the mood for his attempts at light-heartedness. Actually, I was far beyond being in that kind of a mood.

"Alright, alright, sorry. You're crankier than usual tonight."

"I wonder why?" I shot an accusatory glance at the man who deserved neither my harsh words nor looks, but the thought of leaving him behind filled me with dread. I was grasping at straws, throwing a Hail Mary . . . anything to keep him with me.

"Think of it this way then, since you can't look at it practically," Patrick said. "If you do stay behind with William, how long do you think my over-reactor of a brother will be able to keep his cool with John's less than gentleman-like behavior around you?" Patrick nudged me, knowing he'd hit the bulls-eye of my heart.

"I give you guys a week tops before someone witnesses one of your fleeting little touches you think no one sees." Patrick rolled his eyes. "Or William pummels our boy John for the daily undressing he gives you with his eyes."

"Patrick!" William shouted.

"Come on, William. The cold hard truth's the only thing that gets through to this girl. The billowy layers you like to wrap it up in don't work," he said, thrusting his hand at me where I sat trembling from my fear-induced anger. "Obviously."

A few seconds of silence hung heavy around us, before two sets of eyes teaming with anticipation, set upon me.

"Come on, Bryn. Time to be reasonable," Patrick voiced slowly. "I'll still be at Townsend Manor, and you _know_ I won't let anything happen to him."

Patrick and I exchanged a loaded look as we recalled this morning's conversation.

I festered in my seat, not able to give in yet, although I knew I would. They were both right, and the only reason I didn't want to be separated from him was because of my selfishness—because I wanted him with me more than anything else. I wasn't going to let this formidable vice of mine be the undoing of another person I loved.

Patrick rested his hand on my shoulder. He could smell victory in the air. "Come on, it'll be alright."

My head slumped forward in defeat into my damp palms. "Alright," I whispered. "I'll go . . . but, one month." I shot a warning look at William. "Or else I'm coming back and retrieving you myself."

"You have my word," he vowed, before he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. Before my head retreated to the sanctity of his chest, I saw him flash a grateful look at Patrick.

I was still fuming from our conversation, and how I'd let Patrick persuade me into agreement, when we pulled up to Townsend Manor. I didn't wait for William to come around and open the door for me as normal. I even slammed it shut after I got out just so they'd both know—if they weren't already convinced—that I was not happy.

"It doesn't look like I'm the only one with a temper," Patrick muttered over my shoulder once he leapt over the front seat and walked past me.

I glared at him.

When William came around the car, and I saw the concern on his face, my glare evaporated. No matter how angry I was, there's no way I could glare with any kind of feeling at his face.

The three of us climbed the stairs together; the two of them on either side of me like bookends. I reincarnated my glare at the Manor before me—it was the reason for my anger and worry anyways, inanimate as it was.

Patrick shoved through the front door and held it open for William and me.

"Welcome back." A voice greeted us immediately.

William stiffened and took a side-step in front of me, putting me out of view from the figure coming towards us. I didn't need my vision to know who it was. The authority in his voice and the condescension between the words identified who it was.

"John," William responded through gritted teeth. "We were just taking Bryn upstairs. It's been a long journey and we're all looking forward to some much needed rest."

"I'm sure you are," John said. He must have come to a stop in front of us because his footsteps could no longer be heard, but I couldn't see him due to the tower fortressed in front of me. "Did you have a pleasant journey, Miss Dawson?"

William somehow managed to tense even further when John addressed me. I stepped out from behind him, and I felt his anger switch to anxiety.

"Yes, I did," I said, now in full view of John.

John's smile erupted, which whenever revealed, always gave me the feeling of hundreds of furry tarantula legs scurrying over my bare skin. His eyes didn't leave me when he addressed the man radiating his emotions beside me. "I'd like to talk with you and Patrick first, before you retire for the evening. I'd like to find out how the operation with Mr. Lowe went."

William didn't respond. His eyes stayed fixed on John's that continued to burn like lasers through me. There was something new in his eyes tonight, something that hadn't been there before our departure yesterday. There was a flicker within the sapphire-blue and a widening of the black pupils that looked like anticipation. It made me uneasy, and I wondered what had transpired to invoke this emotion.

Patrick nodded and crossed his arms. "Sure, no problem-o. William and I will stay." Less attuned ears wouldn't have noticed the emphasis Patrick put on his brother's name, as if ordering him to stay.

Not waiting for a formal excusal, I turned around and allowed one quick look into William's eyes. I expected to find them burning with the same raging fires I felt within him, but they were flat and perfectly expressionless. It was chilling to see the shell of the man I loved, absent of emotion.

"Good evening, then," I said, making it sound like it was for the three men I was departing from, but I'd said it for him. I hinted a glimmer of his response in his eyes when I passed by.

I was uneasy leaving William behind with John, but Patrick was there, and William and John had gotten along for the past ten years without a hitch. I was the catalyst that sparked the Immortal testosterone to flare between these two men when I was near. I took the stairs by twos as I headed up to my room, eager to be comforted by a pair of comfy pajamas and the hope I could shut down the endless thoughts running through my mind for a few hours.

I shoved open the door to my room and practically screamed in surprise.

Stella was gliding through my room with the kind of even grace you'd expect a ghost to move in. She was carrying a silver vase that cascaded with an unusual variety of rose. As my eyes searched the rest of my room, I found more than just this one vase she carried—Ithere were dozens. I sucked in an uneasy breath; although I wasn't certain who they were from, there was one name that popped to mind.

"They're from John," Stella announced, confirming the name in my head. "They're the fire and ice variety—he had them special ordered."

The fire that burnt within me extinguished into a wisp of smoke as ice crackled throughout, intertwining every piece of me. Two things had made me anxious in less than one minute—the new glimmer in John's eyes, and the excessive roses poisoning my room with a scent that should have been pleasant, but instead entered my nose smelling as repulsive as burning flesh.

"He wanted you to feel welcome here and thought some flowers would do just that," she said, sounding contemptuous. She set the vase down on the coffee table, before crossing the room towards me like a Porsche—redlining every gear.

She smoked to a stop in front of me, eyeing me over with such disapproval I looked down to make sure I didn't have some huge stain on my shirt. "Did you hear about the Betrothal Ball we will be hosting here next Saturday?"

"The Betrothal Ball?" I questioned, lifting my eyes back to hers once I was certain my shirt was stain-free.

A smile pulled at her lips. "Every so often, the Immortals of each Alliance are called together for an event known as the Betrothal Ball. This is when the Council announces their selected Betrothals, and the first time when these soon to be United couples discover who it is they will spend forever with," she said with a new tone in her voice. It sounded wistful, maybe even hopeful. "A Unity ceremony is arranged shortly thereafter—similar to the Mortal event called a wedding—but our version is far more elaborate."

My thoughts turned wistful when I thought of a certain Betrothal and Unity I longed for.

"It's an incredibly significant event for us Immortals—a time when a select few are rewarded for their selflessness and years of service to their callings."

She inspected the bouquet of flowers immediately in front of her absently, too caught up in her impassioned speech to pay much attention to anything else. "You know they're saying John is to be granted a Betrothal. That's why the Council is here so early, of course."

While I should have been relieved John would likely be Betrothed to another in a week's time, the tarantula legs crept over my skin again.

"They're here inspecting his Betrothed-to-be. A Union with someone as important and high ranking as him is taken very seriously. The Council spends a large amount of time selecting just the right companion." She talked to the bouquet before her, but her words were meant for the only other Immortal object in the room.

"The rumor is . . . _I_ am to be the one selected for John." Her lips pulled up in an approving smile, her eyes dazzling sparks of hope. I didn't miss the inflection in her voice that had said this more as a warning to me, as opposed to passing on a piece of information. She was warning me to stay away, she'd staked her claim. I couldn't understand why Stella would perceive me as being a threat to her with all her exquisite beauty—but she obviously did.

"That's great, Stella. You two would make a great couple." I didn't have to fake the genuineness in my response.

Removing her eye from the arrangement—whose roses had white petals that were outlined in crimson red—she examined my face carefully, as if looking for any hint of deceit in my response. Apparently satisfied, her expression changed into one reminiscent of Annabelle—exuberant and wide- eyed. When she opened her mouth, her words almost gushed like Annabelle's as well. "Have you heard anything about the Ballad of the Betrothed?"

Since I hadn't even heard of the Betrothal Ball, I was surprised she asked if I'd heard of the Ballad. I shook my head.

"Once the Council reads the list of Betrothals, an orchestra immediately plays the Ballad, where all the newly announced couples dance with one another. No one else is allowed to dance—it's practically considered a sacrilege," she emphasized, her eyes growing large. "The dance is almost as sacred as the first night of the couple's Union."

I nodded my head, understanding the significance—the first night of their Union where their pale blue eyes were lost in a glowing sea of sapphire.

The dreaminess swirling in her eyes hardened, before they pointed in the direction of my bed. "There's a gift for you from John over there," she said, turning on her heel and heading to the door. " _Again_ , John wanted you to feel welcome," she reiterated, before she red-lined through the door, leaving behind her signature chill.

I saw a crimson-colored, velvet box, but I didn't rush to it as most women would. From the shape, I knew it contained some kind of flashy jewel. I trudged over to my bed, ignoring the gift laying on my nightstand beside one of the dozens of rose arrangements. I took off my jeans and crawled into bed, no longer interested in the cozy pajamas.

The box screamed at me though—it wouldn't stay silent—so I picked it up and threw it across the room with all my Immortal might, not even caring to see the sparkling contents within it. The wall opposite my bed stopped the flying box and it thudded to the floor, tossing the contents held within it over the marble.

More ice. I sighed and thumped my pillow, trying to make it mold around my head just right so the sparkling strand of diamonds lying across the room wouldn't menace me all night. I longed for my fire, who was three doors down from me.

I felt the warmth of the rising sun on my face before I let my eyes to view it, letting it make its way into my soul and brighten my mood. My mood was perhaps a bit more impressionable today, given that Joseph would be coming for me tomorrow morning so I would finally be free of Townsend Manor.

While I'd begged, pleaded, and pouted my way to persuade William to go with me, he'd remained adamant that he would not. Not if we were to make it look like a clean case of a young Immortal (me) rejecting the newly acquired Immortal life and escaping from the strict confines of all its codes—a fairly believable and common occurrence, according to him.

If we disappeared at the same time, John's suspicions would arise, and William knew John would eventually put together the pieces and make the connections. Both Patrick and William assured me John would never stop hunting for the two of us—that our betrayal and his wounded pride would serve as endless fuel to his hunt, and we would never find that small measure of peace two people should be able to expect.

Their conviction and assurances on this had satiated me enough so as to settle (again) for William remaining behind for one month. During this time, he could come up with some excuse so as to be transferred to another location, before finding his way back to me, where I would wait for him in Pacific City with his family.

The thought of one long month with his family was marginally terrifying, but the knowledge I wouldn't once see his face or hear his voice, was the most horrendous kind of hell I could imagine. The past five days had been a private kind of torture for me having him so close, but never having a private moment for even the quickest of embraces . . . what would another month feel like?

Hell, I told myself again—an intolerable hell, but one I'd have to find a way to endure.

Patrick would be staying indefinitely, he'd decided. He and William had gained such valuable information, and there was still so much more to be uncovered, that he felt strongly about staying with the mission. He'd continue to visit the family on the rare occasion he could sneak away.

I was actually sad when he told William and me he'd be staying behind. Irritating as he could be, I'd come to genuinely enjoy his company.

The warm fingers of sunshine continued to tickle my cheek, and I allowed my eyes to open and gaze at the yellow-tinged brightness coming through the open balcony doors. It was Saturday morning, the day of the much anticipated Betrothal Ball.

William had been uptight about the whole affair and grimaced whenever he heard anyone mention it; which had been a regular affair the entire week with all the preparation going into it. I didn't understand why he was so ill at ease with the whole event; it didn't sound that terrible to me when Stella had described it. A bunch of Immortals dressed in their finest, enjoying food, drink, music and dancing.

What was so harmful with that? I might even get to dance with William tonight. I instantly perked up at the thought. Since my last official day in class with William had been yesterday, we should both be able to excuse one tiny dance together as being a farewell exchange from a professor to his student. William and I would have our dance tonight—I wasn't taking no for an answer.

John was under the impression he would be taking over my studies on Monday morning. I'd told him how much I was looking forward to it yesterday when he'd interrupted our class in the library—little did he know I would be gone tomorrow morning. John would have a new woman to distract his attention with after tonight, anyways—according to Stella—once the Council rewarded him by granting him a Betrothal . . .

With the impact of a wrecking ball, it hit me—I at last understood why William had been so impossibly against anything related to the Ball. He was one of the names on the Council's list tonight that would be announced. A mate selected for him—a Union to plan.

I shot up in bed. My stomach was already knotting together in pretzels. He'd been with John's Alliance for over ten years now, a model Immortal, and a very gifted one too. The Council would want to reward him. The knots in my stomach churned and pulled tighter.

I stood up and stumbled to the open balcony. I sucked in several deep breaths, trying to quiet the voices in my head that kept taunting me, screaming that William would be Betrothed to another tonight, would dance the first dance of the Betrothed, and would be expected to Unite with this woman one day in the near future. I knew that him putting in for a transfer, and simply getting lost in the mix, would not be so easily dismissed if he was Betrothed to another.

Who did the Council have planned for him—was she beautiful, would he know her, and, of course, the most terrifying question of all . . . would he _grow_ to love her? My mind was plummeting into too many dark questions and scenarios. I needed more than just the fresh air on my balcony to calm my spirit. I needed to get out of this place whose brilliant walls were insulated with evil.

I rushed into the closet and came back out a half minute later, prepared with running shoes and loose clothing for however long and far I needed to run to quiet my mind. I shoved through my bedroom door and ran down the stairs. I felt the beginnings of hysterics emerge the moment my hand rested over the handle of the Manor's front door. I heaved it open, lunged down the steps, and was in a full sprint two strides into my run; silencing the hysterics before they could take full effect.

I focused all my concentration on the space ahead of me and the pounding feet beneath me. I concentrated on the cool morning air I drew into my lungs and the ever present dampness that hung in the Oregon atmosphere dewing across my legs. I'd been a decent runner as a Mortal, but my new speed exhilarated me, and the might of my fears served as the nitrous to my body's engine, propelling me at otherworldly speeds across the meandering hills.

A black streak came into my peripheral vision, and when I turned my head to investigate, I saw someone else running a way's off. The speed it possessed identified it as an Immortal, and as it grew closer, the silver-blond hair and confident swagger (even in a run) identified who it was.

"Hey-a, Bryn," he called out, slowing to a jog in front of me.

I came to an abrupt stop. "Good morning, Patrick. What are you doing out here?" His three-piece suit was telling he was not out on an early morning run like I was.

"Following you," he replied, as if the answer should have been obvious. "William asked me to get some information to you regarding you two's little escape plan, and when I saw you exit the Manor this morning with all engines burning"—he smiled, looking amused—"I figured this would be the perfect time."

"You were really flying. If I knew how long it would take to catch you, I would have changed into more appropriate footwear." He lifted one foot up to display the clumps of mud spackling his expensive looking, black wing-tips. "Why the need for such a raging sprint at this unholy hour?"

My gut reaction was to tell Patrick to mind his own business—to deliver his message and get packing so as to leave me alone with my wallowing. Then I looked into his face, and saw the similar strong jaw-line and the same shaped eyes of William's, and my response flowed easily. "It finally hit me why William's been so upset about the _event_ tonight." I couldn't make my mouth form around the three syllable word beginning with the second letter of the alphabet—the very thing threatening to take away my every meaning in life.

Patrick shot me an unimpressed look and raised one brow. "You did, huh? Wow, you must have been in agony this whole week racking your brain as to why my overanxious brother would be so uneasy about the . . . event," he said, his sarcasm leaking through his teeth.

"Why wouldn't one of you tell me William is going to be on the Council's list of Betrothals tonight?" I cried accusingly at him. "Did you think it would somehow be easier for me to find out tonight once they announce who William's expected to be United with?" I didn't worry about hiding the anger and rancor in my voice. I knew Patrick could take it.

For one moment, Patrick's eyes narrowed and his nose wrinkled in confusion, and then he burst into full fits of laughter. I wouldn't have been surprised if the echoes from his laughter could have been heard back at the Manor. I fumed while he struggled to recompose himself.

"You're funny, Bryn, you know that?" He said, once he'd regained a decorum of composure.

I didn't respond.

"That's why you're so upset? Because you think William's name is going to be on that list tonight?" His eyes stared at me incredulously, his laughter coming to an end.

"Yes," I muttered. "Why wouldn't that give me reason for worry?" I tried to match the same tone and expression he used with me whenever he thought something should be so obvious.

"Trust me, that's not the reason he's worried about tonight . . . and his name is certainly not one on the list," he assured, chuckling to himself again.

"How can you be so sure?"

He contemplated for a minute before answering, "William's always been a serious, determined, pensive kind of person . . . not charming, witty and verbose like myself." He smiled ruefully as I narrowed my eyes at him. "He's accentuated these characteristics of himself even more since entering John's Alliance. He hasn't earned the reputation for being one of the best professors here without exhibiting extreme dedication and a cold sort of personality."

The momentary seriousness in his face washed away and amusement returned. "There's no way the Council would ever punish a woman with a Union to William."

His explanation didn't appease me, so my arms remained crossed with doubt.

"Come on, Bryn." He nudged me gently with his hand. "I told you I'd always tell you the truth, no matter what. Right?"

He waited for my response, so I nodded my head begrudgingly.

"Well, that's the truth. William is not going to be Betrothed to anyone tonight, and you know even if he was, it would mean nothing to him. You're all he's ever wanted . . . and the reason he's been so wound up about tonight is because he's worried about you."

"Me? What's he so worried about me for?" I understood why William worried about me around John and the Council, or when I was alone—but why so especially tonight . . . on the eve of my escape from this place?

"Awww, you know how he is," he said, lightheartedly. "Personally, I think he's a little nervous about seeing you all dolled up tonight after that last attention-grabbing number you wore." His eyes filled with teasing accusation. "And you know how jealous he can be. What's he going to do if another guy asks you to dance?"

"Rip his arms off," I muttered back, my anger and anxiety receding.

He laughed again. "You're probably not too far off the mark there, and then all of us would have no choice but to run for our very Immortal lives." He wrapped one arm around my shoulder in comfort, but it felt awkward—it wasn't the arm that belonged there.

"Come on, let's head back." He dropped his arm and stared at his shoes pointedly again. "And could we reign in the horsepower on our return trip to salvage what's left of my lovely Italian leather?"

"I was just getting warmed up," I whined. "Do we have to go back so soon?"

"We do," he said with finality. "You've got to go get pretty for William and I've got to get pretty for all the ladies."

I laughed, and its release calmed me. "Pretty, indeed," I teased him. "You're the prettiest man I've ever met."

He popped his shirt collar up and slid an expensive looking pair of aviators into place. "Try not to be jealous."

We both laughed, and I nudged him. "I'll do my best."

We started back to the Manor at a much more relaxed pace than I'd left it. I leaned over and picked a purple wildflower, and accompanied it with a yellow one a few feet in front of it.

Patrick was content to let me tarry on at this pace, stopping every so often to add another piece to my bouquet. "Joseph will meet you at dawn tomorrow morning at William's houseboat on the lake . . . he said you would know how to find it." There was a tinge of a question in his statement.

"What?" I exclaimed, the flowers falling from my hand. "Did you say _William's_ houseboat? He told me it was John's."

Patrick's face flashed with remorse. "He's going to kill me—" he groaned.

"You're Immortal, he can't kill you," I shot back. "Answers, Patrick . . . now." I tapped my foot, and while I'd thought it such an unusual response of impatience when I'd seen it performed by someone else, I could understand the relief people found in it.

"Come on, Bryn . . . he'll go after my car. He'll kill him and that's as close to my death as—"

"Patrick—now," I interrupted, hardly able to wait until I got my chance to speak with the genuinely frightened man in front of me's older brother. The tiny, black bikini, the robe that appeared out of nowhere . . . he was in _trouble_.

"Yeah, that monster boat is his," he answered, hanging his head in shame as if he'd just given away his best friend . . . which I suppose he probably thought he had.

I don't know what caused me to soften, but it happened without having to make an effort. The flame of my anger was no match for the extinguishing might of my love for him. I wasn't going to let some miscommunication of boat ownership get me in a tizzy when much more important matters lay ahead of us over the next twenty-four hours.

"What are you going to do to him?" Patrick asked me through squinted eyes.

I exhaled, feeling like a hopeless pushover. "Nothing."

"Nothing? After that big explosion . . . you're going to let him off that easy?"

I smiled, as a few forms of mild torture coming to mind I'm sure I could impart upon him. "I suppose I could think of something."

"Good, do. Don't go soft on him."

"Are you going to tell me about you guy's plan for my escape from this place anytime soon . . . or are you planning on selling your brother out again?" I eyed him from the side.

His dimples set. "Given your preference for early morning runs," he said, nudging my shoulder with his, "that will be our cover. If anyone sees you tomorrow morning, you should look like you're going on a run. That means you can't bring anything with you— no luggage, bags, or anything else that would arouse suspicion you were going for more than just a jog. Do you understand?" His voice was serious, and I saw in Patrick during these more grave moments a lot more of William than I realized was there.

"I understand."

"After tonight, you won't see William or me again before you leave. You will have to say your goodbyes tonight . . . without really saying your goodbyes." He glanced at me to see if I'd understood him, and I had. I'd have to say goodbye without the farewell embrace or the words I wanted to speak.

"I'll be prepared," I answered solemnly.

"Joseph will take you back to Pacific City tomorrow and you will stay there with the rest of the family until William meets up with you in a month." The reminder of being separated from him that long made me grimace. "After that, William will take you to back to Montana. He will petition our Council to have you accepted into our Alliance and then he'll—" He stopped himself suddenly, and a sheepish look covered his face.

"And _then_ what?"

"Nothing . . . and _then_ nothing," he answered quickly, but looked ready for the oncoming assault.

"I don't think so, Patrick. Wasn't it you who just told me you'd always tell me the truth, no matter what?" Irritated as I was with him right now, I also was delighted he'd just re-quoted his promise to me moments ago.

He threw his head back, recognizing the conundrum he was in. "This isn't mine to tell. You'd want to hear it from him anyways," he answered simply. I'd expected a verbal volley in return, but from his tone, I knew the topic was closed, and I would not be able to negotiate or force any further information from him.

"Fine," I relented, ceasing my side-ways glare at him.

As we approached the front gates of the Manor, we were barraged with the sights and sounds of bustling figures flitting around the outside; arranging lanterns, flowers and other décor for tonight's festivities.

"He's quite lucky, you know? Having found you after several lifetimes of searching and waiting. It makes me jealous knowing the love he has for you, and the love I can see you have for him," his whisper waivered in places. "Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever find someone as special to me as you are to him." He managed a weak smile, and leaned in to kiss the side of my cheek. "Goodbye, Bryn."

He spun around and loped off towards the large outbuilding to the east, leaving me standing there with more needless confusion. This thing with Patrick saying something frustratingly evasive, and running off before I could ask for further clarification, was starting to become a pattern. I was pretty sure this had been his good-bye, and realizing I didn't know when I would see or speak to this Hayward brother again, caused a lump to form in my throat. I watched him disappear into the endless rows of the vineyard before I walked through the front gate.

None of the bustling bodies acknowledged me as I walked up the drive and through the tall double doors that were surrounded by crystal pillars and lanterns filled with unlit candles. There were floral garlands scalloped over anything that would stand still, and such an excess of ice from the intricate sculptures adorning the lobby, I seriously wondered if the citizens of Wisconsin saw this much ice in winter.

I sighed. Always ice . . . _endless_ ice in this chilling place that could easily freeze one's heart if it wasn't already enflamed with an eternal fire.

### CHAPTER TWENTY

### THE BETROTHAL BALL

The rest of the morning and early afternoon passed uneventfully. I stayed hidden in my room, knowing William would have wanted it; to keep me safely out of sight of the increasing numbers inhabiting the Manor.

It was a welcome release when Annabelle knocked on my door later that afternoon. She entered with an elaborate garment bag in hand—the kind that was so fancy you couldn't possibly imagine what it held zipped within it.

"Hey, Bryn."

"Hi, Annabelle. How did you know I was in desperate need of company?" I welcomed back. As different as Annabelle and I were, and how I was quite aware she lusted after the man who possessed my soul, I'd grown fond of this young girl who'd shown an exceptional level of kindness to me.

She beamed at me as she hung the garment bag over the door to my closet. "John asked if I'd help you out tonight . . . we can get all fancied-up together. How's that sound?"

There were certainly enough gowns in my closet, and I wasn't planning on doing anything special with my hair, but I desperately wanted the distraction of some company to pass the remaining couple hours before I could see my tuxedo-clad William.

"That would be great, I'd love some help," I said.

Her smile exploded like a stick of dynamite. She turned her eyes to the hanging garment bag and motioned me towards her. "John got you something to wear tonight." Her eyes glimmered in excitement. "I peeked . . . it's amazing."

I strolled over to her with weighted feet, unsure if I wanted to wear anything John intended for me to wear tonight. However, I'd played my part well at Townsend Manor—like the most devote actress—and I wasn't going to let my act falter now. I would grin and bear whatever formal contraption John had selected for me. It would be left behind tomorrow, anyways.

Annabelle reached for the zipper and pulled it down. I could make out the azure-blue color of the material within before she pulled the gown out. She was right—it was incredible, like something pulled off a Milan runway. Intricate lace overlay luxuriant silk in an off the shoulder, form-fitting design that belled out just below the knees, where a short train fanned out.

"Told you. It's got the _wow_ factor," Annabelle said, smacking her gum in her mouth.

"I'll say," I said, fingering over the lace.

"Let's get ready," Annabelle said with pep squad-like enthusiasm, before grabbing my hand and pulling me behind her.

Two hours, three sets of hot rollers, a half bottle of bronzer (along with a thousand other beautification devices I couldn't name) later, Annabelle released me from the make-shift, makeover spa of the woman's lounge adjoining my bedroom. She led me to the full-length mirrors, looking like the proud parent of a certified genius.

"Tada!" she trumpeted, stopping me in front of the mirror and dropping her guiding hand from me.

When I saw the reflection before me, I wrinkled my brow in speculation and reached a hesitant hand out to the woman standing statuesquely in front of me. When I saw the woman before me reach her hand out in the same manner, and her mouth drop open as I could feel mine mimicking, I convinced myself that the figure before me, was in fact . . . _me_.

Annabelle had worked a miracle on the plainness that was my genetic betrayal. My skin was as luminescent as the moon, my lips sparkled in a deep red pout, and my hair flowed down my back in a cascading river of waves. Despite my earlier disdain at the gown being from John, I fell in love with it immediately. It cinched to my body as if hand-tailored.

"You're a magician, Annabelle," I whispered in bewilderment.

She stood in front of me and admired her handiwork. She giggled with delight at my compliment. "You've got a lot of raw material to work with. It's not difficult to improve upon gorgeous."

I controlled the urge to roll my eyes at her consoling response. Not only was she a magician, but _extremely_ generous.

Her face became serious. "I've got to get ready, too." She spun around and headed back into the women's lounge where her gown awaited her. "I'll be back in a jiffy," she called out before the lounge door slammed shut behind her.

I wandered out to the balcony, needing to collect every ounce of courage I could. The sun was already starting its deep fall into the dark edge of the earth, twilight encroaching on the vineyard. I closed my eyes and took in one deep breath, holding it in my lungs while I dreamed of seeing William soon, and having only one more night to spend in this lonely room. Composed and satisfied, I released the seized breath, and turned to leave the familiarity of the balcony.

Something caught my eye resting on the stone railing. Despite the constricting dress, I rushed over to it, already knowing who it was from. The simple pewter box had a tarnished heart carved into its surface, and a warm sensation ran through me when I picked it up.

I looked to the next balcony down, hoping I would see him, or that he'd come and see me . . . just one last embrace before I had to say my unemotional goodbye to him tonight. I knew he wouldn't risk it though, not with all the extra Immortal eyes around the Manor tonight.

This was his goodbye—like me, he didn't want to have nothing other than a couple of casual words to get us through the long month ahead. I wished I had something to leave him with as well . . . I'd just have to make our dance extra special since I had no other gift to leave behind.

I slid aside the silver clasp and opened the box. My heart somehow managed to stop at the same time it felt it was going to burst. Resting on a pillow of ivory silk was a large, tear-shaped, sapphire pendant strung on a long, silver, rope chain. Despite the absent sun—like William—it still managed to sparkle in the darkness.

I grabbed the folded note resting beneath it.

A symbol of my promise to you.

In addition to my misbehaving heart, I had overreacting tear ducts to contend with as well. I refolded the note and tucked it back into the box. I fingered over the sapphire promise, and an air of clarity comforted me.

I wanted this sapphire promise with all of my heart, but I knew what I wanted even more . . . with my entire being, and that was William's Immortal life never being threatened. I would give everything I had; including forfeiting this sapphire promise to ensure this would be so.

I wrapped the necklace around my neck and heard the clasp ting into place, where it would rest for the remainder of my existence. I glided through the balcony doors, and hid the pewter box in one of my running shoes I had resting beneath my bed. I was all set for my morning "run" _,_ and despite Patrick's warning that I couldn't take anything with me, there was no way I was leaving the box behind. I'd stuff it in my sport's bra if I had to.

I'd just slid my shoe back under the bed when Annabelle burst into the room. "What do you think?" she inquired, twirling three times in my direction.

Annabelle had transformed herself in only several minutes time what had taken hours for me to get ready. She wore an emerald-green, silk dress and had piled her mass of honey and caramel hair into tight curls at the crown of her head. Her petite stature was accentuated by the four-inch heels she paraded around in like a true pro.

"You look beautiful," I complimented.

"Let's get this show on the road." Finished with her twirling, she came to a stop beside me and elbowed my side. "We didn't get all dressed up for nothing, did we? Let's give those men downstairs something to dream about." She smiled ruefully, moving her eyebrows up and down like a jackhammer.

There was only one man whose dreams I was concerned with, and I knew I'd been in them generations before I'd been born. Annabelle could have the rest of the men's dreams—I only hoped to create a few more images for him tonight that would visit his dreams while we were apart.

As we turned to exit the room, something jumped to mind. "Oh wait. I've got a present for you," I said, walking as fast as I trusted my stiletto-strapped feet to move.

"A present?" Annabelle questioned, sounding confused. "What for?"

I pulled open the drawer to my bedside nightstand, and touched the diamond choker for the first time since I'd placed it in its hiding spot nearly a week ago.

"Because you've always been so nice to me, and I won't see you in class any more." I hid the hand holding the necklace behind my back as I walked back to her.

"You didn't have to do that. We'll still see each other," she replied.

I didn't want to respond with a lie to her, so I flashed my hand forward and revealed the diamonds that shown like stars.

Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh my gosh!" She reached her hand out to touch the necklace I wanted out of my hand since it felt so white hot, it froze my skin instead of burning it.

"Let me put it on for you," I said, whisking behind the astonished young girl. I clasped the choker in position and turned her around. Her eyes were welling over.

"Are you sure? Don't you want to wear it tonight?" she asked, as her hands ran along the strand that must have contained hundreds of carets.

"I'm sure. It's yours," I emphasized, winking at her.

"I don't know what to say . . . thank you!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around me.

I hugged her back, attempting to keep my own tears welled up. "Come on, let's go."

She beamed at me and grabbed my hand, pulling me through the door and down the hall, her smile almost as sparkly as the jewels circling her neck.

The foyer below was a fury with a rainbow or colors. White-coated waiter's carried champagne, and what was surely John's famous Pinot Noir, on silver trays. The sound of hundreds of soprano, base and tenor voices combined in unison to form a symphony of pleasant buzzing.

Annabelle clutched at my arm in excitement, and the same emotion glimmered in her eyes. We hadn't taken more than one step down the staircase when she exclaimed, "Oh, no!" Her hand flew to one of her ears. "I lost my other earring." She looked at me full-faced to confirm what she already felt to be true, so I nodded my head.

"One's missing." I smiled apologetically at her. I should have noticed this before we'd started down to the party. I would have if my thoughts had not been so over consumed with him all the time. Nothing else seemed to matter . . . least of all one absent earring from my new friend's ear.

"Darn it! It must have fallen off in the changing room. I've got to go look for it." She turned and began rushing down the hallway.

I swept around to follow her.

"No, you go on ahead." She waved her hand in encouragement. "Don't miss another minute of this party—go, enjoy! I'll see you down there," she encouraged, before turning the corner and vanishing into the hallway.

The confidence I'd had in walking into this exquisite affair with another companion removed, I felt the beginnings of a panic-attack. I gripped both hands to my stomach, trying to physically force the nervous contractions taking place in there to quiet.

I couldn't stand here on the first step of the staircase looking like an idiot frozen in stone—an idiot hyperventilating. I mustered up as much bravado my introvert self had (it was measly at best), drew my shoulders back, straightened my back, and affixed my arms at my side. It was a struggle to keep them there though . . . they were so long and felt awkward not doing something. One calming breath in, and I took another step down, followed by the next.

I felt I might be pulling this confidence thing off, that was until I made it to the landing of the staircase and noticed the majority of eyes in the room were on me, paralyzing me. I turned to stone, surveying the staring eyes below me and willing their relentless stares to move somewhere else—anywhere else.

The panic started again, and with force. One hand burst through the imaginary shackles I'd envisioned to keep my arms at my side, and reached for my stomach. I steadied myself by grabbing the railing with my other hand. The room started to spin, getting faster with each circumspect. My legs were shaking beneath me, their movement hopefully muted by the layers of my dress.

"My, oh my, Miss Dawson." The deep bass carried above the silent crowd of spectators. John emerged through the crowd at the bottom of the stairs, the look in his eyes bringing back the nauseous pangs in my stomach. He stood on the bottom stair for a few more seconds, his eyes growing even wider as they searched over every inch of my body. "You're a vision."

A few heads nodded in approval.

John ascended the stairway to me. "May I?" his words didn't sound like a question as he held out his arm for me to take. His eyes fell upon the sapphire pendant and I noticed his brow furrow for a moment, and then he recovered.

With _all_ eyes on the two of us now, I slid my arm tentatively through his and placed my hand on his forearm. His eyes didn't leave me as he led me down the remaining stairs, and I saw the same anticipation in his eyes I'd seen there a few days ago. The mystery behind the anticipation still made me uneasy. I relaxed some when I found the majority of eyes had turned elsewhere by the time John and I stepped down on the marble floor of the foyer.

I saw Patrick standing a ways off. He was resting an arm on the fireplace mantle . . . casually confidant—looking like some hybrid of James Bond and a men's perfume model—and when his eyes met mine, he clutched his hands to his heart dramatically and faltered backwards, feigning something that resembled a heart attack. I stifled a giggle and turned my eyes from him for fear of not being able to repress any more laughter if I continued viewing his award-winning performance.

"Good evening, John." A familiar voice called out from behind us. I turned around, trying to make my release of John's arm appear nonchalant.

Draco and Julius approached us, accompanied by two stunning women. The dark, exotic-looking woman on Draco's arm was as tall as me, had the highest cheekbones in the free world, and had large, introspective eyes—sapphire blue to match Draco's.

"Allow me to make the formal introductions—" John shook hands with Draco and Julius, acknowledging each woman with a nod after he'd greeted the Councilmen whose arm they were on.

"Bryn—" He planted his hand on the small of my back, and I couldn't extinguish the look of horror that flashed across my face. Taking a quick scan of the five faces surrounding me, it didn't look as if any of them noticed my repulsion; although something that looked like empathy may have glinted across the eyes of the woman beside Julius.

"You already know Draco and Julius." Each man bowed his head and smiled formally at me as John continued, "This is Yasmin, Draco's wife." He motioned to the exotic woman and she smiled at me curtly, as if inconvenienced by the formalities. "And this is Savannah, Julius's wife."

I was met with a warmer smile when the second woman was introduced to me. Savannah appeared to embody refinement, elegance, and civility. When she opened her mouth to greet me, the creamy southern accent that flowed from her lips revealed where her refined disposition came from. "It's so nice to meet you."

Appearing satisfied the three of us woman would no doubt find something to chatter mindlessly about, John herded Draco and Julius into their own threesome of a circle to discuss something in low voices.

I smiled politely at the two women in front of me. Yasmin turned her head to the side, pretending to be more interested in the just-arrived couple entering through the door.

Savannah disrupted the silence. "I've heard so much about you from Julius. I was quite eager to meet you." I looked at her with confusion, but whether she acknowledged it or not, she did not address it.

"Now that we've met, we must all get together soon." She winked at me, and touched one of Yasmin's arms that sat showily on the bottom half of her hour glass shaped body. "What do you think Yasmin . . . it's been awhile since we all went shopping in Paris?" she asked, and while it seemed like something someone would say with sarcasm, Savannah sounded anything but.

Yasmin turned her head to Savannah for a quick second, shooting her silent response of disapproval, and went back to turning her interest elsewhere. It was Patrick who caught her attention this time, and she appeared much more interested with this excuse of a distraction than she had the first.

A sisterly feeling of protectiveness tore at me when I noticed the faint, upward curling of her lips—her eyes ablaze with something that resembled inappropriate thoughts.

Patrick didn't seem to notice the striking female looking at him with a conquering kind of want. Whenever his eyes turned to us every ten seconds or so, they watched me with the same vigilance his older brother did. I was sure William's present absence from the event was the reason for Patrick's observation—William had bestowed the title of my personal security guard on him.

"Making friends already?" John asked me as the three men returned to us. Yasmin smiled ruefully in answer and let out a quick reply, "Hardly."

"If you'll all excuse us, I'd like to introduce Bryn to some more guests," John announced, exchanging a look with Draco that made me wish the remaining twelve hours before I was out of this place, would pass by quickly.

John made the rounds with me in tow for the next hour, introducing me to the rest of the Councilman's wives—all just as gorgeous and sophisticated as the first two I'd met. The Councilman were just as imposing in casual conversation as they'd been when we first met in the formal setting of the cavernous room hidden below us.

When John turned to chauffeur me to another cluster of guests, I saw him.

I knew my ability to pick him out in a crowd was probably due to my bias, but I noticed there was more than just my pair of eyes viewing him with enthusiasm. Perhaps the eyes of those still single woman wistfully imagining a Betrothal tonight to the quiet, fiercely handsome man visiting with a couple near the grand piano where a pianist played a melancholy nocturne.

William in a tuxedo was nothing I'd imagined it would be—my images were an utter disgrace to the brilliance blinding me. Swoon-worthy was an understatement.

There was something deeply satisfying—and torturous, as well—gazing at this man with the most casual of gazes, so if anyone was watching, my eyes would not give us away. Would not give away that it had been all over for me the day I met him, that I'd never see another man but him, and that my life, along with my love, belonged to him forever.

I didn't hold a teensiest portion back for myself. The gift of my life and my love for him were one; they held no distinction from one another. My love for him was my life, and my life was loving him. If ever either one was called upon one day to save him, I'd readily give them in exchange for his life.

As if feeling the intensity of my thoughts, he glanced up from his current company, and without needing to search through the room full of strangers, his eyes fell upon mine and he allowed the fullest smile possible given the surroundings. His eyes glowed with the emotion his smile could not convey. I placed my hand over the sapphire stone and returned the careful smile that was full of silent thanks. His response at my thanks was less careful. He beamed with pride from my apparent fondness for the necklace circling my neck.

My happy thoughts were interrupted by a resounding clang and the reverberations that flowed from the large gong positioned outside the open doors of the ballroom. Someone announced that dinner was being served in the grand ballroom and requested everyone make their way in to seat themselves.

I'd never been in this room before; its doors had always been closed, hiding whatever was behind them. Knowing the vastness and artisan-like beauty of the foyer where the party began, I was not expecting to find anything more grandiose within the ballroom.

I was immensely mistaken. John escorted me through the soaring double doors of the ballroom and I gaped at the expanse of the room in front of me. It didn't seem possible the Manor could hold a room of this size.

It seemed as long and wide as a football field and its sweeping ceiling ran to the height of the three-storied estate. On the walls were expertly painted murals depicting different scenes and landscapes. If not for the expansive wooden dance floor taking up the center of the room, one might mistake the masterful artwork and the room holding it, to have been a museum.

A patterned wool carpet bordered around the dance floor, where rows of rectangular tables awaited the incoming guests. The room glowed from the three crystal chandeliers blooming like orchids above the dance floor and from the gentle candlelight radiating from the white pillared candles in their tall hurricanes.

At the opposite end of the room, four sets of French doors were open, revealing an expansive outdoor patio area also lit by candlelight. There was a small orchestra playing in one of the back corners of the room, playing the same tune the pianist was in the foyer, and from the notes I heard playing over the ivories behind me, the two musical parties were keeping stride with one another— note for note.

John led me to the far end of the ballroom and slid out one of the chairs for me near the center of the long table, where my back would face the dance floor. He slid my chair forward as I took a seat, and while he walked around the long table, I craned my neck back to watch for William. He trailed in, one of the last remaining guests to enter.

His eyes quickly and easily found me. Just as quickly—and before my breath could be completely taken away—his eyes roamed around the rest of the room, content I was accounted for.

It was then, when I tried to pry my eyes away from William, I noticed the majority of the guests were standing silently behind their selected seats; their heads turned in reverence towards the far end of the ball room where I was sitting.

Following their stares, I discovered what, or whom, they were waiting for. The six remaining Councilmen—John was now standing behind his seat across from me—had just finished seating their wives and were skirting around the long edges of the table at the distinctly prominent head of the evening dinner. I felt uneasy being one of only seven others seated in the room brimming with hundreds of bodies.

Something beyond the horror of Hades hit me as I looked down the row to my right at the six other seated Immortals—the wives of the Councilmen—the ones who'd been selected with great care and concern for the powerful men standing across from them. I was glaringly out of place sitting beside these six women who were so revered by the respectfully standing guests and their powerful husbands.

Who was I to be sitting with them—so new an Immortal, only a couple weeks of knowledge and understanding for the Immortal way compared with their decades, if not centuries of wisdom and adherence to our ways? What was I, a mere guest in John Townsend's house, doing sitting across from him on the evening of an honored Immortal tradition—the Betrothal Ball?

An invisible force hit me with such power I physically felt my internal organs crushing under its power. My airways constricted and I felt the blood leave my upper body and pool in my legs.

Despite the known embarrassment and scene it would case, I prayed for the release of fainting to find me—to release me even momentarily from the epiphany I'd just had. The very reason I was seated with the other six women. The seemingly inconsequential puzzle pieces of the last two weeks came together in a cataclysmic rendering.

The formal introduction of the Council and all their peculiar questions, the pleased looks of anticipation on John's face, his request of Patrick's presence on William and my overnight mission, the car, the necklace, this horrid dress . . . my mind flew through every image of the last two weeks; piling up what should have been so clear to me. The images and clues I should have picked up on that had put me in this very seat tonight—across from John Townsend on the evening of the Betrothal Ball.

As if by some miracle, I saw him from the corner of my eye coming to rest behind a chair that stood two down and across the table from me. My terror-filled eyes met his, and his calm expression cracked when he saw me.

It only took a second or two for his eyes to read mine before I saw realization cover his face. His eyes didn't leave mine, despite the horror contorting the muscles of his face, and I was thankful for that; for they held me in the only remaining confines of solace that were left in my life. Had his gaze shifted from mine as I knew it should to keep the watchful stares unsuspecting, I would have surely lost my sanity and broke down a millisecond later.

His eyelids dropped as his face contorted and I knew what he was thinking. He was cursing himself for missing the same signs and hints—that seemed so obvious with the luxury of hindsight—as I had.

He winced, and his face contorted with a pain so extreme it looked like something was pulling him apart from within.

Seeing him this way made me forget my own anxiety and I focused on nothing else but extinguishing the torment tearing him apart. The torment that hissed its accusations at him—how everything he'd done to keep me safe and out of harm's way, all the pretences and careful measures taken—had been utterly useless from the very first day I entered Townsend Manor.

It had been all over the moment John saw me and realized what he wanted, and nothing could have changed that—no matter the elaborateness or the strength of the defenses built up around me by William's diligence. John wanted me—and there was nothing, or no one, that could stop him.

Another wince shuddered through William as the evil inner voices continued their onslaught. I couldn't stand to see the pain anymore. I didn't care if we were found out, if I let my feelings be known for him, and his for me. What did it matter now anyways? There was nothing else besides the pain of the man I loved in front of me, and my basic need to make it right.

I slid my chair back while keeping my eyes on him, when Draco—at the center of the seven men—thundered, "Ladies and Gentlemen."

The room became silent and all eyes shifted to the Chancellor . . . all eyes except for two sets.

"Welcome to the Betrothal Ball. I'd like to personally thank John for hosting tonight's event and for the lavish hospitality we've all been met with." Draco raised a glass filled with champagne at John. "And I'd like to propose a toast to tonight's upcoming Betrothals. The Council, as always, has put a great deal of thought and consideration into tonight's promises of Unity, and I'm sure you will all be pleased with the announced Betrothals."

I noticed John stand taller (if that was possible) at this, but my eyes were not going to leave William's.

"And as always," he spoke with great heaviness and conviction, "what the Council wills, may no one challenge."

He raised his glass again, and everyone else followed in suit (everyone again except for William and me). Draco shouted out, "Cheers!" and then lifted the glass to his lips.

The resounding chorus of cheers didn't shake my stare, nor did the seven men across from me who took their seats in an air of tradition. I hadn't noticed anyone besides William, until the person standing to his left—separating him and John—placed his hand on his shoulder and leaned in to whisper something to him.

Whatever he'd said to his older brother had been persuasive enough for William to remove his gaze from me, and to partially reassemble the mask of indifference on his face.

My eyes drifted away from him after his left mine, as I was able to find the serenity from within I needed to keep from falling apart, but not before John could notice my emotion-filled stare.

His eyes flickered over to where William and Patrick sat, watching them with curious interest for a few moments, until obviously content they were paying me no attention, his gaze drifted back to me. The anticipation in them was not as constrained as it had been before. His eyes now pulsed with it, making no attempt at disguising the longings that ignited them.

Once the seven Councilmen seated themselves, the remaining guests sat in one loud eminent sounding thud, followed by the screeching slide of hundreds of chairs positioning forward.

I hardly noticed the following fanfare brought out by the dozens of servers. I think there was some kind of a salad, followed by a soup, and then some kind of fancy looking appetizer hidden within the shell of a crustacean; but none of it held any interest to me. I didn't touch a bite of it.

I didn't touch the crystal glasses in front of me, colored with the light purplish red of fine pinot noir, or the gold-tinged effervescent yellow of the champagne; and while the goblet of water might have superficially extinguished the flames that scalded my throat, I couldn't muster up the strength to reach for the glass and lift it to my lips.

My body felt utterly spent and held no desire to expend unneeded energy unless that energy was focused on William, and given the company surrounding us and Patrick's careful stares shifting between the two of us, there was no immediate future of being with him.

The main course was served, and while I hadn't paid attention to John's silence throughout the meal, I jolted when his voice broke through the buzz of dulled echoes.

"Is the food not to your liking this evening?" he questioned, eyeing over my untouched meal.

I was ever conscious of the brooding man two seats down and across from me, and as soon as John addressed me, I saw him thrust his seat back roughly. Patrick placed a firm hand on William's shoulder, stalling him enough so he could whisper something to him.

"It's fine, thank you," I said flatly. "I'm not very hungry I guess."

My answer seemed to appease John, for he went back to massacring the bleeding flank of meat on his plate, but not before blessing me with another one of his impure looks.

My eyes left John and scanned over the surrounding guests, quite sure William's nearly explosive exchange had not gone unnoticed, but to my great relief, no one paid any special attention to the two Hayward brothers. I could only imagine the agony ripping William apart being so close to me, yet unable to protect me—to save me from the imposing edict.

If only I could get away from the careful eyes of those around us. I was sure William would follow and then we could escape together. Before my very soul and the rest of my eternity was tied to the man who sat grinning malevolently before me—to a man I wouldn't want to spend thirty seconds alone with in an elevator, let alone all that came with the relationship of a husband and wife for the millennia to come.

A sheer piece of fabric whipping in the wind caught my attention. It was one of the sheer panels adorning the French doors . . . the _open_ French doors that led outside and away from this doomed event.

A moment before I opened my mouth to excuse myself for a breath of fresh air, Draco stood ceremoniously, confirming I was too late to make an escape now. He sealed my fate with the clearing of his throat and the slow smile that spread across his lips. I could hear the heavy metal door slamming shut and the vault lever locking my dreams and love away forever. Hope left me that moment, and I slumped forward in my seat, looking down at my clasped hands that trembled in my lap.

"This is it, Bryn," a female voice purred to my left, followed by her grabbing one of my hands in hers.

I hadn't noticed there was anyone seated to my left, let alone who it was, so I was surprised to find Stella glowing beside me. Her level, cool demeanor was no longer present, and beside me sat a gushing, nearly exuberant woman. If only she knew I was the reason her hopes for becoming John's blushing bride would never come to fruition, I'm sure her hand wouldn't still be holding mine . . . or maybe she would have left it there and crushed every bone instead. Either would have been preferred to the awkward enthusiasm she was sharing with me now.

"They're going to make the announcement of the Betrothals and then the orchestra will immediately break into the Ballad of the Betrothed," she whispered with overwhelming emotion.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, if I could have your attention again," Draco commenced, beginning the journey to sealing away my heart. I didn't care about anyone seeing, so I turned my eyes to the man destiny was carrying me away from with every passing second, and let them fill with everything I couldn't speak out loud.

"The time has come to reveal the very reason we've all gathered here tonight—the time to announce the Betrothals."

I listened to Draco's damning speech with one ear, and with everything else I gave to William. His eyes closed for a moment and he let out a heavy sign, as if admitting what was coming at us before he lifted his eyes to mine, and then held them there with the same intensity of emotion radiating in mine.

"If you will, Gentlemen." The six men surrounding him stood formally and silently. Draco drew a thick piece of parchment from the inside pocket of his tuxedo, unfolded it, and prepared to read the binding commitments.

I didn't notice if John was watching the intimate exchange between William and me, or if Stella had pulled herself from her self-absorbed shell to notice anything happening around her, and I didn't care about either. I didn't care about anything but this last private moment William and I would ever have.

He smiled warmly, and there was no longer any hint of the anguish or anger that had contorted his face earlier. Like me, he was not allowing anything to ruin our last moments where we still belonged to one another and no one else.

As if to remind everyone for something no one needed to be reminded of (for I'm sure every Immortal in this room was aware of the severe penalty for breaking the sacred ties the Council ordered), Draco re-quoted one of the most revered of Immortal proverbs, "What the Council wills, may no Immortal or Mortal break." He let a minute pass before continuing, letting the significance of the proverb settle amongst the crowd.

"The first of the five Betrothals we will be announcing tonight goes to . . ."

I didn't listen anymore, I didn't need to. I knew he would save John's name for last; like some sort of grand finale.

I heard the congratulatory murmurs and hoots from the crowd as Draco announced the couples. Everyone seemed to be excited and an air of celebration flowed around us.

It felt more like a funeral to me—my own funeral. My soul would soon be placed in the dark confines of a wooden coffin, the rusty nails sealing it with finality. There were only seconds until the final nail was pounded in.

Without thinking, I mouthed, "I love you," to the man still staring at me with a fondness that took my breath away.

His smile spread and he whispered back, "Forever."

I nodded my head in one final bit of bravery, confirming my reciprocation of his vow to me. I would love him forever, regardless of us spending our lives apart.

I could almost feel the final nail being positioned against the wood top of my coffin.

"And finally, a man very important to all of us." Draco motioned to the man that stood at the right far end of the standing Councilmen. "Mr. John Townsend is hereby and forever Betrothed to Miss . . ."

Several gentle taps of the hammer on the nail-head, driving it in the hard wood enough so it would stand on its own, righting itself for the final, condemning pound . . .

"Miss Bryn Dawson."

A thunderous pound. The nail driven into its final resting place—my soul forever dead, damned, and sealed away.

There were several separate and succinct reactions that took place around the final announced couple. The one I was most attuned to was William's face breaking, his eyes falling into pits of despair, perhaps never to look into mine with the same adoration they had just moments ago. His agony would have killed me where I sat had death been attainable.

There was Stella, whose hand urgently unwrapped itself from mine at the same moment she leaned as far back and away from me in her chair possible without actually falling off it. She muttered some sort of belligerent tirade, intertwined with carefully selected curse words, but I didn't really hear a single thing she said.

And there was the crowd of well-wishers around John, patting him on the back or extending a hand in a congratulatory shake. He looked like the lead singer of a rock band being thwarted with raving fans.

I was grateful for the size of the crowd around him so he wouldn't be able to immediately see the deadness that shadowed my face, and would now remain there forever. I doubted if another smile would find its way to my lips, and knew if one was possible in this nightmare filled world of mine, it would only be from the fond memories I would have of the only man I'd ever loved.

Right on cue, I heard the first staccato note of the orchestra as they prepared to break into their ballad, where the five newly announced couples would dance the first dance of their forever. I doubted my strength to hold myself upright, let alone my ability to dance a waltz in front of several hundred Immortals . . . in front of the man I knew whose insides would twist and contort into permanent scars if he watched.

I made one final wish and prayer to anyone that might be up above listening, that Patrick would remove him from the room before he had to watch me in John's arms gliding over the dance floor.

A hand reached out from behind me, and a familiar voice murmured, "May I have this dance?"

I didn't need to look at the now empty seat two down and across from me, nor see the vehement disapproval on Patrick's face, nor the shock on Stella's face, to know that the man requesting my presence on the dance floor was not the one I'd just been promised an eternity to.

My hands stopped trembling and I reached one up and fastened it securely over his, answering his question silently. My knees no longer weak, my head no longer clouded by despair, I stood up gracefully and he led me out onto the dance floor before any of the other four couples.

We were making our statement, and its deafening silence saturated the room.

At first, the faces of those observing the spectacle looked confused—as if they were questioning the name they'd heard read alongside mine—but when the low rumble of whispers began, those confused faces turned to ones of disbelief or disapproval.

William walked me to the center of the floor. His eyes held mine, and there was a look of bittersweet triumph on his face. The hand that held mine felt warmer and more electric than my memory had done it justice, and I knew this was because I'd recently surrendered all hopes of ever touching him again and also knowing this would all be over soon. I cherished every fraction of a second of it.

"I lied, you know," he whispered. I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes from my confusion.

"You shine _brighter_ than a star," he said, with more love in his voice than the room would hold—spilling into the foyer and out the French doors.

He turned and wrapped one arm around me to place his hand over my lower back and drew me close to him—closer than a formal waltz called for. I raised one of my arms and placed it on the side of his and my hand gripped tightly to the top of his shoulder. My heart was racing, and I could hear and feel his doing the same. His other hand grabbed mine and pulled it up, and then he led me across the floor.

The grace and fluidity with which he moved would have held my attention any other day, with the exception of the finality of tonight and wanting to be surrounded and aware of nothing but being in his arms for the last time. A few other couples had joined us on the floor, eyeing us carefully and dancing their own, less animate, waltzes—wary to keep their distance from the enamored duo that remained the silent eye of the storm.

The crowd around John must have diminished enough to the point John could now view what was happening on the dance floor. The tension in the room increased exponentially when I noticed John begin shoving his way through the thinned circle of well wishers.

I gripped my hands tighter on him, willing my mind to cement every line, muscle and plane of his face. We had only seconds remaining before John would be on us, prying me away from the perfect future I should have known better than to covet.

"Go, William . . . please," I pleaded, breaking our silence.

He must have noticed John's approach too, for he broke our stare to lean his head next to mine, lowering his voice to near silence, "I will not let him have you, Bryn. I will _die_ before I let him claim you." The shudder that ran through my body was stilled from his hold on me. "I love you. I will get you out of here—"

John had just stepped onto the dance floor when Patrick raced up behind William and placed a hand over his shoulder. "We need to get you out of here, Brother. Now." He said with finality, taking a quick glance back at the fast approaching figure of John.

"Get him out of here, Patrick." My words and eyes begged my beloved's little brother, before they flashed back to the tortured eyes before me. "Please, go," I whispered to him. My pleas had no affect on the determination blazing on his face.

"You won't be able to save her if you die here tonight," Patrick coaxed more urgently, when William's hold only strengthened around me.

Reason flashed into his eyes. It looked like it took every bit of willpower in him to release his hold on me and take one step back. Patrick had to practically pull him backwards as he guided him towards the doors.

"We'll be back for you, Bryn . . . soon," Patrick promised, as William backed up with him. His eyes dazzled one more flash of affection before his face hardened into a businesslike expression, and he turned and quickened his step to match Patrick's as they exited the room together.

Relief overcame me when I saw them disappear into the foyer, confident that Patrick would get his brother out and keep him safely away from the overwhelming numbers of John's ever so ready and willing Enforcers.

A final footstep sounded strongly behind me, followed by a deliberate clearing of a throat.

I raised my chin and set my shoulders back, determined to meet him with the new confidence that boiled within me. A confidence that came from knowing I was able to give up what I loved and wanted more than anything else in the entire world to keep him safe. I was now no longer a match for John's arrogant, entitled sort of confidence. I turned to meet his carefully masked face, but his eyes held the ferocity that he would not allow his face to form around.

He raised his eyebrows. "Having a good time?" His words were harsh sounding, teaming with sarcasm.

The quick lie of a cover up had already formulated in my head as I watched William walk away from me safe, so my answer flowed quickly, "William and Patrick had some sort of mission to attend to tonight and he wanted to wish me a quick congratulations before he left. He asked that I extend his deepest sentiments to you as well."

_His sentiments that the woman you've been Betrothed to will forever love him and despise you,_ I couldn't help thinking.

John's eyebrows lifted, and he carefully surveyed my face for several seconds—trying to find any detection of a lie or deceit in it. Finding nothing that would give me away, his lips pursed together and his eyes filled with an increasingly familiar gleam that would under normal circumstances—and had I eaten any of tonight's culinary masterpieces—made me throw-up.

"I was rather jealous seeing you in William's arms while I was inundated by morons pouring insincere congratulations my way. Please allow me to make up for the time we've already lost of our first dance together." He held up one hand and curved one arm around the empty space before him, obviously wanting me to submit and step into his calculating web of an embrace.

I hesitated for a second or two, long enough for the doubt to return to his face . . . but I recovered. A slow, seductive smile (or what I imagined one would look like) pulled over my red-colored lips and I took two steps forward and weaved into his embrace.

Against every impulse and raw reaction in my body, I didn't grimace when his hand clasped mine, or shudder when his hand reached far down the small of my back, gripping into the fleshy mantle of my backside. My eyes didn't falter from his lustful stare, and the invisible strings that held the corners of my mouth up in a smile that had his heart and body reacting unbecomingly, did not snap.

"The jealousy was all mine when I saw you surrounded by everyone else but me," I purred, trying to emulate the feline-esque qualities that Stella had perfected. "But now, here I am, just where I should be," I murmured. _And there's the final thudding sound of the nail being driven in your coffin, John._

### CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

### BITTER SWEETDREAMS

The orchestra had played its last nocturne, the last bottles of champagne and pinot noir had been emptied, and my net of feigned excitement for my Betrothal had been cast, by the time the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed twelve times.

As if some secret code, the remaining guests filtered through the foyer and out the front doors. Grabbing their silk shawls and overcoats as they exited, they showered their thanks and endless congratulations to John and me as we escorted them to their luxury European vehicles awaiting them in the driveway.

I'd played my part to the tee, and should have been exhausted beyond repair after murmuring tireless responses to John and dancing the endless waltzes he implored his soon-to-be wife to accompany him in; but neither my determination nor my strength felt depleted. If the only worthy charge I could carry out in my Immortal life was to build a convincing wall of deception for John that would protect William, I would do it without complaint.

Draco and Yasmin were the last of the guests to leave. Draco bid us goodnight and expectations for a forthcoming Unity ceremony in the coming month. Yasmin troubled herself with an enticing smile for John and a rueful one for me. I mirrored hers with my own, and knew I'd hit the mark and overtaken her own surly farewell when she huffed, turned her back to me, and exited without the accompaniment of Draco's arm.

Two can play at this game, Miss Cheekbones. We've got forever to hate each other if that's the way you prefer it.

I was nearly glowing from the new found courage and confidence I'd summoned from deep within, but I knew the moment I entered the solitude of my bedroom and walked onto the balcony that was full of memories, I would break down. The façade of bravery would crumble with no one present.

Looking up the long stairway leading to my bedroom, I felt the cement of hesitancy pouring over my feet. I tried to pry one foot from the marble floor to take a step forward and meet the inevitable sadness that awaited me in my room, but I couldn't. It was stuck in place.

"You can stay with me tonight if you like," John whispered beside my ear, misinterpreting my hesitancy. His teeth bit down softly on the end of my earlobe before he leaned back.

My face was overcome with fear before I could draw the curtain of resolve back over it.

"We could go away for awhile. Tell the Council we were United overseas," he said, again misreading the meaning behind my expression. He drew me unimaginably close to him, bowing my body against his. "They would all understand our haste." His lips positioned themselves over the side of my neck just above my shoulder, where the symbol of the promise made to me earlier this evening rested. A promise that could now, never be fulfilled.

"They all know the agony of waiting for what you know is yours to rightfully partake in one day soon," his voice was muffled from the continued movement of his lips on my neck, but each word rung with deafening clarity.

"I want you Bryn—tonight. I want what is mine to have." His hands released their hold on my back and slid into position over my hips, gripping each prominent bone with urgency. His lips journeyed up to mold around the form of my jaw-line. "We'll leave first thing in the morning before anyone has a chance to notice the sapphire-blue affixed permanently in your eyes, and when we return, we'll tell everyone we couldn't wait any longer and were United while we were away—consummating the Unity immediately after."

One hand left the curve of my hips and slid up my bodice, cupping under my breast. I willed myself to remove my soul from my body and to take an objective perspective to the man whom I was doomed to spend eternity with—knowing that whether tonight or some night in the near future we were fully United—it would make no difference to the betrayal my body would know when being experienced by anyone but William. I tried objectivity (even rationality) for a moment, but when his hands continued their northward journey, my body convulsed and I lurched out from his suffocating hold.

His eyes met mine with earnest disappointment and a flash of anger reddened the tips of his ears.

"As difficult as it is for me to say this, John . . . I can't be with you tonight," I lied through clasped teeth with the aftershocks of my spasm still running through my body. "I want to try my hardest to adhere to the ways of Immortality, and I'm afraid I'd forever be upset with myself if I gave in so easily tonight."

He didn't look like he was buying my act, so I improvised and . . . _embellished_.

I shot him a coy smile and flickered my eyelashes as I grabbed one of his hands. "Would you mind waiting for me, darling? Just until we can arrange for a quick Union ceremony, of course." The words spilled from my lips, feeling like hemlock to my insides.

A slow smile formed over his lips, and he leaned his head back and released a deep throated chuckle. "I suppose I should have known you'd turn into a pious one given the education from Mr. Winters and the unanimous approval of the Council." He paused for a moment before speaking again. "I can wait for you. I _will_ wait for you." He raised one of my hands to his lips and kissed each finger. "Let's not keep me waiting too long though, shall we? I'd say a Unity ceremony is in order for the _very_ near future."

He raised his eyebrows in expectation, and I kept the coy smile plastered on my face until he bid me good night and turned on his heels to have a cigar and brandy on the back patio.

The solitude of my room was less horrifying than I'd imagined. I tore out of the ill-fated dress and left it lying in a crumpled mess on the floor. I wiped the rouge color from my lips with my arm and somehow managed to slip into a long, white nightgown before the start of my hysterics came.

They floored me, knocking every last bit of muscle stamina and internal strength I'd borrowed against to get through this night. Thankfully, I was next to my bed when my knees buckled and I collapsed into it. I gasped fiercely, forcing my screams to be muffled by the plushy down of my pillows. My eyes welled over in endless tears, each one reminiscent of some memory I had of William.

Some memory I would have forever, but no more would accumulate. Despite what Patrick and he had promised tonight, I would not allow them to endanger themselves by stealing me away. Things much too significant had been set in motion, and John had staked his claim on me as officially as an Immortal could.

I knew he would never stop hunting me if I disappeared, and it wouldn't take him long to go down the list of possible accomplices, especially given William and my emotion-filled waltz tonight. I wouldn't put his life in danger, and while my bleak future as Mrs. John Townsend was close to the inner circle of hell . . . at least I would have the knowledge that somewhere, William lived on,

Ever so slowly, my hysterics calmed, and my body allowed me the protection of shutting itself down before I had a complete and irreversible break in my spirit.

I dreamed unfathomably sweet dreams that night, coming in and out of consciousness so each dream felt real, and reality felt like a dream. It was an unexpected heaven and hope flickered—somewhere between the roller coaster of dreams—that if every night forward could be like this, I could get through the rest of my eternity with a bit more enthusiasm. My days spent with John out of obligation, and every night with William because I wanted him and called him back to my dreamlike reality.

I could feel the pleasant warmth of daylight coming through my balcony doors when yet another dream came—this one the most euphoric and real feeling than any of the others. His hand stroking over the length of my cheek was warm and soft, and his presence emitted a dynamic electricity that intertwined with mine in the most intimate of ways, and his voice—that beautiful voice that could have raised me from the dead— whispered my name over and over again, until my heart felt like it was going to burst from the let down of opening my eyes and finding myself alone . . . _forever_ alone.

"Bryn, can you hear me?" his sweet voice continued on, astoundingly clear. "We must hurry my love."

The voice sounded almost pleading now . . . and why was he saying we needed to hurry? As long as I kept my eyes closed and my mind carefully focused on holding him there, there was no need to hurry.

"I love you, my little temptress." The stroking of my cheek stopped, much to my dismay; but was replaced by the fullness of his lips and the startling realness of the electricity that pulsed through me. It shocked open my dreamy eyes.

"Oohhhhh!" I gasped when I saw the face I'd spent the entire night (okay . . . the entire past month) staring back at mine. His hand flashed over my mouth, gently silencing my outburst.

"Shhhh . . ."—he chuckled softly, his eyes triumphant—"you're going to wake the entire Manor before I can get you over the balcony wall."

"William?" It was the stupidest response I probably could have said given everything I'd imagined and wished I could say to him if I was ever allowed a second again with him. I didn't even manage to get the two syllables out without my voice cracking.

He chuckled again. "In the flesh and blood. I'm sorry I couldn't come back for you last night, but Patrick advised against it." His voice took on a serious tone, and his pupils read an emotion so deep I felt sure I was staring into two black holes. "He said there would be too many watchful eyes on the look out, and it would be more _prudent_ to wait until this morning as we'd originally planned. Although, it's me instead of Joseph leaving with you." He smiled largely, as if he preferred this outcome over the other. I know I certainly did.

I'm sure the face he looked into appeared stunned, bewildered, doubtful . . . and a bouquet of other emotions as well. I still wasn't convinced he was really here in front of me.

"William?" I murmured stupidly again, and instead of waiting for another verbal reassurance from him, I took a course of action I knew would confirm if the man sitting on the edge of my bed was real, or a conjuring of my imagination.

I lifted my head from my pillow and threw both arms around his neck at the same moment I placed my lips over his to find my answer. He responded immediately, wrapping both of his arms around me and pulling me against him, where our lips attracted each other like magnets.

When I pulled back from him, breathless and reeling from the sparks that surged through my body, I had all the answer I needed. He was here in true form with me now, promising to remove me from the confines of my bar-less jail. His eyes closed for a moment and a pleasant smile spread over his face.

As my lips cooled and my mind cleared, I was reminded of something infinitely important. "He'll know it was you."

He reached his hand to my face, molding it over my cheek. "That's why I'm leaving with you now, instead of staying behind."

"He'll still figure it out. You know that, and once he does he will make it his sole mission to find us." I tried to keep the high notes of hysteria from my voice, but I heard a few slip through. "You know this better than anyone, William."

Wasn't he the one who wanted to be so careful about my escape plan, the one who told me John was not the kind of man one should cross, and the kind of man that always got what he wanted?

A dark fury flowed through his eyes. "Let him come. I will be ready—we will all be ready. Our Alliance is strong and will defend you." The darkness hardened in his eyes and resolve pounded through, melding into the shattered cracks. "I will not leave you here for another hour to be at the mercy of John and his corrupt Council—"

"But . . ." I interrupted, ready to make my valid counter argument, but was struck speechless when I saw the desperation that knotted his face. His eyes dropped, and if I hadn't seen his lips move I might not have heard the muted words he spoke.

"Please don't make this difficult. I will not be separated from you. Even if you do what you think is noble and in my best interest, and stay behind . . . so will I. Even if you go forward with the Unity to John, I will stay here just so I can be with you. If only to be with you in the occasional passing in a hallway, or the courteous exchange of a good morning. . ."

I blinked several times, fighting tears.

"My life has not been my own since you entered it decades ago. It belongs to you fully and you cannot expect I could go on living while separated from you when everything of any substance in my life remains here with you."

Finished with his confessional, his eyes remained lowered and his face wrinkled from the painful images the future might hold for us. As dead set as I'd been on staying here and doing my duty of protecting him from whatever punishment John would hastily dish out if the truth was discovered, his words reminded me of what I'd known all along—William and I could no more survive being apart from one another than a Mortal could without clean air. He was right. From the moment we entered each other's lives we became one—incapable of sustaining life on our own. Even if we were capable of sustaining life apart, it wouldn't be much of a life to live.

Despite the consequences and unknown future that would be ours for the remainder of our eternities with what we were about to do, it was worth it. Whether we had to be in hiding, or on the run and fearing for our very existences every day forward, we would take it all happily in exchange for being together.

Finally shutting my mind off and allowing my heart to govern my future going forward, I responded without thinking. "What are we still doing here?" There was a lightness and joy in my voice I resurrected from the grave I'd buried them in last night. "I've had _more_ than enough of Townsend Manor and its owner for one eternity."

The mix of relief and joy that burst over William's face was heart-wrenching.

"Now . . . we're leaving _right_ now." He laughed eagerly.

"But first"—his hand reached up and his thumb polished over the shape of my lips, making thinking difficult to attain—"there's something I need to do." His eyes danced with the mischief that would always be his trademark, while his arms grabbed tightly around my waist, pulling me down over him as he laid back in bed.

His movements were so swift I wasn't quite sure how I'd ended up on top of him, my face inches from his, but our uneven breathing and the electric charge coursing through my body assured me of our precarious position.

"What do you need to do?" I asked, not really caring as long as he didn't let me go.

"This," he answered, running one hand up my back and behind my head, pulling it to him. Our lips touched with the shyness of strangers at first, but it didn't take them long to be reminded of who they were united with. Mine moved always a bit more urgently than his, and by the time he caught up, I'd already moved on to the next level.

This pattern continued until I could feel his lips quivering beneath mine, and the heaviness of his breathing was interlaced with sighs of pleasure. If he would have been a Mortal, I was sure I would have been suffocating him—but excusing my actions given his Immortality and that he wasn't objecting—I continued on.

With as much speed and grace as before, I was suddenly on my back. William's face hovered over mine, and to my great satisfaction, the rest of him did as well. The movements from the quick rise and fall of his chest threatened to undo my slightly refocused mind now that our lips were separated. With that reminder, my head lifted off the mattress and towards his mouth floating above mine. I let my lips rest on his without moving, parting his mouth softly, so I could breathe his breath in and hold him inside me forever.

William's gaze suddenly flashed up with alert in them, but his eyes moved a one-hundredth of a second faster than his lips and the rest of his body could move from me. I heard the thunder of my door being thrown open so hard it smashed into the wall behind it.

William froze, only removing his lips from our embrace. His arms tightened around me protectively as raucous footsteps pounded through the door. I didn't look at the intruders, I didn't need to. I knew who would be there and only waited for his voice to do a final confirmation.

"My, my—look at what we have here," John's voice exploded, cutting through my ear drums and pounding my insides. "This wouldn't be the woman I was Betrothed to not even twelve hours ago lying beneath one of my men _and_ her professor would it be?"

I refused to look at John and whoever else was with him. I held my focus on the man above me, melding my body against his. His eyes were glowing with hatred.

William looked ready to take on John and his crew at any minute, and I couldn't find a trace of doubt on his face that he wouldn't succeed. It was his confidence that gave me mine. I wanted to shout obscenities at John, along with : _Don't you see you idiot? I'll never love you._ Or perhaps, _There's nothing you could have done, or can do now to keep William and me apart. Even with our deaths you cannot separate us._ I wanted to spit the pent up shrapnel at the man nearing his boiling point behind us. I'd never seen John lose his cool, but the frantic pacing I could hear behind me and the words spoken through tightly clenched teeth confirmed—without having to look at him—he was close to loosing his claim on sanity.

"What is a man to do about this," John feigned musing—his words not inflected as a question and I was certain this was because he already knew what he was going to do about _this_.

"Thomas, Dante—would you please retrieve my Betrothed from underneath Mr. _Hayward_ and bring her to me?"

At John's request, I heard two figures stepping towards us, but with the tap of the first footfall, William grabbed me up from the bed and had me across the room with blinding speed; with him positioned between me and the approaching men. He held his arms out and was kneeling defensively, ready to attack.

I got my first glimpse of the party in my room; John, a couple of his approaching goons, and Stella. Her arms crossed contemptuously, and a smug smile decorated her bee-stung lips. Her presence seemed out of place in this muscled line-up John had assembled, but I was certain he'd brought her along for a reason. John never did anything without intention.

I gasped when my mind caught up with the impending situation and I recalled what name John had used of William's—his _true_ last name. Hayward. My stomach churned and my throat constricted as if a boa constrictor wound around it, suffocating it of life. He found out who William really was . . . but how?

I was sure William hadn't missed John's mention of his true name, but he continued his silent sentinel in front of me. He was teetering from side to side, depending on which side either man approached. At the same time, he was inching back, forcing me to do the same. He was making our way towards the open balcony doors.

"Why don't you stop right there, Mr. Hayward. I don't think you'll find that exit any more desirable than the door behind me." John glanced purposefully behind us.

I turned my head, following John's gaze. There were two more men I'd never seen before, pressing towards us from the balcony, equally as large and imposing as the two still advancing before us. My head shot feverously from William, to John, to the two men in front of us and now the two men behind us—closing in the gap between us with each step.

John's face was filled with a look of conquest, William's filled with resolve, and the faces of the four men who would be able to wrap their open arms around us in six more steps, were filled with a sense of duty.

William's eyes scanned over each man, as if analyzing every strength and weakness, formulating a plan as to how best attack so as to provide enough of a window for an escape. I knew though, there would be no escape if he factored me into it. I was still too weak to do any good against these monster sized men. A thought flickered through my mind—if I could tie up a couple of the men with a distraction, William could make an almost easy escape . . .

"Go, William . . . please," I begged, my voice shaking. I took a step back, and then another; separating from my protector and surrendering to the unknown men behind us. Their attention distracted by my surrender would give him enough time to make his escape via the balcony.

His head spun around, and his eyes became wild when he saw me moving towards the men behind us. In another blinding flash, I was in his arms as they formed like vices locking around me.

He whispered softly into my ear, "I thought we already discussed this—we won't ever let ourselves be apart again. No matter what price we must pay . . . no matter what befalls us."

I nodded, choking back the ball suffocating my throat, "Whatever end may come," I vowed, as our eyes locked in what might be the final exchange of intimacy.

John's voice crushed the sliver of peace we'd summoned, and stilled the two men in front of us. "Come now, William. There's no need to be so overly-protective." His voice sounded placating. "Do you really think I would allow any harm to come to my lovely Betrothed?"

William's eyes narrowed, his face full of hate. I could see John's words had not convinced him any more than they had me.

"Of course, I can't promise the same thing for you, Mr. Hayward, but I will allow justice to be served. We shall put this before the Council, and they will sentence you for what they see appropriate." John approached us, Stella sneering her way in unison.

"Although I don't think the outcome will be what the little infatuated pet in your arms would approve of. Espionage and, shall we say, _inappropriate_ behavior with another man's Betrothed?" John thrummed his fingers together. "And to think I'd always been under the impression the Hayward name came with such a high degree of respect and moral esteem."

William's clutch tightened yet again on me, and I buried my head under his chin, savoring our last embrace.

Tired with the formalities and seeing that his lecture was getting him no where, John sighed. "There's two ways this can go, William." His tone scalded like acid. "One—you can maintain your hold on her, and I command my men forward, but of course, I cannot guarantee she will not be injured in the process."

William's face contorted, despite the fact that whatever injury may be inflicted, I would be healed from it in hours.

"Or two—you can release her and surrender yourself, to await your sentence from the Council. _My_ Council. " John tilted his head and smiled crookedly, knowing William enough to know what option he'd choose.

"You swear to me no harm will come to her." William growled through his teeth. My fingers gripped deeper into his flesh, wishing I could adhere to him. I didn't want to go anywhere without him.

A half smile pulled at the corner of John's mouth. "I swear."

I felt his hold on me loosen, but it wasn't the natural kind of loosening one might expect when being set down from someone's arms. It felt like ever muscle and fiber in his body was fighting a battle to contract around me again, to permanently cement me to his body—the only thing able to force the continued loosening was the strength of his will.

"It's your choice, William, but you've got five seconds to make it."

Ignoring John, William lowered his mouth to my ear again. His quiet voice flowed with urgency, "You stay silent, no matter what is said or happens. Let me do the talking . . . and then," his voice nearly faltered, but when he continued, his voice was flat and emotionless, "when I'm gone, you wait and stay obedient here until my brothers come for you. They will come. I swear to you."

My body chilled with the understanding of his words, and a darkness covered me that could only be cast by pure evil's soul.

"I love you. I always have Bryn, and I always will. My love will always be with you—to protect you whenever you need it most." He kissed me softly just below my ear, and then his determined arms lost the battle to his formidable will, and he set me down on the floor.

I twisted immediately around to face him, to reach back out for him, but he was already backing up from me, with his hands raised in surrender towards the men behind him.

"No, William!" I cried out. I wanted him to run more than I had before, even after his reminder that we swore we'd never allow separation to tear us apart again. I hadn't allowed myself to think of the severity of punishment he would be sentenced to, until he'd whispered it into my ear.

He smiled at me with peace filled eyes, and the two men grabbed him from behind.

John sounded exultant, "Stella, if you would be so kind."

Stella sauntered from John's side to the trio of men. She smiled wickedly at me in passing, before resting one hand over William's shoulder and raising her eyebrows to John.

"We wouldn't want you doing anything too rash, now would we? You see, now that I know who you are, I'm very well aware of the powers you possess. Your remarkable strength could quite easily best my men. That's why I've brought Stella along, of course. Her talent comes in handy in these kinds of situations."

Stella's gift obviously had something to do with why her hand was on William, but what was she doing?

John answered my question, guessing my thoughts. "Stella is able to render another Immortal's gift useless." He looked pointedly at the hand resting on William's shoulder. "Although she must be touching her _victim_ —"

I shot him a baleful look.

"For lack of a better word." He retorted, his eyes burning with arousal at my sudden fierceness.

"I would have gone without a fight, you know that John," William sneered. "This"—his head motioned towards Stella—"is not necessary."

John's face lit up, as if some hidden punch line were coming. "I'm not so sure about that . . . especially with what's going to happen next."

John shrugged his head in my direction, and Thomas and Dante advanced towards me. Before I could take a step back, they had hold of me, each one holding an arm behind my back. I heard the ear-shattering roar behind me.

"You gave me your word you would do her no harm!" William's voice tore through the room, fiercer than any voice I'd ever heard.

John's laugh could only be compared to that of the devil's when he's been notified of another soul taken. "I suppose I did, Mr. Hayward, but I simply cannot let the reciprocal actions of my Betrothed go unpunished. Did you really think I would forgive her so easily and let all this pass." He motioned with his finger between William and me with agitation, his voice raising an octave with every word. "Did you really think I would settle for used goods and being second best?" His tone was equally deafening to William's former upheaval. His body shook with convulsions as his anger continued to spill over every plane of his body.

It was then I noticed William's face affixed in deep concentration, his body shaking in opposition, and I realized why he was trying to fight now—to fight for what doom he knew we would both meet—and Stella's gift held his superior strength and skill in her calculating hold.

I fought against the bear-like hands clutching over my arms, willing my strength to increase at that moment so I could be free of my captors and pummel that twit who was the reason for William being rendered so weak and helpless.

My attempts were feeble, to put it mildly. I didn't gain an inch, fighting with all my might against the two gorillas restraining me. I felt their amusement and chuckles reverberating from them.

"No need to get yourself so worked-up, William. I won't allow the same punishment that will be yours to cause such waste by putting an end to the pretty little thing before you now." John approached me, and ran his fingers down my cheek, progressing down my neck.

"I will still claim her—another addition to my collection—although she'll be like my dog now. When I call her, she'll obey and come, and when I'm through with her, I'll throw her back into the caged prison she will know as home until I require her _company_ again." John's hand left my neck, and slapped across my face; leaving a burning sensation behind that felt more like ice than fire.

William erupted again, a stream of curses and threats that flowed with such speed and intensity, I couldn't keep up. John recomposed himself; his arrogant demeanor reaffixed to his face. He looked to be thoroughly enjoying the agony crippling William.

I remained silent. I wasn't so shocked by John's words or actions. In truth, I'd already expected it would be like this being United with John Townsend . . . even before he'd marched through the doors to my room this morning. What could one expect of a man who was capable of having his wife annihilated from the world because she'd uncovered one of his many vices?

John nodded at one of the men holding William, and the guard's arm pressed back, his hand balling into a sizable fist, and launched it into William's stomach. The punch could have caused enough internal bleeding to have been the death of a Mortal—or at the very least caused someone to cough up a sizable quantity of blood— but William barely showed the smallest flicker of pain when the fist came in contact with the stomach I'd memorized with my fingers (was it only several nights ago?). His face recovered, and the hatred aimed at John returned.

"Stop it! Don't touch him!" I yelled at William's captors.

"It's pathetic, you know," John continued, without mercy. "That you've been alone for two hundred plus years, and like some smitten school boy, fall for a putrid Mortal who you save from her own death so as to keep her with you forever, and now . . . "—John was amused again, laughing darkly—"you're going to die, and I'm going to take her for my own." His evil chuckles were then accompanied by five others. "Better luck next time, Mr. Hayward."

John turned on his heels, and marched to the door he'd come through less than ten minutes ago—how could everything change so drastically in a handful of minutes? Story of my life . . .

He paused and turned his head, raising his eyebrows in expectation, ordering my jailers to surge forward. My head shot back anxiously, making sure the remaining four followed behind us.

William's eyes met mine and there was a desperation there that would have floored me had there not been two strong men holding me upright. I forced my head forward again, unable to look into those expressive eyes any longer.

Furious beyond words, for a more important reason than the sentence I was going to serve in the near future, I turned to John as I was being pulled through the doorway and shouted, "Where are you taking us?"

"To the Council chambers—you should remember them, my dear." He smiled wickedly as I replayed the scene in that hideous room in my head. I held back the shudder that sprung up from deep within.

The new found confidence I'd discovered as of late, emerged, and as I was drug through the door past him, I spat, "The Councilmen all went home last night. It will take you hours to get them reassembled again." I spoke with fury and justified authority—I'd spent a good portion of last night conversing with the Councilmen's wives, and they all expressed their eagerness for getting back home after their week long stint at Townsend Manor.

He smiled ruefully. "That's quite true. They all did go home last night, but there was a fascinating piece of information I became privy to late last night that got my attention." I wanted to inquire further into this information, but he continued without pause. "I summoned them all back early this morning, before I found you and Mr. Hayward so inappropriately intertwined." He cleared his throat, trying to make the words sound vulgar. "They're already awaiting us below."

He shot a devilishly-angelic smile at me as I was pushed through the door, and without a thought I screamed back at him, "I will never be yours! I will never belong to you, no matter what you do."

The trio holding firmly to William passed by John and through the doorway next.

"No, I don't suppose you'll ever look at it that way, but nonetheless, you can't deny the truth, Bryn." He slammed the door shut behind us and continued to answer me from behind, taking up the rear of our parade. "Although I don't suppose I'll ever call you my Betrothed again, nor my wife . . . perhaps _whore_ is more fitting." He chuckled, and Stella chimed in as well, but both were drowned out by the livid roar that erupted from deep within William.

This time, I felt both my captors shiver in unison with me.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

### VERDICT

I'd never mentioned the terror of the Council chambers to William before, and I was fairly sure he'd never seen them, but he didn't let any look of surprise or fear cross his face as we were drug down the multitude of stairs descending into the chambers. I would know too—I was manic looking over my shoulder every few seconds, making sure he was still behind me. The most dreadful thing of the whole encounter was my terror he'd disappear at any moment. I couldn't let that happen, not without saying my own good-bye.

The march down the endless stairs passed with amazing speed this second time, and I was sure it had everything to do with the sentencing awaiting us below. While I wasn't entirely certain what punishment John and the Council would dole out, I hoped for the best case scenario, and prepared myself for the worst.

As I saw it, the best case scenario would be the Council dismissing William from their Alliance and sending him back to his own, warning him to never return; and I would stay behind to become John's Betrothed . . . or whatever he chose to call me.

Worst case scenario—and thinking about this sent scraps of glass tearing through my insides—included William and I sentenced to an eternal death, and while the horror held within this option was nearly all-consuming, I took a sliver of comfort in hoping we'd find one another again in whatever afterlife was held for us.

The faint glow of light now fully embracing us, I stepped down onto the cold, stone floor of the chamber. My feet were bare, and although nearly all of John's estate was covered in cool marble, the dark, smooth rock below me had a unique chill.

I took a quick survey of the cavernous room that opened before us, and had a sudden attack of déjà vu (and it had nothing to do with my first meeting with the Council over a week ago). I scanned my memories, replaying images and moments that would define where this feeling of foresight came from.

I stopped in my tracks when it was recalled. The stunning reminder invoked enough physical force in me to bring Thomas and Dante to an abrupt stop . . . for maybe a second, but it was enough to alert William.

"What is it? Are you alright?" The voice he used with me was such a stark contrast to the one that had last roared such anger.

"Quiet," John chided from behind. "I don't want to ask Andrew to administer another one of his _specialties._ "

I heard William snort his defiance, but not able to bear the thought of watching him take another hit like he had earlier, I tossed my head back and mouthed, "I'm fine." I managed a smile, but he didn't look the least bit appeased by my ruse.

I turned my head forward so he couldn't witness the fear playing over my face as I recalled the dream that had haunted my sleep weeks ago. The dream, which seemed more of a vision now—a future insight as to what was to come. The vision where I'd seen myself dressed in a white nightgown, standing in a dark, vast room, trapped in between a high wall of flames.

It was then I knew—no matter what William said, no matter what was pleaded—it would be me who would pay the price for our love, and the relief that swept through me was like the first breath of air a drowning victim takes. I would be no more after today, but William would, and there was perfect peace in knowing this. The vision bolstered my confidence further, and as I approached the emotionless faces of the assembled Councilmen, I met their stares with a confrontational stare of my own.

A smile played at the edge of Draco's lips when he saw the determination in my face. "Imagine seeing you here again so soon, Miss Dawson." Draco shattered the silence. "And under such deplorable conditions."

Thomas and Dante came to a stop, me with them, several yards in front of the council table.

"Yes, imagine that, Draco," I fired back. "I just couldn't stay away."

Andrew and the other nameless guard stopped beside us, Stella's hand still glued to William's shoulder, and John marched into the empty space between the accused and their judges.

"Bryn knew nothing of my work here, Draco," William said, cutting through several mumbled conversations. "And there were no inappropriate encounters that we shared, as John will no doubt try to convince you of. This can be proven by a mere review of the color of both our eyes."

John exhaled sharply, looking as if ready to interject, but Draco raised his hand to stop him.

"What you say may be true regarding Bryn being unaware of your treachery here for the past ten years, but your behavior—whether fully consummated or not—cannot be argued as being anything but inappropriate. Neither of you had a right to be together as you were, and Bryn being formally Betrothed to John last night make your actions this morning entirely unacceptable."

"I don't deny I've made many mistakes and been quite irresponsible with my Indulgences when it comes to having been with Bryn, but I was the pursuer. She is barely a month old to this life, and does not have a full sense of the significance and importance in adhering to the Immortal way." William didn't falter in his response, demonstrating how carefully he'd planned his defense of me.

He looked at me with apology in his eyes. "It was, and is nothing more than a random fling. She will have forgotten me as easily as I her, soon after I am gone. There is no need to punish her as well."

The words cut me superficially, for I knew the blatancy of the lies in them, and he was forgiven the moment he spoke the blasphemous words. He'd spoken them for no other reason than to protect me from something he could not bear. I remained silent and strong beside him, knowing no matter how much he pled, it was me, and not him who would be punished.

"Thank you, William—you've made your statement. I'd like to hear John's accusations now." Draco said, continuing to run the trial. He extended his hand to John, summoning the forthcoming prosecution.

Looking like a seasoned attorney, John turned to the six Council members before him. "As I relayed to you all early this morning, I stumbled across an intriguing piece of information late last night."

Turning to William, John continued, "Does the name Evie Longfellow conjure up any memories, Mr. Hayward?"

William bristled when he heard the name, but regained his composure quickly. "Yes, I knew Evie awhile back. I haven't seen her in a long time, though," he finished, sounding like he was putting his words together carefully.

"Had you heard she converted to my Alliance of Inheritors a couple decades ago?"

"I heard of her conversion, but had not heard to whose Alliance she'd joined. _Again_ , I barely knew her," William emphasized.

"Did you happen to notice her here last night?" John asked, with level innocence.

William paused infinitesimally. "No, I didn't. She was here?"

John chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Yes, she was. I'm most surprised you didn't notice her, but perhaps you were a little on edge given the impending Betrothal of your . . . _fling_ girl."

John turned to me. "Did William ever tell you about his relationship with Evie?"

Now it was my turn to bristle. "Not that I can recall," I replied coolly, careful to keep signs of jealousy at bay.

John looked pleased by my response, obviously feeling the need to enlighten me. "Evie and William were set to be Betrothed—"

"There was never a formal Betrothal," William replied venomously.

So this had been one of the women Patrick told me about that day on the beach. One of the women William politely refused in his search for me. Whatever hints of jealousy had taken root, withered immediately.

"You said, she said . . ."—John waved his hand dismissively—"I suppose the point of my bringing it up is that I believe she still bears you a bit of ill-will from your rejection. When she asked me what the most illustrious, golden-boy of the Hayward brothers was doing with my Alliance, I simply couldn't resist the temptation"—John spun around to face William, a wildness burning in his eyes—"to ask her what the HELL she was talking about!"

William closed his eyes and shook his head, now understanding where, and from whom, our fates had been sealed.

"I told her she must have the wrong man, for my William Winters had been with me for over ten years. I'd comforted him when he'd wandered to my estate, confused as to what had happened. I taught him when he was ignorant to the stringent ways of the Immortal life. I promoted him when his promise and gifts stood far and above others in my Alliance." John's voice filled every inch of the cavernous room. "I TRUSTED YOU!" He lunged in front of William, screaming an inch from his face, but William did not falter or break John's hate-filled stare.

John turned back toward the Council table and placed one hand in his jacket, recomposed. "But Evie was absolutely certain my William and her William were one in the same. So sure in fact, she pulled an aged photo from the interior of her wallet."

John flashed a smile at me, and lowered his voice to make it seem as if talking to me privately. "I think she still has a little thing for your William, my dear," he sneered with a wink, and then was business-like again.

"Low and behold, that photo was all the convincing I needed. It had to be one hundred years old and was worn, cracked and peeling from the passage of time, but there was no mistaking the face and eyes looking back at me from that photo. That rough, sort of entitled look about your face and the smug confidence in your eyes . . . I knew then I'd been betrayed." John turned ceremoniously to the two on trial, and the five holding us captive, his stance wide and his hands clasped together in front of him.

"Of course, the Hayward name carries a great deal of clout in the Guardian world, and is more known _notoriously_ in ours. With your father being the Chancellor of your Council, there was no mistaking why you'd been sent here—to drudge up as much information on our operation as possible and send it back to your pacifist, bleeding-heart, bunch of Guardians that are loosing this battle because they refuse to get their hands dirty," John spoke so coolly, I almost wished his raging tirade back.

"If it's any consolation to you, I believe Evie felt a twinge of guilt when she realized I had no idea of your calculating treachery. She left rather quickly after that . . ." John's fingers stoked over his chin.

"Thank you, John," Draco cut in. "You've made your account of the espionage of William Hayward. What is your account of William and Bryn's illicit behavior?"

A few pairs of eyebrows raised in obvious interest at this turn in the questioning.

John clucked his tongue as an old woman would when showing her disdain for something. "There was the compromising situation we found them in this morning of course, but there'd been something nagging me from the first time I had to send Ben and Troy to retrieve William from compromising one of our most stringent codes." John stared pointedly at William. "Immortals shall not intermingle with Mortals," he recited, as if William had never heard it before.

"Nothing seemed to add up at first—why our social outcast professor would go to such lengths to surround himself with this measly Mortal." His hand gestured towards me. "And then risk his very own life to save her." John said formally, looking at me if I was barely worthy of the space I took up in this dank cave.

"Once she was Immortalized and they were both here at the estate, I couldn't help but notice how overly protective he was around her—how he watched her every move, and how I felt the tension radiating from him whenever I came near her. He attempted to keep a blasé front about the whole thing, but there was no mistaking he had some feelings for our Miss. Dawson. I wrote it off as being some silly crush . . . I mean how could any warm-blooded male not have a partial fixation on my lovely Bryn?"

Stella hissed her disapproval, while I rolled my eyes. John was as adept at exaggeration as he was at making my skin crawl.

"My suspicions were confirmed this morning, although I'd severely underestimated their _equal_ desire for one another." John's eyes narrowed on me.

Draco's voice cut in again, "Are there any other allegations you wish to make against Miss Dawson or Mr. Hayward?"

"I'll spare everyone the rest of the details as the cruxes of my allegations are stated," John answered.

Draco nodded. "Now that we've heard your allegations, what punishment do you request?"

Despite the inner peace I'd found realizing this day would end in my death and not his, my stomach still lurched when the nearness of the occasion was upon me. I waited for the damning words to come from John's mouth, and the sequential approval from the Council.

"Given the severity of their actions, and the penalty our code calls for . . . I request the immediate deaths of Mr. William Hayward—"

My eyes flew frantically to William, just in time to see him heave a sigh of discernable relief. I felt my world ending—John had said the wrong name. I was so sure of my vision and what it had foretold—William lived and I died.

"And Miss Bryn Dawson," John concluded.

William's face flashed to me, filled with the same terror that had been mine when I'd heard his name called out in request for death.

He bellowed his protest, "This is absurd!" William addressed the Council directly. "I've given you all my sworn statement that Bryn is innocent on all accounts. The request John has made is ludicrous given her innocence. We all know our ways are stringent—no matter what Immortal following you adhere to—but they are not corrupt, nor merciless." William's voice turned pleading, and desperation was obvious on his face. "Even as large and powerful as your Alliance is here, if you rule to honor the request to end Bryn Dawson's life, you will unite other Alliances on _both_ sides to come against you."

William seemed to have hit a weak spot in their armor. I saw every member of the Council (John excluded) frown in acknowledgement, but they remained quiet.

"This is not right!" William screamed with conviction. I saw Stella cover her ears, and perhaps I would have too if my arms weren't constrained, and it wasn't the voice of my beloved ringing off my eardrums.

Draco held up his hand towards William, requesting his silence. "We've heard both sides of this account, and they are both strong enough to require some serious deliberation."

Draco turned his head to John. "Please excuse us while we deliberate. We will summon you back when we've made our decision."

John bowed his head and turned, looking expectantly at the captors holding firmly to William and me, before walking towards the entry-like room that comes off the stairway leading into the vast Council chamber room. I was turned around and pushed forward, William closely behind me, as we followed John.

In the holding room, while our fates were being decided, John paced in between the two of us. Our own respective jailers kept us on opposite sides of the room, facing into the corner; an obvious attempt to keep us from communicating. Several minutes passed silently, where I focused on nothing but the steady breathing of the man in the opposite corner.

William's voice filled the stagnant, empty space. "I'm so sorry, Bryn. If I could go back, I'd change it all—I'd erase myself from your life—"

"That's quite enough, Mr. Hayward," John commanded. "Your statement has been heard, and I for one, would be quite content to never hear your pitiful voice again."

"I _wouldn't_ change a thing," I whispered through the airways of my tightened throat. I felt the grips tighten over my upper arms in warning.

The next sound I heard was grotesquely familiar, followed by the sound of air rushing from his lungs. I spun my head away from the corner I was staring into to see what had happened. He was bent over slightly, one of his guards at his side with the balled up fist that had initiated the blow causing the sickening sound.

"Stop it!" I screamed, wriggling against my captors. "William?" The struggling wasn't getting me anywhere.

"I'm fine. Don't worry." He sounded already recovered, and when I managed another look over my shoulder, he was standing just as solidly as if nothing had happened.

"If I hear so much as another disgruntled sigh from either one of you, I'll order a blow be delivered to Bryn instead." Of course, John would arrow in on William's weak spot. I was just as capable of recovering as he was (perhaps not as quickly), but I knew William would utter nothing else with this ultimatum on the table.

"We're ready," a voice called out from the chambers, its raspy origins indicative of Julius.

John motioned us forward, and he followed behind. William urged his party in front of mine, resolve scorching in his eyes. As we walked, I felt an overwhelming sense of fear that the certainty I'd had of my vision, had perhaps been misplaced.

Instead of symbolizing my death, was the circle of flames that held me within them an indicator of what my future would be after this fateful day and the verdict read from the Council? A lifeless, pitifully small void that kept me encapsulated in the agony of my loss, the flames jailing me, keeping me separated from him.

I urged these thoughts from my mind. I wouldn't allow these doubts to take seed and grow roots, crippling my bustling courage. He would not die today . . . or any day forward.

My captors lurched me to a stop with more force than necessary in front of the Councilmen. I heard William growl his disapproval at the men on either side of me.

John's footsteps could still be heard following behind us, when William's last ditch plea commenced, "I know the Council's decision has been made, and with all due respect, I would like to make one final appeal to you." His face cut through all the carefully constructed pretenses he'd managed to this point, allowing the sincerity of his words to ring. "I understand the necessity for punishment to be dealt in such a case as this, and you must realize my death carries a much greater message and warning to my fellow Guardians. We all know that Bryn's death is superfluous and merely requested due to the injured ego of one man."

His head turned to me, still emotion-filled with what appeared to be a plea for my forgiveness. "My life is void as soon as you command it, Gentlemen. My only request is that I have your assurances Bryn leaves here today unharmed."

"NO!" I shouted with such pain, a few of the Councilmen's faces looked bewildered when they viewed the woman shrieking in agony before them. It was in this weak moment—between the sobs that felt they would tear me apart—I knew the Council saw through William's assurances of the casualness of our relationship. Even to a blind-mute, there could be no mistaking the love shared between us. I tried desperately to form the words of my rebuttal—to remind the Council who it was that needed to die here today—but my weakened spirit and sobs crippled me as the seconds ticked by.

"Gentleman?" William asked expectantly. "Are we in agreement then?"

"Again, Mr. Hayward, the Council thanks you for your admissions here today, but with all _due respect_ ," Draco mimicked William's words with spite. "We've already made our decision."

John came to his resting place between us, facing the Council with anticipation as Draco continued, "We all agree with you, Mr. Hayward, that you are the more guilty of the two parties in question."

I tried to straighten the limp limbs of my lower body, but couldn't find the strength I needed to get them to respond. I rocked like a toddler in the rigid holds of Thomas and Dante.

"But we are also quite aware of the popularity you have within the Guardian community, and your influence on them. While we are the strongest Alliance in existence, I don't believe we could resist the force of an attack from the entire community of Guardians when they came at us." A few Councilmen nodded their obvious agreement, but John looked obstinate and in absolute disagreement.

"Our actions of taking your life today would unite them all, and we would have a war on our hands . . ."

William's face contorted with doubt.

"You can't possibly believe with all the previous indicators, and now the newest little addition to your impressive repertoire of gifts, they would let their so-called chosen one's death go unpunished?" Draco spat the words, as if they were venom in his mouth.

William broke into some kind of frantic rebuttal, but I didn't hear any of it. The tide had turned. My vision was correct. Relief flooded me, making my head light with euphoria when the dread that had been mine imagining William's death, wisped away—like a feather in a light breeze.

I was brought back from my euphoric state when Draco's chair screeched behind him, and he flashed up in his spot. "That is quite enough from you, Mr. Hayward. Another word from you and we will make the continued proceedings today less than comfortable—"

William shouted back defiantly at him, "Make them less comfortable!"

Draco turned to me. "I wasn't referring to you Mr. Hayward, when I made my threat."

Again, these men all knew where William's weak spot was in his seemingly flawless suit of armor that shone with his courage and selflessness—there was one gaping flaw, positioned over his heart . . . me.

Draco's normal calm and composure resurfaced just as quickly as his outburst had, and he recommenced the businesslike proceedings. "It is the unanimous verdict of the Council here today, that in order to serve as some penance for the wrongs and treachery done to John Townsend, we rule for the immediate and eternal death of . . ."

Stillness overcame me, and peace comforted me. Not sure of what kind of afterlife was held for those that passed through the confines of Immortality or Mortality, I felt reasonably certain I would be able to carry the sweet memories of the time William and I had shared, and the love that surpassed an eternity of lifetimes in the short time we'd been allotted. With this certainty came the courage and strength I needed to straighten the wobbling legs beneath me, and stand strongly as my verdict was read.

Draco paused, a calculated attempt at creating an ominous air, before speaking the name I already knew.

"Miss Bryn Dawson."

The words met my ears with an immediate kind of liberation, and I let out a relieved sigh.

And then I heard the shattering screams beside me, and saw the man I loved fall to the ground, his hands gripping his head. Another scream roared through his chest, causing the edges of my soul to weaken, as if it couldn't handle the pain searing through the being that made up its other half.

There were no words to describe the agony charging through the form of William crumpled on the ground, nor my instant and equally matched agony tearing through me having to witness his pain. I couldn't imagine anything more horrific than what was being played before me . . . and I realized this with the knowledge that my own death was minutes away.

I struggled like a lunatic against the men holding me back. They must have mistaken my urgent struggles from being read my death sentence, and not because the one I cared about more than myself lay on the floor wrenching with anguish.

The two men who'd kept hold of William, had let him fall and they now stood over him cautiously, looking uncomfortable. Stella had kneeled beside him when he'd gone down, and she stayed there with her hand continuing to rest monumentally on his back. Her eyes glanced up to mine, with wickedness burning in them. Her lips turned up in a smile of vindication.

I felt a spark ignite within me, lighting something I hadn't felt before—a physical strength that grew with each passing moment. I lurched forward again, and this time, I was able to budge the monster-sized men holding me back. Their surprise was matched by my own, as I felt their grips tighten with a steel-trap-like effect. A spiteful smile was my only response as I continued to feel the strength building within me, as whatever had ignited it burnt with furiousness through my veins.

John, who'd been standing over William with the stance of a conqueror, turned his head to me and winked. The tongues of spreading fire burst, and when I lurched forward this time, I broke easily through the hands that held me. John's eyes widened, and he took a defensive stance, as if interpreting my jailbreak and sprint forward to be intended for him, but I wouldn't waste a moment of my temporary freedom on the likes of John Townsend.

It took me five strides to get to him, and on the fifth I slid into a crouch beside where he laid, covering him with my arms. I looked up briefly in response to the two shadows hovering over us, but the faces of the two men looked just as confused and torn as before, and I didn't worry—at least immediately—they would be pulling us apart.

I knew I had precious seconds only, so I leaned my head down to where his forehead rested against the stone floor. His body didn't respond to my sudden closeness. I could only hope the words I said to him now would make their way to his consciousness someday soon when he recovered—my final tribute and goodbye to all that had been ours.

"William?" I questioned idiotically, not really expecting an answer—although I thought I detected the slightest bit of recognition harden over his limp body.

"You will always know how much I loved you after today, and I will forever know how much you loved me, too." I removed one of my hands from his shoulder so I could sweep the long tangles of hair that had fallen over his face. When I settled it behind his ear, I kissed his cheek.

I felt a cool hand come to rest just above the silk of the back of my nightgown and all the prior strength tearing through me came to a halt, and I weakened beneath it. I didn't need to check behind me to see whose hand it was. Only one person I knew of in this room could be guilty of incapacitating the power of another Immortal.

Weakened beyond repair, or so it seemed, John came around me and grabbed hold of me from under my arms, pulling me back—threatening to separate me from the one I held to with urgency. I wasn't done yet . . . I still had one last thing to say.

John continued to pull on me, and in my weakened state, his efforts managed to pry one of my arms away from William's back. The instant my arm parted from him, he came back to life—he came back to the wretched reality that still held us.

His head and upper body snapped up from the floor, resting in a straightened position over his knees bent beneath him. His head turned in my direction, and as my other hand tore away from him, William reached for it, grabbing it before it was out of reach. Even against the force of Stella's formidable gift, he pulled me back to him, easily besting John's efforts.

I didn't need anymore than a second now, and as my desperate eyes met his—the emotions blackening them staggered me—I leaned in to kiss his lips for the last time, letting them linger there for a moment, until I saw John and his four men preparing their offensive.

When I removed my lips from his and recaptured my wits—it was silly I was still having these kind of school girl reactions given the gravity of the situation pressing upon us—I stared into his eyes and whispered, "I'll see you again soon. I'll meet you in your dreams."

I witnessed the acknowledgement and the devastation that soon followed. Looking entirely depleted, William nodded his head. No matter what physically happened to me, no one could ever take me away from William's mind. That's where he'd been introduced to me, and that's where I would now remain.

I felt multiple sets of hands affix to me, pulling me away from the haven of his arms, but this time, I didn't fight it. Having said what I'd needed to, I would only be delaying the inevitable, and I knew every passing second would drip another drop of hemlock into the veins of my beloved; who was now grasping for me frantically as space continued to separate us. Needing no guard to hold him back with Stella's hand affixed, the four men pulled me behind the Council table.

I didn't fight against them, but I kept my back to them so I could keep my eyes on William. So it would be his figure that would calm and guide me as I left this world. His face that would be the last one my eyes would see and my mind would process, burning it with the finality of death into my soul.

I felt a hard edge crush against my heels, and then another, as I was drug up the pillar of stairs to the table that had sent a shiver of dread down my spine when I'd first seen it. The table I now knew, for which purpose it served.

My eyes didn't waiver from William. I witnessed the beads of sweat that formed upon his forehead while he concentrated, attempting to overcome Stella's hold on him. I witnessed him growl in misery when he couldn't conquer the numbing power she had on him, as he watched the four men continue to pull me up the stairs. His eyes were wild, and in between surges of concentration, he'd yield momentarily, panting from his useless efforts, before tearing into the next bout of concentration.

I couldn't decide which had been worse to witness—William's writhing body crushed beneath the weight of pain, or the violent frustration from his strength rendered useless exhibited before me now.

I couldn't stand it anymore. "Please, William, stop!" I shouted, making my selfishness known over the swarms of chaos filling the room. I didn't want this to be my last memory of him.

His demeanor changed almost immediately at my request. The furrowed brow of frustration and teeth clenched in concentration, relaxed, and a rare beauty came over his face. He was filling my growing darkness with peace. He was making the passage between worlds bearable, and I felt the tears form before they spilled down my cheeks, wetting the pale silk below.

We must have reached the top landing of the stairs, for the steady beat of each stair pounding against my heels ceased. My assertion was confirmed when Thomas picked me up and laid me down on the table. It was even colder and more cryptic feeling than my nightmares had done it justice. My breath grew heavy and labored, and my grip on sanity began to peel away in quickening layers.

I recognized these frantic reactions had only escaped when I turned my eyes away from his. I turned my head, now lying flat against the stone table, towards his still beautiful face—and while the planes of his face remained flat and unlined, I saw molten torture flowing in his eyes.

I smiled weakly at him, hoping I'd managed the level of reassurance in it I'd intended, as I felt the chill of the metal shackles cinch into place over my wrists, and next my ankles. I understood the reason they'd become a vestige of this death doomed table, but they were needless in my case. I was going nowhere. I would accept the deepest of punishments without a fight, with the knowledge William would live.

The metal restraints in place, the four men swiftly descended away from the darkest of Immortal places. I held no contempt for them as their apologetic faces graced over me, before their hurried footsteps could be heard descending the stairs, leaving me alone—nothing but the comforting solace of William's eyes to keep me sane.

His eyes shot away from mine for a moment, flitting between the seven new figures ascending the stairs. Panic suffocated me as I watched their dark, determined faces survey me with duty-filled regard.

"I swear to you all that I will hunt each one of you down and make you pay." If I hadn't been watching him, I wouldn't have believed the fierce words were coming from his mouth. "Each of you will suffer," he continued, glaring his hate at each of the ascending Councilmen. "I will not rest until your Immortal bodies are dead and burning in a fire I'll never let burn out . . . trapping your souls in an eternal Hell," he spat. His words frightened me, and I didn't miss that they frightened a few of his intended targets as well.

It was John who responded with his standard, unimpressed tone. "You will try . . . but if you ever come back here, you will suffer the same fate Bryn is now," John threatened.

The thought was too much to bear. "Please William, don't," I screamed my plea.

"Listen to her," John instructed, nearing the top stair. "Although, I wouldn't mind if you did so much as show your face around here one day in the future. I don't think the Council would let you off the hook so easily again." He stopped, and turned his head to face William. "I'll look _forward_ to seeing you again soon."

The veins in William's face were bursting through his skin, and his whole body was quivering from the emotions flowing within. "You will die before I do John, that I vow to you. The only difference in our forthcoming deaths is that I will look forward to mine and what awaits me there." William's eyes tracked back to me then, indicating what would wait for him.

"So melodramatic all the time, Mr. Hayward," John chided, still sounding unimpressed. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see . . . although Bryn doesn't have long to _wait_ to see." He chuckled, shaking his head with his amusement.

They were upon me then, the seven men taking their final, unified step which would place them on the flat stone landing where I now lay, awaiting their verdict.

Perhaps knowing his threats had done nothing to change what was coming, he turned his eyes back to me, not wanting to waste the last moments we had together in this world.

"I love you!" he cried over the space separating us, and the echo it came at me with after hitting off all the walls, corners, and crevices in the room, sounded like a symphony playing a song that had been written especially for me.

I bit my lip to keep the calm mask I held over my face from falling, and another tear escaped my eye and trickled down the left side of my face. I nodded my reply, because words were no longer attainable in this world I was now in—caught between the strongest and truest of loves, and the darkest form of evil which would settle for nothing but my life in its quest for blood.

Desperate as my eyes were to examine what was taking place immediately around me, I kept them locked on William's face. His façade was melting at the nearness of my life ending, but I concentrated on gazing over the lines of his face, and keeping my breathing controlled—hoping these pieces of absorption would get me through this final stage with composure.

After all, William had given me what I'd requested—the final image of him not being an agonized one—and I would do all within my power to give him the same; so the image of me coiling in pain as my life was sucked from my very core would not haunt his dreams and nightmares alike.

I felt seven sets of hands come into contact with my skin, gripping over equally spaced locations on my now trembling body—the seven members of the Council, John now serving as a punisher. Their fingers felt cool on my skin, almost frigidly so, but they were strong and emitted determination.

John was immediately above me, having placed his hands over each of my shoulders, and I could feel his eyes burning into me, willing me to look at him; but when I stayed firmly focused on William, John turned his head to the figure that was keeping me centered.

"Look familiar, William?" John's maliciousness spewed from his mouth in a concentrated dose. William's eyes didn't leave mine to look at him, but his sudden rigidness encouraged John forward.

"The account of your Immortalization always stuck with me when I heard it told long ago. How loathsome one must feel knowing he was the one responsible for the obliteration of his entire family . . ."

William winced, but refused to look away from me.

"Stop it, John," I whispered, fresh tears flowing down my face.

An evil chuckle sounded in John's throat. "Here's to reliving the past, Mr. Hayward . . . enjoy watching yet another woman you love die, while you watch helplessly on your knees."

William slumped forward, and the age of living the decades he had clouded his hollow eyes. I prayed for the physical pain I knew would be coming to release me from the far more devastating kind I was experiencing now. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Draco signal the Council with a nod of his head, and I braced myself for what I could only imagine coming.

And then I felt it.

It was like nothing I'd ever felt in my life—both Mortal and Immortal—and as I searched my overwhelmed mind for words to describe it, none were nearly fitting. Agony, excruciating, misery, burning, insufferable, blazing . . . none came even close to describing what raged through my body. It threw me into sudden convulsions, and my eyes were forced from William's as my head threw itself around.

"NO!"

I heard the excruciating wail, and sure as I was of it coming from William, and as desperately as I wanted to turn to face and comfort him—despite the hell coursing through me—something much stronger, and with inescapable hold, wouldn't allow my focus to take place anywhere else but what was currently scorching every fiber of my body.

No, scorching wasn't nearly right either. It was violent—like a hundred wild animals tearing the flesh from my bones and sucking the marrow from within.

Another surge of intensity overthrew my thought process, and my spent mind sputtered a weak response, but one that was the closest I could come up with. Given the exponential weakening taking place within my mind and body with each passing second, it would be the strongest explanation I knew I could find. It was like feeling the life siphoned out from every vein, muscle fiber, organ, and most importantly of all . . . your spirit.

And that was it, my mind went blank and words couldn't play through it anymore. The lightening hot streaks of life-sucking spires that emitted from each finger of the seventy resting over my skin, took all remaining thoughts, dreams, and hopes. I was an empty shell, whose flesh and blood physicality was the only part of me still alive. It was ironic. Here I lay as an Immortal . . . dying.

Another earth-shattering scream reminded me of something. I tried with herculean strength to hold onto the last scrap of my mind that would remember who this screaming being was, and then William's face flashed over the nearly dead remains of my brain.

My waning eyes found him, but I did not find him in the same position I was sure I'd seen him in before, and there was a new figure beside him—also familiar and who invoked warm memories. There were now four motionless bodies lying in heaps around his prostrated figure. I saw him thrust the plane of his hand into the throat of a man standing beside him, sending him flying backwards

I viewed the scene with dumbfounded confusion, but it was hazed and blurred so badly by the dreadful fingers still pulling the final shreds of life from me. My eyes became heavy, and I had to concentrate all my remaining reserves on keeping them open as—whether reality or some dream like vision I was having now—the last figure I would see would be him when my eyes finally gave out from the destiny awaiting me.

The man fell to the ground, sounding like rock colliding into metal. William turned to the encroaching stairs, his eyes meeting mine again, and the glimmer of hope burning in them filled me with something, but I was too far beyond emotional comprehension now. There was nothing left within me to recognize what he was portraying, nor to respond to it. There was only him in those final moments, and that was enough for me.

My body was burning, but my soul rose above the flames in a trail of smoke that escaped into the garden of his soul. He was my eternal Eden—where I would forever dwell.

As I prepared to close my eyes, and free myself from the fires siphoning the final threads of life from me, I felt the boney fingers falling from me in unmatched intervals.

My eyes were weak though, and my spirit even weaker, so I couldn't process why they'd been removed. Maybe their job was complete, my life completely removed, the only remaining remnants of it shooting reflexively through me, allowing another second or two of vision and cloudy, misshapen thoughts . . .

I heard a couple shouts of pain, which were followed by crashing sounds, as something or _things,_ careened over the sharp edges of the stone staircase. My eyes moved from the blinding, incandescent white light above me, and my muddled sight confirmed what I'd felt—the Councilmen were no longer standing over me. My eyes flew about, but I couldn't see any of them . . . where had they gone? And why was I still alive, faintly as it was?

My eyes found him, and all the hysteria dissolved away as he sprinted over the last few stairs and glided to my side.

"Bryn!" he shouted, sounding grave and unsure. "Can you hear me?"

I couldn't speak, and I couldn't find any muscle coordination to nod my head, so I just let my eyes fall upon his, and rest there for what felt like a long time.

He took my shoddy response skeptically, but some of the stress melted from his eyes when he leaned down to kissed my forehead, and whispered, "I'm here now, my love. You're not going anywhere without me."

I attempted the tiniest of smiles, and took his worry-filled chuckle to be an acknowledgment I'd managed some kind of a contortion with my mouth.

"I'm sorry, William," a frantic voice called out as he joined us at the sacrificial alter. He was so familiar, but I was too far gone and not going to let the final remnants of my consciousness wander from the man hovering above me. "I shouldn't have waited so long—"

"Don't apologize, Patrick. You're here just in time." My dark angel replied, his eyes not leaving me.

"Well I suppose this explains Nathanial's hunch . . . and we thought _you_ were crazy powerful." The voice of the other man was familiar as well, as he gazed around at the chaos decorating the room. "Come on, let's get her out of here."

My dark angel's face grew determined, and he was all business, moving swiftly over the four metal shackles encircling my lifeless ankles and wrists. Freed in less time than it took me to suck in a ragged breath in an attempt to say something, he placed his strong arms under me and lifted my body to him.

The only assurance I was still alive, was my mind still working—weak and disjointed as it was—at least enough to be overcome by his beauty, and comforted by his embrace. He tucked my comatose head carefully under his chin, and I heard him exhale deeply, thick with resolve, and then we were flying down the stairs.

Despite the gentle lock he'd put my head into, my eyes were able to move around the room, and I did not miss the withered bodies of the Councilmen on the ground as he leapt over them. Some lay quiet and in unnatural positions over the stairs, and a couple lay wrenching in obvious pain on the floor beneath the stairs.

While I could view the images before me, my mind was incapable of coming up with any explanation as to how these men had come to rest—so suddenly and so nearly lifeless—in these positions.

"Patrick," he said, and I felt his head nod towards another familiar face that filled me with evil memories, who was crawling on his stomach towards us.

"Gladly." I heard the pale angel's response, before he kicked the head of the man I somehow knew would haunt my nightmares. The body of the crawling man launched into the air and crashed into the table, breaking it in half. When we passed him, he didn't move, but his dark eyes found mine, and filled me with his venom before I could roll my eyes away.

I was carried with unimaginable speed up the endless stairs, and my mystified thoughts were quieted once the Councilmen's lifeless bodies were no longer directly in my view. My mind was not strong enough to hold anything new in it for longer than my vision could keep it there.

The pale angel kicked open the steel door and it keeled open without a protest. We sprang through the kitchen, flew through the dining room, and sprinted through the foyer. We blazed through the open front door, down the front steps and across the lawn to where the garage stood glowing like a beacon of hope.

"We're taking Bryn's car," the sprinting figure beside us yelled out as he kicked open another door—this one splintered from the force.

"Her car's back in Pacific City." The voice that kept me alive, replied.

"Not that car . . . _this_ one."

I heard the shrieking sound of metal retracting, before I was slid inside a confined space, molding around the shape of his seated body beneath me.

"I've been dying to get behind the wheel of this thing."

An engine exploded, and why the sound seemed to invoke something from within, I only cared about the sound of the breathing beside my ear.

"I really feel like I need a cool pair of shades to drive this thing. Have you seen any lying around?" The voice in the seat next to us, jested in a familiar way. The arms holding me upright tightened around me.

"Can you be serious for one moment in your two centuries of existence?"

"I can try, but no promises." A familiar revving sound exploded. "Besides, someone needs to keep things light around here with you two, intense individuals—"

"Will you please shut up and drive, I've got to concentrate." Determined words flowed like honey from the mouth beside my ear. "I'm going to be out of it for awhile. Do you think you can take care of things on your own?"

The angel beside us grunted. "She's fine. They didn't get it all out of her."

"Do you really think I'm going to take a chance on that?"

"No . . . not really. I'm just not looking forward to you waking up like an angry bear out of hibernation from the pain you'll be in."

"I'll be fine. You . . . drive."

"Alright, Brother." An amused chuckle sounded beside us. "Save the girl . . . again."

His chuckle was joined by another, as the hands wrapped around me gripped deep into my flesh, and the most intimate, warm euphoria streamed into my body in electric currents. I drifted off into the somehow bright darkness to, "Stay with me."

### CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

### MONTANA

I was surrounded by a web of warmth and molded against something that fit my body as if hand-tailored for it.

These were the first signs I was coming out of the blackness that had consumed me. I heard humming next as a woodsy, cinnamon-laced scent filled my awakened senses, and the electricity that sparked between our united bodies confirmed—without the need to open my eyes—who was the bearer of all these pleasant gifts. My heart fluttered, and the restored energy within me surged.

"Mmmm . . . I can _feel_ you again—the good way I remember." The familiar voice ceased humming to whisper in my ear.

My eyes opened, no longer able to enjoy the sensory potpourri of him without adding the view through my eyes. As usual, the very sight of him invoked a cascade-like effect of reactions within my body, this time being no different. His warm smile paired with the glowing pale blue of his eyes made me dizzy. So dizzy, it was a good thing I was lying horizontally in his arms.

"Is this for real?" I whispered, reaching my hand to his face, still foggy from the extended slumber and from his ever present hypnotic aura.

He chuckled as I traced the pieces of his face. "I believe it is, although I don't really care what it is." His eyes closed when I traced over his lips.

"And why is that?" I asked, knowing I felt the same way.

His eyes sparkled. "Because I'm here with you, of course. And we're surrounded by some rather impressive beauty." His eyes left mine and trailed around us. "Although it has nothing on the beauty beside me," he said, tracing his eyes back to mine.

With determination, I forced my eyes to pry themselves from the man lying beside me to view the landscape surrounding us. We were lying on a worn quilt in a vast field that coursed its way along irregularly patterned rolling hills, which were enclosed by tall spires of snow-capped mountains. The stillness and rugged beauty of the landscape could be nowhere else but Montana.

William had taken me to his home.

A stream cascaded over round, brightly covered river rocks in front of us, and the endless blue of the sky above contrasted with the vibrant greens, grays and yellows of the countryside lying beneath it in such I way I felt I was caught up in a Maxfield Parrish painting.

Having my fill of the less impressive landscape, I looked back at him. His smile was as bright and inescapable as the mid-day sun, but I was suddenly covered in a blanket of darkness when my mind recalled the final moments of consciousness I'd had.

The grips of seven sets of hands as they drew the life from me; the indescribable pain and tortured screams of the man I loved; the dark, advancing void I progressed into when the promise of a permanent sleep drew me in; the inexplicable release of seven sets of hands; and the fallen, crumpled-up bodies lying in piles. A full body shudder ran through me, and my jaw clenched together unnaturally when I tried to ward the evil memories away.

"What's the matter?" he questioned anxiously, resurfacing me from the dark depths. His eyes locked on mine and pulled me back to the surface of the present moment, with slightly less blissful ignorance.

"What happened?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "How did you get me out of there?"

William paused for a moment, an expression of indecision settling on his face, and then it cleared. "Once Patrick—"

My restored mind recalled the face of my pale angel. "Patrick? How did he get in there?"

One corner of his mouth pulled up. "He's a Teleporter."

I let that sink in. "That explains a lot," I said, recalling the times he'd appeared out of nowhere.

William continued, "Once Patrick _removed_ Stella's hold from me, we had no problem with the scum Enforcers," he hissed, looking like he was placing himself back at the scene. "I got to you as fast as I could, and we got you out of that place. That's really about it." He shrugged his shoulders dismissively, and kept his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the distant mountains.

I raised an eyebrow and leaned up on one elbow. " _Really about it?_ " I mimicked his words with disbelief in mine. "You can't possibly think you can appease me with an answer like that, can you?"

A sheepish look covered his face, and the outer corners of his mouth tweaked from a repressed smile. "No, I didn't really think so. I was more _hoping_ so." The arm which was wrapped around me, reached up to run his fingers through my hair. "You don't really want to know all the details though, Bryn—not yet anyway. Will you trust me on this?" His face and voice pleaded, weakening my fight . . . but not conquering it.

"What happened to the Councilmen?" I pressed, not ready to give in yet. This was the part that made the least sense. They'd been there one second—strong and very near to completing their goal—when suddenly they were gone and lying in helpless masses.

William's face looked careful again. "That part is hard to explain. It appeared they were rendered weak and some looked very near to death—"

"But how could that have happened?" I interjected, my voice growing shrill—partly because none of it made sense, and partly because I could tell from his tone he was hiding something from me.

"I don't know," he answered promptly. "I didn't have time to stop and figure that out. All I could focus on was the miracle I'd been given by having a way to get you out of there. One doesn't question the makings that went into the miracle when they've been given such a gift," he finished, sounding edgy.

I bit my lip, fighting back the confusion and angry tears that wanted to come. I'd seen William like this before, but he'd never been like this with me. Whatever he was hiding from me was significant.

"How long have I been out?" I questioned, leaving the former topic for another time when he wasn't so heated and I wasn't so near tears.

"Not so long this time—only two days. Your body went through an incredible shock and needed to rest until it was rebuilt and strong again." He nuzzled at me gently, and the edge in his voice was gone.

I remembered the last words I'd heard two days ago and the intimate stream of energy filling me. "Are you in pain?" I asked, eyeing him over.

His brow furrowed and formed into the lines of confusion my face held a good majority of the time. "No, I couldn't possibly be any farther from pain. Why do you ask?"

"Your gift . . ." I struggled to get out, feeling unworthy for everything he'd given me. "You shared it with me again."

His hand tilted my chin up. "Yes?"

"Didn't it hurt you?"

"Not even a little bit," he said without hesitation.

"But Patrick said—"

"Patrick's a baby. He takes a couple days to recover from a team Immortalization . . . so you can't possibly believe what he says." The affection in his eyes was unreal. "Plus, he's never done it for someone like you."

"Like me? William, you really are delusional. The passing of time only further confirms this." My voice sounded irritated, because I was. He talked about me how I did him, and I was nowhere near what William Hayward was. I slumped down flat on my back.

He propped up on one elbow and leaned over me. "I don't think you understand." One of his hands came to rest on the side of my face. "You haven't been some piece of my life—you've _been_ my life. You will _always_ be my life," he professed, lowering his lips and running them over my hairline, crippling my ability to form a coherent thought.

My thoughts became serious again when his lips left my skin, and while they had twirled around my mind for awhile now, I couldn't keep them to myself any longer.

"Don't you wonder why the world is aligning against us being together?" I asked, and although my voice was barely a whisper, I knew the words were piercing. "I've never felt so at odds with anything in my life."

The unpleasant considerations heavy in my words caused William's forehead to crease, but I continued, "It's as if the world never wanted us to be together . . . why else would it be trying with such strength to keep us apart . . . or take our lives?" I whispered, the spoken words feeling more as a weight as opposed to a relief.

As much as I wanted to be assured William and I would be granted peace in our lives together, the reminders of the formidable obstacles we'd already overcome in such a short time together could not be dismissed. I now understood why we never ran into each other when we were working at the same station in Java. "Don't you ever feel the same?"

I couldn't stand to stare into his aged-looking eyes any longer. I tried to roll away from him onto my side, to escape the shame I felt from my admission and the tension I felt coursing through his body. As I rolled away from him, his hand affixed over my shoulder and wouldn't allow my retreat.

He tilted my head until our eyes aligned. "No, Bryn. I've never felt, believed or thought that. Never." If his words had not been softened with concern, their conviction would have frightened me.

"You don't have the convenience of knowing for the past two hundred years, you have been unequivocally pulled towards some other being . . . the one person created for you and no one else. Knowing as well you'd been created for her—every genetic characteristic, every learned habit, every step taken in your life only taken to get you closer to that serendipitous moment when the two halves of the whole would meet." His words were strong, but his eyes were gentle.

"I've never felt you and I were not intended to be together, and I never will. There's not a single fiber of my being that isn't wholly convinced I was meant to spend my life loving you in whatever way you would have me . . ."—he smiled apologetically—"If you would have me at all."

I blinked back the tears forming in my eyes, biting my lip in an attempt as well.

He was absolutely right in terms of what he was saying. I wasn't questioning the reasoning of our love, or even that we'd been meant for each other. I was questioning—more like speculating given the tumultuous weeks we'd spent dodging disaster after disaster—that this cruel, merciless world we'd been born into, and would now reside in forever, had decided to tempt us with the purest of loves, to only have us fighting for it every day forward.

I also wasn't doubting something good created this man beside me, and by some incomprehensible miracle, I'd been made to one day be his. There was no denying this, but what if once created and set on our merry ways, that something good washed its hands of us, and we were now fated to the whims and fancies of a world that dealt unfair hands to those who experienced a measure of happiness that didn't naturally occur within this spherical mass rotating in the galaxy?

No, I wasn't disagreeing with what he'd passionately answered in response to my verbalized broodings, but he'd not _directly_ answered me—would the world not rest until the very soul of our love lie bleeding at its feet, thrashing with the efforts of every diminishing breath, until it took its last, and was gone? What price would the world ask if we refused to surrender it? I shuddered when the answer surfaced into a very visual reminder of ours lives hanging by a thread only several days ago.

"Did you hear me?" He asked when the minutes continued to pass while the inner debate ran through my troubled mind.

I forcefully pushed it aside, saving it for another time. A time when I wouldn't be held so closely to the man I'd just happily forfeited my life for, and would do again right now if necessary. No, this was not the time for internal debates and troublesome concerns—this was a time for something else.

"I heard you," I whispered, before easing my head off the ground, my lips searching for his. With eased force, he tucked his arm tighter around me and drew me the remaining distance to him, his lips crossing the final space between.

He kissed me sweetly, barely grazing my mouth, and then whispered in between the confines of our united lips, "I was so afraid I'd lost you." His body trembled, and he took in a heavy breath through his nose. The continued pressure of his expanding chest against mine ignited the fires already sprouting up.

"I'm here," I whispered through the parted space of our mouths. "I'll _always_ be here with you."

Both my hands reached for the back of his head, interlacing his hair in my fingers, at the same time my lips moved with need upon his.

His body responded—and unlike before, where I'd always seemed the more urgent—his hands seized around whatever piece of my body they were molded to, and his lips pulsed against mine. When they forced mine further apart and his tongue met mine, I was the one who let the instinctual sound escape from my throat.

Minutes later, I moaned again, but this time in response to his lips removing from mine. They trembled in protest, the rest of my body following suit—as an addict would when going through withdrawals.

He grinned widely when he saw my crazed face below him. He chuckled in obvious amusement when I tried fruitlessly to pull him back down over me, desperate to quench whatever fires roared within me only he could extinguish.

"Easy, love, please . . . before my resolve weakens any closer to that thread-thin line you've already pressed me to with the"—he cleared his throat in indication--" _persuasiveness_ of your position."

I was still trying to pull him back to me, but he wasn't budging, and since my body couldn't respond with what I wanted to convey to him, I let my words try.

"I wasn't done with you yet," I whispered as silkily as I could, gazing into his eyes.

"And I not with you, but I fear if I would have continued any longer, I wouldn't have had enough willpower to stop myself from . . ." He stammered over the last words, looking uncomfortable and frustrated in a way I could understand—the same way I was feeling.

"And why would that be a problem?" I replied, continuing to keep my voice silky and persuasive, despite it not garnishing the desired result I wanted.

His brows furrowed, crunching the skin between them in several lines. "I seem to recall a rather decided young woman telling me only a few nights ago she was not ready"—he paused, motioning between us for emphasis—"for all this."

_What! I said what?!_ was my gut response—I'd wanted William several nights ago just as much as I wanted him now.

The second response reminded me of my mission in life, other than loving him: I had to keep him safe. I would not allow him to give up everything to be with me, nor would I ever endanger his life again from the weakness of my pleasure driven instincts. We would go through the proper process of the Immortal way before we fully pledged our bodies to one another.

Now that we were in William's own Alliance and under the power of his Council, we could make our appeal for a Betrothal together. Hopefully they'd grant us a quick one, I thought with chagrin, as I felt a familiar frenzied shooting sensation concentrate wherever his body ran against mine.

"Oh, yeah," I conceded to him with great effort, giving it everything I had to sound convincing. "Sorry, I shouldn't have let that get so out of hand." I smiled my apology as well and removed the silk from my voice.

He chuckled and caressed one hand down my cheekbone. " _I_ didn't mind one bit." He laughed exuberantly and hopped up, pulling me with him into an upright position. Probably for the best since our horizontal position was only chancing a fate we'd only be able to ward off for so long.

"I don't call you my temptress for no reason, you know?" he whispered in my ear, igniting millions of goose-bumps.

My face, still contorted with the wistfulness and frustration of not being able to experience what I so desperately wanted, stopped William's laugh.

"Have you changed your mind?" he asked, sounding grave. I did not miss his eyes jolting between me and the laid out blanket below us. His eyes were smoldering with anticipation when they finally came to rest on me.

_Yes!_ I wanted to shout, knowing he'd waste no time finding our way back to the beckoning blanket, and when his hands explored me with the fullness mine did him, would anything else really matter? I knew from previous experiences with him the answer was a firm, resounding _no._ So my only defense against "saving" us from impending perfection, was to answer him in the negative.

"No, I've not changed my mind." I could feel the heat from the redness forming over my cheeks. "Not yet, anyways."

He reached for my scarlet cheek cautiously, probably not wanting to reignite the flames we'd managed to somewhat stifle. His fingers stroked over the heated skin and the eagerness that had torn against my embattlements, melted with the temptation removed.

"Please remember what I told you—don't ever feel any pressure from me. I would be happy being with you in the most _conventional_ of ways, but"—he raised his eyebrows devilishly and smiled with about as much innocence—"if you do change your mind . . ." He trailed off, not needing to finish his sentence.

"Don't worry. I think I might have a hunch who would be interested in me changing my mind on this certain topic." I winked at him, and felt my cheeks flush a shade deeper. Wanting to lean forward to kiss him, I stopped myself short, remembering the repercussions of the previous gentle kiss that had started this whole thing, and settled for grabbing hold of his hand. He squeezed mine, and grabbed up the quilt.

"So what do you think of Montana?" He motioned to the expansive, endless mystery of the countryside before us.

"It's beautiful. How lucky are you, getting to spend your time between the Oregon coast and here?" I thrust my hand out at the quiet landscape to emphasize my point. "What else could anyone ask for?"

He chuckled to himself as one would when privy to some private joke.

I looked at him with embellished annoyance. "Anything you're keeping to yourself over there you'd like to share with me?"

His smile was full of mischief. "No, I don't think so. Not yet anyways." His eyes glimmered with some private secret.

I rolled my eyes in exasperation, but didn't push the secret topic any further, hoping—like a child suddenly ignored—he would freely admit to whatever he was hiding from me.

I changed the subject. "Will I get to meet your father?" I asked, taking a deep swallow in an attempt to thwart the nervousness gripping around my throat.

He nodded his head. "Yes, my father is here, as is everyone else."

"Everyone?"

"Yes, everyone—Patrick, Nathanial, Abigail, Joseph, Cora." His mouth formed lovingly around the names of his family.

"They'll be thrilled to see you awake and recovered. Cora especially . . . she's really taken a liking to you."

"I suppose I've got a lot to thank Patrick for as well, don't I?" I shook my head, feeling a mix of emotions that another Hayward had risked his life for me.

"You don't need to feel too indebted to him. He's been bragging about the whole thing non-stop." He eyed me with knowing. "He also got to drive that vehicle you failed to mention to me that John Townsend imparted to you."

I looked away from his stare, concentrating on the ground we walked over.

"If I'd known about that earlier, I would have gotten you out of there at the first mention of the Ball," he continued, sounding amused instead of angry as I'd feared when he learned of the secret I'd kept from him . . . and then I remembered the little one he'd kept from me.

My mouth twisted up. "Kind of like that floating palace you told me was John's?"

I raised my eyebrows as he just had with me "Patrick's got a big mouth," I said in explanation.

"That's an understatement," he replied, looking sheepish.

"I've got the perfect way to extend my thanks to your talkative little brother," I said, pulling my hand from his to wrap it around his waist. I hitched my thumb on the belt loop of his jeans.

"What would that be?"

"I was going to have a bon fire party with it . . . but it would be an awful waste." Despite my plans for watching my dream car go up in flames due to the person who'd given it to me tainting it, I felt physical pain when I thought of it burning.

"I think you'd have a new best friend if you did that, and you know how Patrick annoys you."

"With that car, he wouldn't be around to annoy me."

"Excellent point, you're thinking like a Hayward now." He chuckled, and my heart thumped harder when I thought of becoming a Hayward.

"It's settled," I stated, eager to tell Patrick the car was his, and to watch his response. He gave me such a hard time for fainting the other night . . . I wonder if I could get him close with the car?

We crested over the top of a hill, and below us, tucked in a far reaching emerald valley, was a sprawling home made of honey-colored logs, topped with steep angled green metal roofing. A cooper weather vane of a rearing horse spun lazily at the center of the roofline. To the side of the home stood an equally large, faded-red barn, which opened into a fenced pasture where several horses grazed within.

"The Hayward household." William swept his hand over the picturesque establishment in the valley below. "At least one of them."

A curling trail of smoke crept through the chimney and I saw a couple figures as they glided by the windows of the first floor.

"Wow," I admitted, dumbfounded.

John's Manor, in all its over-the-top magnitude and extravagance, didn't hold a tenth of the appeal this pleasant, ranch-like homestead did for me. Despite the fact this was William's home, and an important part of him, I knew if a thousand homes were laid before me, and I was asked to choose one, I would have easily selected this one I stared at now. The unpretentious, natural beauty of the home complemented, and didn't try to outdo, the landscape surrounding it.

William pulled on me, his eyes flickering with excitement. "Come on," he encouraged, our legs already forming into a sprint down the hill. "I've got a present I want to give you before dinner."

With the reminder of presents, my free hand flitted to my neck, where it fingered the sapphire promise still attached. I flooded with relief when I found it there, worried that somewhere in the midst of the chaos of the past two days, it may have fallen from the spot I vowed it would remain forever.

We came to a shrieking stop just outside a set of the barn's doors, a cloud of dust stirred over the trail behind from our furious speed.

"Wait here, and close your eyes," he commanded.

I exhaled in protest, but did as requested.

A couple minutes later, after enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun on my back, I heard William coming towards me—my hearing attuned enough to recognize something else walking spryly beside him. I wanted to tear my eyelids open from the suspense, but just in time, his feet came to a stop in front of me. "Okay. Open your eyes."

My hands flew to my mouth when I saw the cause of the additional footfalls besides William's . . . or should I say _hoof_ -falls? The buckskin colored foal standing beside William on a lead, was the only thing that could have distracted my attention from the beaming face of the one whose gifts to me were more thoughtful and all-knowing than I would have known to ask for.

The foal was still tiny, barely weeks old I'd guess. Its black spiky mane, contrasted with the cremello color of its body, and those large, flighty brown eyes met mine with a look that commented, _Who the heck are you, and what are you looking at?_ I immediately fell in love with the unsure, capricious animal before me.

"Do you like her?" he asked eagerly.

I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck—despite my frenzied response, the filly remained calm at our side. "I love her. Thank you so much." I tilted his head down and began stifling it with quick kisses, trying to cover every square inch of the face I worshipped.

He laughed at my response and wrapped his free arm around my waist. My thanks were completed when my lips finished their journey upon his, and then I turned to the silent filly who was looking at me with as much interest as I was her.

"Her mother died shortly after she was born a few weeks ago. My father's been hand nursing this little one, and when I had a chance to see her yesterday, I took an immediate liking to her," he explained.

I reached out to stroke the velvety softness of her muzzle, and her nostrils flared in and out, taking in my scent.

"She's a little stand-offish at first, quiet, shy—but once she grew to trust me, she became one of the sweetest little fillies I've been around, especially given the fact she's not had her mother to show her the ropes." He smiled proudly at the filly that was still sniffing me with obvious interest. She didn't flinch when I moved my hand to pet her muscular neck. "She's a strong one. She'll make a wonderful companion. She's a little stubborn too." He chuckled and ran his fingers through her mane.

I just nodded my head when his observations confirmed what I'd already sensed in the weeks old horse beside me, and whether it registered with William or not, she was the equine equivalent to me.

"How did you know?" I asked in awe, when I looked back at him, continuing to stroke the thoughtful gift beside us.

His smile was sheepish, as he tapped his head with his index finger in explanation.

I understood, and encircled my arms around his waist. "Anything else those Foretellings of yours show you about me . . . or about us?" I leaned in, whispering in his ear—my tone explanation enough for the hidden meaning in my words.

His fire-engine-red flush confirmed he understood perfectly.

"Bryn!" An excited, musical voice exclaimed from behind us.

I reluctantly released him from my hold.

When I turned, I found a delighted smile covering Cora's face. She bounded to me and swept me into a warm hug. "It's so good to see you again." She released me from the embrace, and her face went somber. "I can't tell you how relieved I am that you both made it out of there alright. When I heard what happened . . ." Her eyes looked off into the distance and she shivered.

"It's wonderful to see you again too," I answered wholeheartedly.

Her eyes drifted back to us, falling on the foal, before returning to mine with their usual enthusiasm. "Do you like your present?"

I fingered through the spiky black mane again. "I love it. How many people get a horse as a 'just because' present?"

Cora looked pointedly at William and then raised her brows in explanation. She leaned in as if she were just speaking to me. "Something tells me if he thought you wanted the Titanic, he would retrieve it from the depths of the Atlantic for you."

We both giggled, but I didn't really doubt her.

"Supper's ready you two. Abigail's been working on it all day since this is the first dinner we've all had together as a whole family in _awhile."_ She looked purposefully at William. "So let's not keep her waiting, okay?"

"We'll be right behind you," William answered, as Cora spun around to make her way back to the house.

"Let me put her away and we'll go have some dinner, and I'll introduce you to my father," he said to me.

I gulped.

"Don't worry. He's really not that scary, I promise." I could hear the smile in his voice even though he stood behind me. "He'll love you once he gets a chance to meet you." There was something purposeful in his voice, something that led me to believe that Charles, and whatever he already knew of me, was not already fond of me.

While I waited for him to return from the stable, I ran through several possible greetings I could use when introduced to William's father—some more conventional, some more unique—and when I'd run through my seventh option, I questioned why I was so concerned with impressing the senior Hayward.

It didn't take long for the answer to surface. I knew what was riding on the impression William's father, their Council's Chancellor, had of me—a Betrothal to William. That knowledge forced the blood from my face, and the adrenaline rush of nervousness to course through my bloodstream.

"Miss me?" a sweet voice whispered in my ear at the same time he wrapped his arms around my waist.

"Always," I answered. Releasing his hold of my waist, he grabbed one hand and led me towards the home where I knew our Betrothal—however informal of proceedings, but as certain as a verdict—would be decided.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

### A FORMIDABLE GIFT

"What are you doing giving the mashed potatoes to Patrick? He'll have the whole bowl gone before he gets it out to the table!" William shouted as we entered the house, announcing our arrival.

The screen door shrieked shut behind us.

"Hey-a, you two!" Patrick called out as he exited through a screen door that was propped open with a tall boot, a steaming bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes in hand. "I was wondering how long you two love birds were going to keep us waiting." His voice dimmed as he moved farther outside, but was louder when he spoke again.

"Not as long as I would have thought, though." He hopped back into the kitchen through the doorway, and stopped, looking carefully at each one of us. "Although I suppose that lovely shade of pale blue you two still have firmly affixed would explain your early return." He grinned impishly, and William growled in irritation.

"When are you going to grow up, Patrick?" Abigail chided as she flitted through the kitchen. She didn't acknowledge the two new additions standing in the entry.

Patrick ran his finger along a round, frosted cake, and Abigail slapped his hand away. "When I find myself a woman as good a cook as you, and as loving as you are Abby, I'm never going to let her go," he said, before sticking the frosting coated finger into his mouth.

Abigail exhaled sharply. " _If_ you find yourself a woman."

"Hey-a, William—" he shouted, snapping a dish towel in our direction. "You wouldn't happen to know of any pretty, pale blue eyed, un-betrothed girls around here looking for a husband would you . . . maybe with a preference to the strapping Hayward stock?" He twitched his eyebrows up and down in furious bouts, his teethed stained blue from the frosting. He winked at me.

"Sorry, I can't cook," I sneered back. "And there isn't an Immortal woman around that could love you more than you already love yourself."

William howled at my rebuke, and I detected the slightest of smiles cover Abigail's normally stoic face whenever I was in her presence.

"That hurts, Bryn." Patrick blinked for emphasis. "After everything we've been through—"

"Enough with the theatrics, Patrick." Abigail cut in, handing him another food filled tray, and pushed him out the back door. She followed behind with a cloth covered basket.

"William." A deep, slow voice spoke from above us.

William's eyes rested above the staircase to the far right of where we stood. Mine followed, and found a tall man, past middle-age, making his way down the stairs.

"Father," William answered respectfully, bowing his head slightly.

I sucked in a deep breath, an attempt at bolstering my confidence, as Charles Hayward descended the stairs. He was fair haired, and while similar in his statuesque height to Nathanial, his body did not burgeon with the stacked layers of muscle. His face was sketched with the wrinkles of middle-age, but the strong jaw, and masterfully cut lines of his face that could never be obscured by time's passage, linked him to this clan of handsome Hayward men.

Stepping onto the floor, Charles looked to me as he approached us with carefully guarded eyes, and smiled. Not an overly warm smile, but it was at least a good start.

"Miss Dawson." He extended his hand to me when he stopped in front of us. "Nice to finally meet you."

"You too, Mr. Hayward," I said, placing my hand in his. "But please call me Bryn." I smiled, and hoped he could read in my eyes, or my handshake, or deep within my soul, that I loved the man standing beside me—still holding my hand in support— with every ounce of my being.

"Alright, Bryn," he rolled the name over in his mouth, and carefully removed his hand from mine, eyeing it over with a curious expression. "If you'll call me Charles, then."

"I believe I can manage that."

He kept his smile firmly affixed, but his eyes stared at me with an intensity of which I was unfamiliar. If felt like he was searching for something, as if trying to find some deep seeded mystery which I held within me. His gaze was unnerving, and my eyes couldn't keep hold of his stare, so they searched around the expansive, adjoined living and dining room area.

I heard William engage his father with some question, while I took in the finer details of the house; the multitude of framed photos covering every wall or surface available; the antique rifles that hung displayed above the stone fireplace; and the intangible feel of a safe, loving haven. It was a home rich in the memories of this life and their former.

"We'd best not keep everyone waiting for us." Charles's voice cut through my surveillance, motioning for William and me to proceed.

William pulled me along. "Is that because it would be rude, or because of the impatience and bottomless pitted stomachs of my three brothers?"

I heard the smile in Charles voice as he followed us through the back door. "Both."

There were five expectant faces awaiting the three of us as we approached the partially filled benches accompanying the well stocked picnic table. The early sunset colorings of vibrant pinks and purples streamed through the early spring buds on the maple tree the table rested beneath.

"Hey Bryn, it's nice to see you're no longer the poster girl for the living dead," Patrick bellowed across the space between us, his mouth partially full with what I figured were mashed potatoes.

I heard William sigh in disapproval, and tense for what I assumed to be some kind of physical thrashing for Patrick forthcoming; when Joseph, sitting to the left of Patrick, smacked his hand across the back of his head.

"Ouch, little brother," Patrick protested, rubbing his head.

I managed to stifle my laugh, but William didn't.

Joseph glanced up at me innocently, as if nothing had just transpired, and smiled angelically. "It's great to see you again, Bryn. You'll have to forgive Patrick here. Sometimes he forgets he's no longer a five-year-old."

I smiled at Joseph's endlessly happy face. "Good to see you, too."

Charles took his seat at the end of the bench containing Cora, Joseph and Patrick, which left William and me to sit with Nathanial and Abigail. William placed himself in between his older brother and me, and I thanked him with a squeeze of my hand.

I extended a quick, nervous greeting to Nathanial and Abigail and was met with a couple of acknowledged nods—not even the conventional smiles I received at our first meeting. It appeared their former cool feelings towards me had only grown colder in the wake of the event where their brother had nearly lost his live. Not that I could blame them—I would be livid with anyone who'd put William in a similar situation. I was livid with myself as it was.

Like my first dinner with the Haywards—where conversation and laughter were the highlight—this one was no different. Some of the recalled memories and stories brought such laughing hysterics, minutes passed before anyone could regain their composure. All that was, except for Charles, whose intent gaze rarely left me as he continued his search . . . for what, I didn't have a clue.

When darkness threatened the faint pink and purple ribbons of the fading sun, Abigail began clearing the table, while Nathanial lit a few antique lamps hanging from the low branches of the maple tree.

Joseph and Cora crept off into the house to return, only a minute later, with a couple of guitar cases in hand. Cora handed the black case she was holding to William as Joseph took one of the empty seats beside him, and commenced unhooking the clasps of his case.

"You up for playing?" Joseph asked his older clone with anticipation in his voice.

"Always." William took the guitar case from Cora and she clapped her hands eagerly before taking a seat beside her husband.

I looked at William inquisitively as he withdrew the shiny acoustic guitar from its case. He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. "I play the guitar. It's kind of a family thing," he explained, as he began strumming at the strings.

"Is there anything you _can't_ do?" I asked, hypnotized from the way his hands moved with fluidity over the guitar.

Joseph laughed under his breath, and William elbowed him.

"He's not very good with the ladies, and it appears he no longer has a career in espionage, either." Patrick chortled, as he made his way back from the kitchen, a stack of cookies in his hand.

"I'd beg to differ with you there," I retorted, before I remembered William's father sitting quietly behind us. I flashed red.

"Does that differing come from all of your _extensive_ experience in those two areas Miss Dawson?" Patrick retorted back, before stuffing a whole cookie in his mouth.

"Don't worry, Bryn. He's got a full mouth, so he'll shut up for a few seconds, and then he's got at least five or six more of those things in his hand," Joseph encouraged me, and with the gentle lamplight thrown across his face, he looked more like William than ever before. "So you can look forward to another fifteen to twenty seconds of silence from him. Why do you think we keep so much food on the table when he's around?"

Patrick swallowed and smiled in mock thanks at his youngest brother. "HaHa."

"Come on." Charles stood up, and came to a standing stop beside Cora, a rusted harmonica in hand. "Are you boys going to argue all night or would you like to play anytime soon?"

With that, the two, dark haired brothers nodded at one another, and broke into a light, fast-paced song. Charles' harmonica tuned in a few notes later, followed by Cora's sweet voice.

Amazement exploded over my face as I watched William and his family consumed by the music they created together. They played with the skill of a musical group people would pay to see . . . although I guess they'd had a few extra decades to perfect their melodies than most. I couldn't repress the involuntary swaying of my body, keeping time to the steady beat coming from the foursome.

Nathanial, having retrieved Abigail from the interior of the house, escorted her to a make-shift, grass dance floor in front of the Hayward quartet, and Nathanial led her in a cheerful swing-like dance. Abigail's face was alive and glowing in the arms of her husband. A twist of sadness stabbed me when I was reminded I may never glow in the arms of my husband while we danced beneath a star-blanketed sky if William and I were not granted a Union.

The song grew livelier, and with it, my body moving to the music.

"May I have this dance?" All signs of the cookies formerly held in them gone, Patrick's hands extended towards me, and he winked devilishly at William.

"Sorry brother. You snooze, you loose. You don't get to dance with the ladies when you're stuck behind the varnished wood of a musical instrument."

William rolled his eyes at Patrick, and then nodded at me in encouragement, never missing a note.

I grabbed hold of Patrick's hands, an expression of mock reluctance greeting him, and smiled wryly. "You may have seen my waltz a couple nights ago and are under the assumption I can dance, but the dance lessons my parents paid for me to take as a clumsy twelve-year-old only included the waltz, and I'm afraid I've got two left feet when it comes to anything else," I admitted to Patrick, not really caring how many times I stepped on his feet—more caring about the fool I'd make of myself in front of everyone else.

Nathanial and Abigail continued their flawless dance across the uneven dance floor, continuing to set a bar I'd never come close to.

"Watch and learn." Patrick pulled me towards him, having reached our designated spot from where to commence the dreaded dance to come.

He attempted to lead me to the left, and I went right. He tried pushing me backwards, but I went forward—crunching one of his feet for what would be the first of many to come if he continued to feel the need to make a fool of me in front of his family. I heard the snicker of two Hayward brothers when Patrick winced from the first onslaught of my clumsy feet.

"Gosh . . . haven't you ever heard you're suppose to let the man lead?" Patrick complained loudly enough for all to hear.

I burst into laughter when I realized the thirty or so seconds we'd been "dancing", we hadn't moved from the spot we'd started—his movements being thwarted by my opposing movements.

Cora's voice faded from song when she joined in with my roaring laughter.

"It's all in the leading." The voice that could summon a million separate physical and emotional reactions in my body, murmured softly beside us, as I noticed a companionless guitar leaning up against the bench beside Joseph.

William nudged against Patrick, attempting to break his hold on me, and when he stubbornly refused to relinquish, I slipped my hands from his, and placed them to where they naturally fit—where they'd been created to fit.

"Never send a boy in to do a man's job." William winked at me, while a dejected Patrick made his way back to the trio of musicians.

William's eyes sparked, and I surrendered to him while he led me around the lamp-lit, grassy ball room. Despite the absence of the formal wear, the impressive symphony, and the extravagant gold and crystal around us—this dance was on a whole different level than our first. There was a sensuality and intimacy clinging to our skin, and in this defined dance—where William led an impossible partner to look semi-graceful in front of the family he loved—I allowed myself to believe everything would be alright.

We were so obviously meant to be together, how could anyone—having seen us together—deny it? Charles seemed amiable enough towards me, and the Council would surely take into consideration their Chancellor's opinion and grant us the Unity we both yearned for. I allowed myself to hope for that happy ending I'd doubted life had in store for me.

I lay in bed later that night in William's room—after he tucked me into bed, promising to return after his father had retired for the night—with my mind affixed as usual on the man supposedly sleeping two rooms down from me.

Patrick's room was conveniently located between the two of ours, and perhaps Charles didn't realize, or want to recognize, that every member of his family had been privy to William and I sharing a room only one week past; and Patrick would be the least likely one to stop a future account of this happening.

Cora and Joseph had retired to their own home several acres away, as had Nathanial and Abigail, after the music and dancing had continued hours after the first cover of darkness. I was alone in the house with the three remaining single Hayward men, and when I'd asked William earlier this evening why his father had never been United in his Immortal life after their mother had been killed in their Mortal lives, William answered me simply.

"There is only one other created for you. Once they're gone, what would be the use in pretending?"

I understood his explanation completely.

I heard Patrick settle into his bed a room away from me with an overemphasized yawn. "Goodnight, Bryn." He knocked on the adjoining wall. "Sweet dreams. I'm sure William will understand when it's me you dream of tonight and not him, after our lovely dance this evening."

I didn't get sucked into his ploys and remained silent, although I heard a loud pound on the wall farther down from me—probably William's warning to his younger brother to shut up.

With the momentary bantering ceased, and all the lights out, I had nothing left to focus on but the images of William running through my mind, and as each beautiful image played through, I swore I heard with increasing sensitivity, the regulated breathing of him two rooms down. It was like a dark form of torture—or a test of willpower—tempting me to tear through the two doors and twenty or so feet keeping us apart.

I heard him shift in bed, and sigh deeply, and that was it . . . I couldn't take it anymore. I was either going to fling myself through my door and tear into his room throwing myself on him in the same second, or fly out the large open window in my room and run. Run like I had that day at John's estate. The smarter, more rational self within me decided upon my fate.

I'd run.

I was still in the jeans and sweater Abigail had lent me—probably begrudgingly, after Patrick and William arrived with me in tow, wearing nothing but a silk nightgown. I leapt through the window, and rocked back on my heels, preparing to throw myself into the mercy of the growing energy in my legs. It was a soft, rolling noise that distracted my attention and drew my eyes to the stable.

I jogged to the stable, depleting some of the infinite stores of energy in my legs, and walked through the open door and down the long row of stalls. I found her several stalls in, resting in the billows of straw below her. She raised her head to look at me when I slid the gate open and walked inside, but remained lounging in the straw so I decided to join her. She lowered her head after a few seconds and seemed perfectly content to have me beside her—new and unwelcome guest as I was—comforting her with my caresses.

I'd started to lull into the beginnings of sleep, when two sets of heavy footsteps entered the stable. I debated upon standing up and calling out a greeting, but didn't have time to act upon it before one of them spoke.

"You have me alone now, Father. Just what is so important you have to say to me in such private conditions?"

I gasped silently when I heard the voice I loved most.

"You know what this is about, William." Charles's voice remained calm. "This is about her."

"What about her?" he said, and from the tone, I knew his jaw was clenched.

"We all know what you two want . . . your hopes of being United—"

"Our hopes?" William asked with incredulousness. "What do you mean by _hopes_? That it's merely nothing but that—a hope and nothing more?"

"When Nathanial reported back to me what gift he believed Bryn to possess, I was worried—"

_What gift?_ I thought to myself. I didn't think one had manifested yet, and while I thought I'd be relieved—after my apprehensions I would be the one mutant Immortal not bequeathed with a gift—I felt a knot forming in my stomach instead, at what this gift could be. From the gravity in Charles's voice, I guessed it was less than ideal.

"And after you and Patrick's account as to what happened to the Councilmen when they were trying to take her life—"

"What are you _saying_?" William's shouted. I could practically feel his body quivering from his anger.

"If what you say is true, and she was able to cripple—if not nearly kill—seven, senior Immortals." Charles breathed in heavily before continuing, "She is the strongest Taker in known existence."

"You can't be sure she's a Taker, and certainly not sure of how powerful she is if so!" William's response was instant, not allowing a second of stillness for me to process what was being said.

Charles paused for a moment, perhaps hoping the temporary silence would cool the anger firing from his son. "Then how else do you explain all the evidence pointing in this direction?"

William didn't have an immediate answer to this, as he had so instantly before. He sighed with what sounded like great angst. "So what if you're saying is correct . . . and she is a Taker? What bearing does it have on us being together?"

"What do you mean, what bearing does it have on you two being together?" Charles asked, sounding flabbergasted. "With her unheard of ability to take life, and your equally impressive ability to give life, can you really imagine the Council granting you two a Betrothal?"

I sucked in a long breath, trying to cling to the escaping dream drifting away. I didn't acknowledge or ponder anything else of what I'd heard, other than what Charles had just said in so many words—William and I would not receive the blessing of a Betrothal from his Council.

"How can you be so sure?" William's voice returned in all its prior fierceness.

"When the Council learned of your newest gift, they were uneasy to say the least. The Immortal way has always centered upon keeping the careful line of balance in everything we do. Having an Immortal that can give life so easily and without consultation worried them that this balance could be thrown off. But, they are quite familiar with you and well aware of your commitment to our ways . . . and then there are the prophecies—"

"Enough with the talks of prophecies thousands of years old, coming from the mouths of desperate men!" William seethed.

"Whether you believe in the prophecies or not my son, you cannot deny that many others do, and the faith they have in you to do your duty—"

"Enough!" William roared, making the rafters above shake in opposition. "We are not talking about my _supposed_ higher calling tonight, we are talking about Bryn, and my request to be United with her. Will you petition the Council to grant us a Betrothal?" William's voice shook with the anger he was repressing, but a hint of desperation lay heavy in his words.

Deafening silence ensued. I thought the tension heavy air would suffocate me.

"No William, I will not petition them. They're terrified of her. The whole Immortal world has been talking of her unheard of power and everyone's incredibly anxious that Bryn could take their very life from them with the snap of her fingers."

"She would never do that, she's got nothing but goodness in her. How can you not see that? How can you not believe me?" William continued, almost begging now.

I choked up for the hundredth time during the exchange when I heard the heaviness pouring from William's mouth. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and comfort him, but could not interrupt the outpouring of information coming at me.

"Father, please," William whispered, pausing for a moment. "I know . . . despite everything, you still love me and want the best for me. Can you really, after all these years and all that I've been through, deny me this one request? Now that—against all odds—I've found her, and beyond some miracle, she loves me, too. Can you really deny your son that?"

Charles sighed heavily, as only a father can who is torn between their child's wants and their superior knowledge of knowing what is right for them.

"Yes, I can," Charles answered simply, strongly.

William cried out, "How can you do this to us? Why won't you present my request before the Council? All we need are three more votes—"

"No, William!" Charles' voice grew.

"Why?"

"Because as your father, I say no—and as Chancellor of your Council, I say no as well!" Charles strong words shook the stable, and I understood where William's own fierceness had been learned.

"You will not bless me as a father in my request for a Betrothal, nor will you as a member of my Council?" William asked, with a mixture of disbelief and defeat in his voice.

"I will not on either account. She is too powerful and unpredictable, and you have a far higher calling and purpose destined for you than loving some woman. She can stay at one of your brother's places until I can find a place for her to be transferred to. She is too much of a temptation for you."

"If you try to separate us, we will leave," William swore, his voice shaking from his emotion. "I won't let you take her away from me."

"Do you really think by running from your Alliance that you would be immune to Immortal code?" Charles asked. "You would both be susceptible to the punishment of our kind if you chose to defy our codes."

"No one would be able to find us," William responded instantly.

"Not _everyone,_ William."

"What are you saying, Father . . . that you would use your gift against us?" To accompany the anger in William's voice, there was sadness.

"I would," Charles said with finality. "I will not let this girl bring any more trouble or destruction upon you."

The only reply was a set of feet pounding down the stable's wide hall and exiting through the door from where the two had entered.

"William!" Charles called after his son, before following after him, leaving me alone with the flood of tears running down my face onto the buckskin colored coat beneath me. With William gone, and my desire to comfort him assuaged, the gravity of what just transpired fell heavy upon me, crushing my lungs.

I was a _Taker._

William had never mentioned this gift in any of our lessons, but I'd heard enough just now to put the pieces together. The bodies of the seven Councilmen falling from my body replayed through my mind.

I could take life . . . and apparently with the strength to do it alone and without the need for a handful of others. I understood why this would make the Council, and entire Immortal community uneasy, but William was right; I would never harm another . . . unless they were harming anyone important to me.

My lips curled up wickedly when I was reminded of the Council and everything they hurt and wanted to take from me. I could taste the seductive stirrings of revenge on my tongue when I envisioned each one of them writhing helplessly at my feet while I drained every last bit of . . .

NO!

I shook my head forcefully to clear the evil stirrings running wild. Bitter tears flowed from knowing I was the dark counterpart to William. He could give life, and I could take it. Even before this knowledge of my gift, I knew William's Council approving a Betrothal for us would be unlikely at best—given his prestige and respect in the community, and me being a new, utterly normal, unpredictable addition—but now knowing what I was . . . there was no hope for a Betrothal now. I knew _that_ before Charles had so vehemently objected as a father, and as a Chancellor.

Our only option now—the only way we could be together—would be to run away as William originally suggested. With the certainty we would never be United by the conventional means, this idea appealed to me with astonishing magnitude.

We could leave and be together . . . but alone, and as the faces of his family flashed before me, I knew if we carried through with what the two of us wanted, there would never be anymore gray skied mornings along the coast where the four brothers surfed, and no more happy family dinners where laughter was the main course. And there was William's reputation and responsibilities to consider as well—which were obviously much more elevated than he'd let on.

Could I, in all my selfishness, deny my beloved everything he'd created in his life before me, just so I could be with him? The question hung like a suspended guillotine awaiting my answer, but I knew the razor sharp blade would fall either way, no matter what choice I made.

I glanced down at my left wrist where the star-shaped birthmark rested like an omen. I knew now that I was both marked for destiny and a magnet for tragedy, but I also knew I held the power within myself to decide how I would live my life and affect those around me with this awareness of myself; I would control the beast within, it would not control me. I would never allow another loved one to be harmed because of the deadly origins within me.

It was with this knowledge that I propelled myself upright from the billowy straw and left the enlightening confines of the stable.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

### OUR PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE

A couple hours and a few miles later, I broke through a wall of trees into a large clearing, glowing from the moon rays saturating every blade of grass and tree bough that encroached into the misshapen oval clearing. A coyote's song rolled across the landscape, mimicking the sound my sorrow would make if I could cry like that.

After leaving the stable, I couldn't go back to the house of the family I would never become a member of. I'd needed the time—not so much to clear my thoughts and come to peace with them—but to accept them. I had to accept that William and I would not be granted a Betrothal, and with that, I had to accept my response and actions to this. I knew he wouldn't let this be the end of it, that he'd fight with his life so we could be together, so I knew I needed to prepare and fortress my resolve so his barrage wouldn't crush it.

That's when I saw it—a partially framed, two-story home in the very center of the clearing. It was a simple design: rectangular shaped, plenty of squares cut out where windows would one day rest, and the forms for a porch that would wrap around the entire structure. One lone tree stood like a sage, old man on the east side of the home. Despite it barely half-way completed, it was beautiful; a house someone could easily fill with the love and laughter needed to make it into a home.

I strolled through the illumed field towards the house, unable to smother the curiosity I had to explore it. I stepped over the forms that would one day make the porch, and leapt onto the first floor where the front door would hang—I could see it painted my favorite shade of blue.

The wood groaned beneath me as I explored the first floor. I couldn't understand why I didn't feel like the stranger I should have here, in someone else's home-to-be; perhaps it was because I wouldn't have changed a single thing in the shell of the house.

The open room design, the kitchen facing to the west where dinners would be graced with the gold sunlight of its farewell departure, and the stone fireplace that stood in the center of the living and dining rooms, where it could be enjoyed from either. This was a home designed by someone with a like mind to me.

I touched the smooth stone fireplace with its quilt made by shades of grey, able to imagine the warmth they would radiate with a fire in its hearth.

"What do you think?" a voice called out behind me.

Under any other circumstances, I would have jumped like a jackrabbit from the surprise of it, but given this voice was one that could fill me with nothing but happiness, I grinned before spinning around.

"You found me," I stated, struck by the image of William leaning against the doorframe of the front door.

He smiled. "I could track you if you were within a hundred mile radius. It's as if everything within me is always looking for you, even when I know where you're at now." He pushed off the doorframe and came towards me. "Old habits die hard, I guess."

"A hundred miles, huh?" I said, trying to sound unimpressed. I took a step back, as he continued to advance. I needed every last precious second to let my resolve take root and grow before he would begin his mission of crushing it. "Let's put it to the test . . . what do you say to that?" I took another step back, but my back came in contact with the fireplace. There was no more time or room—I closed my eyes and willed a shot of miracle grow on my blooming resolve.

"Now why would I ever want to do that?" he whispered, taking the last step that positioned his body within inches of mine, but I'd done it in the time I'd stalled—I felt my strength originating from within as if my body had been this quality's source.

He inched forward, pushing his body into mine until my back was pressed solidly against the fireplace. He pressed his hands into the fireplace on either side of my head, and lowered his mouth to my ear. "Why would I want you to leave when I've got you right here in front of me?"

My eyes opened into the special forces of his offensive. Those eyes would have crippled my resolve in a single blink two hours ago. Their beauty thrilled me with no lesser degree than they had the first time I'd looked into them and found my purpose.

"Good point," I admitted, strategically ducking beneath one of his arms. "I'm not going anywhere." I made sure I was half-way across the room before I turned back to him. He'd turned around as well, and had his back against the fireplace. He had an amused look of confusion on his face, due to my out-of-character jailbreak from his arms most likely.

"You never answered my first question," he reminded.

My eyes narrowed with confusion.

"What do you think?" he repeated, opening his folded arms to the house—the pride in his voice indicative of a creator.

" _Another_ Hayward home?" I asked with awe, thinking of the endless acres I'd crossed to get here.

He nodded his head, and commenced his advance towards me again. "You never know when another will be needed," he said lightly. "This one will be nice and central—Joseph and Cora's place is a couple miles to the east and Nathanial and Abigail's is about a mile north." He stopped a couple paces in front of me, letting me have the space I'd demonstrated to him I wanted.

I viewed the house with new eyes now that I knew what family would inhabit it, and my former admiration of it turned into adoration. "I can already see it," I said, picturing the home in its completed form.

"What can you see?" he asked with obvious interest, circling around me.

I put to words what my eyes were imagining around me. "I see the walls plastered in pictures, bookshelf inserts lining the entire east wall," I directed, pointing at the living room wall I had in mind. I couldn't help but notice his eyes glimmer and his brow set in concentration, as if he were making a mental list. "I see four-paned windows, blue shutters, rocking chairs on the west side of the porch, and a window seat for reading right over there." I pointed at the bay window I had in mind. I could have gone on for hours, but my suggestions were sounding more like bossy demands, so I shut up.

"Anything else?" he questioned, circling tighter and closing the final space between us with two steps. Innocently enough, he wrapped his arms loosely around me and let his fingers interlace over my back.

I relented and pressed into him, wrapping my own arms around him tightly. Everything was right again . . . but still somehow wrong. The reminder of the evil I held within stabbed me, reminding me of what was wrong. It terrified me. I didn't have a clue how I'd manifested whatever life taking qualities flowed from within—so how could I expect to control it? I couldn't.

My arms instinctively loosened around him. Never, in all my worst fears these past weeks had I imagined I could harm the man I'd do anything to keep safe.

"Do you think I'll be spending anytime here?"

"I _certainly_ hope so," he answered matter-of-factly, tucking his chin over my head.

I smiled from the blatancy in his voice. "In that case . . . I suppose I can see a state-of-the-art espresso machine on the kitchen counter, a huge garage where I can tinker with my car for hours, and a thousand pictures of you covering my bedroom walls." I leaned my head back from his chest to look at his thoughtful face. "Or at least that's what I'd like to imagine."

"If you're imagining . . . can _I_ imagine I'll be sharing your bedroom with you?" he whispered in a tone that was too dreamy for my heartbeat's good. It chugged like an out-of-control locomotive.

I gulped before answering. "Sure." The word broke, sounding like I was an adolescent boy going through puberty.

His smile was instant and breath-catching. "Do you want to see what room you should pick for us?"

Before I had a chance to bob my head once, he tossed me into his arms and was sprinting through the room and up the staircase.

"In a hurry?" I asked, keeping my eyes closed from the wind cutting across my face from his jet-like speed.

"It's never too early to stake one's claim on their bedroom." He said with mock solemnity, slowing once we were in the hall on the second floor. He went to the east end of the hallway and entered the room the hall ran into. He turned sideways to carry me in, and set me down once we were inside. "This is the one you should select for us."

He didn't need to explain why, because despite it being nothing but two-by fours and particle board, the room was _ours._ The air that flowed freely from the open walls and roof changed when it entered this space, making it special and identifying this place being where we should be together. It was gripping, and I got chills from the aura heavy in the room.

"I'll take it," I whispered.

"I knew you would," he said, sounding proud of himself. "Now that we've identified our room, where shall we put the bed?"

My stomach dropped a few floors, but liking this game of make-believe, I surveyed the room with appraising eyes. I surveyed the north wall where a large portion was cut out for where I could see a couple of doors resting that would open to a private balcony. I strolled to the back wall, and turned a couple circles, looking up, down and side to side, before I plopped down on the floor and laid my body out flat.

I heard him walk towards me. "Right here," I said with an air of finality, looking up at the night sky through the roof trusses. "There's a nice view." He came to a stop beside me, his face blotting out the substandard night sky. "An _amazing_ view," I edited, admiring the new one.

He rolled his eyes like I did when he said something I thought was crazy, before his expression became playful. "I think you need a pillow." He kneeled down at my head, and lifted it gently as he slid his body into position beneath it. He let it come to rest over his stomach.

"This is both the hardest"—I gently punched against his stomach—"and the nicest pillow I've ever had." I twisted my head to look over at him, and let one of my hands mold against his cheek.

"It is a great view," he said, his eyes roaming over the stars above. He was pensive for awhile, looking deep in thought. I left my hand against his face and marveled in its workmanship again. "Would you like to see your star?" he asked, breaking the intimate silence. His eyes grabbed mine.

" _My_ star?"

"Yes, the star that was yours before I even knew your name," he began, looking back to the sky and focusing on one spot above. "Immediately following the first dream I had of you all those years ago, I went outside and laid under a clear night sky like tonight's, and found the one that shone the brightest to me—the one that screamed its brightness in the surrounding black—the way you had for me." My eyes stayed fixed on his face, not able to admire anything else. "It's been a constant companion and reminder to me. Whenever I'd catch myself doubting when and if I'd ever find you, I'd look up and find your star and it would remind me you were out there . . . somewhere, and that I would one day find you," he finished, smiling at whatever his eyes were positioned on.

"Come here," he instructed. "I want to show you." His hands encouraged my head and upper half up. He lifted his back off the floor and scooted forward until his chest was pressed against my back. Tucking my legs up to my chest, he wrapped his arms around my compacted body before tossing me onto his lap.

"Lay back on me," he whispered, unwrapping his arms from me and pulling mine with him as he lay down. He pulled me down on him so I was viewing the sky above from the same position he was, although what lay below me was a million times better than the wood flooring beneath him.

I straightened out my legs over his, and let my head rest just to the side of his. My body rose and fell in unison with his, and his heart burst against my back with such force it shook my body. Every breath I pulled in was hitching in my lungs, so I stopped breathing all together, choosing to eliminate one unneeded overreaction.

His left arm wound over my waist, and with his right, he grabbed my hand and lifted it to the sky above. His arm straightened over mine and he pointed my index finger and glided it across the night sky, until he brought it to a stop. "There it is," he whispered.

He released my waist and lifted his hand to my head to tilt it closer to his—aligning it with his line of sight. "Do you see it?"

At the tip of my fingernail, a star sparkled its brilliance without apology. "I see it," I whispered back, sending my endless thanks to the star that encouraged him through the generations. It was dazzling, and with your attention on it, nothing else screamed its light or dark around it . . . there was only that one spot of brightness in the black universe.

"Can I pick one out for you?" I asked, already having one in mind.

"Please do," he whispered below me, kissing the hairline just behind my ear.

I repositioned our extended arms so mine was over his, and pointed his index finger above. I penned his finger across the sky, playing connect the dots, until I rested it over the star. "That one," I whispered.

He was silent for a few seconds. "But that's yours," he stated, sounding confused.

"I don't want to be anywhere you're not," I whispered. "If that's my star . . . that's your star."

Before I could revel in the new speed his heart thrust with, he had me on my back and was leaning over me, holding his weight not as carefully as he normally did. His offensive was coming. The look in his eyes numbed my senses and dizziness swirled in my head.

"Leave with me tonight, Bryn," he murmured, tilting my chin back and kissing the indentation at the base of my neck. "I've got a couple of bags packed and two airline tickets." His words were muffled from the continued journey his lips made over my collar bone.

While I'd been wandering the Montana countryside, I knew what he'd been doing the past two hours—preparing for his "run-away" scheme.

"We could be in Germany in twenty-four hours, and _together_ one minute after that." I felt his smile against my skin.

"Germany?" I breathed, my chest jack-hammering against his from the coercion he was immersing me in.

His mouth lifted slightly from where it had made its way up my neck. "I have a little place there at the base of the Alps. We could be there together, answer to no one, and live for nothing besides each other." His mouth moved just below my ear. "Leave with me."

I wanted to say that word of agreement in the worst way, knowing he wouldn't let a heartbeat pass before he had me in his arms, taking the first step in our journey together.

I saw us in Germany, exploring the Alps and sitting beside a fire. I saw us travelling around the world and me assisting him in some make-shift, medical tent in the middle of a South American jungle. I saw going to bed each night beside him, wrapped in his arms and nothing else . . . I saw it all, and I wanted it bad. But I also saw the Immortal community, on _both_ sides now, not resting until our betrayal was brought to justice, and I would never risk the punishment we'd nearly served two days ago threatening his life every again.

"Not tonight." The soul derived words broke my heart, but somewhere within my aching heart, it too knew this was the right decision.

His face lifted over mine, and I saw him ready to protest, but I was too quick. "I'm not saying ever . . . just not tonight." I reached for his face, trying to smooth the lines of disappointment. "I want the blessing of your Council—"

"Well . . . all I want is _you._ I don't care about—"

I put my hand over his mouth, silencing his rebuff. "I want to be with your family, I want to dance an _official_ Ballad of the Betrothed," I said, raising my brows at him. "I want a Unity ceremony, I want to try to do this the right way . . . and then we can honeymoon in Germany."

He didn't look the least bit appeased or satisfied by my honeymoon admission, because he knew as I did—there would be no blessing of a Council, no Betrothal, and no Unity ceremony. I could never admit to him I was aware of any of this though; he couldn't suspect I was stalling in order to keep him safe. I had to make this a selfish request, knowing he couldn't deny me anything.

"I want it all," I admitted, knowing I could never have it. I wanted him, and I wanted him safe—but it seemed impossible to reconcile these two desires. There were two options, and only one I could live with.

He lowered his face to mine and his expression was serious. "What if we can't have it all?" His expression was pained, and I knew it was because he was admitting he may not be able to give me everything I wanted. "What if we can only have each other?"

I had to swallow the pain in my throat before I could answer him. "Let's compromise—"

"What if there is no compromise, Bryn?" he interrupted, sounding tired of battling me. "What will you choose if you can only have one or the other . . . the blessing of the Council or me?"

"You," I answered without missing a beat. "I will _always_ choose you." And I would. I would always put him first, no matter how much it hurt me—even if it meant removing myself from his life so it would never be compromised again. Before my emotions could manifest into the droplets of water wanting to accrue in my eyes, I changed the subject. "Am I really going to have to move in with one of your brothers?"

His brows squeezed together. "Where did you hear that?"

Oops . . . I let that slip, but my recovery was out as quick as my slip. "Patrick was running his mouth before he took his _present_ out for a spin," I said instantly, feeling vile for telling him a lie.

His eyes drilled into mine, looking into my soul; I'm sure trying to see if I'd heard what I had in the stable tonight. "Yes," he finally responded, sounding bitter. "You'll have to move in with one of them tomorrow."

My grimace must have been more pronounced than I realized.

He smiled, and his words came out like the caress of silk on skin. "What if I asked you again to leave with me right now," he whispered inside my ear, barraging my faltering front line of defense again. "Our flight leaves at six in the morning . . . Germany, anywhere you want . . . no more hiding or pretending." The secret weapon of his, which would surely lead to my demise if they didn't cease their battle, positioned at the tip of my chin and slid along the line of my jaw. His breath was warm and intoxicating.

I didn't give heed to the words before they spilled from my mouth, "I'd say yes."

I heard his breath catch at the same moment my conscious came back to the surface and battered my heart for being so weak. Before he could wrap me up in his arms and have me out the door, where I knew there would be no going back, I recovered. "But I know you _wouldn't_ ask me again, because you love me enough to give my way a try first," I finished, looking pointedly into his face once his lips drifted up the side of my neck.

His eyes narrowed from the predicament I'd just put him in. "You are as cunning as I am . . . you're a worthy advisory," he admitted, looking both proud and miffed.

"You have my word that we will try it your way first . . . but," he said, cautioning me with his eyes. "I want your word, if your way does not work out as we hope it will, that you will agree to mine."

I would give him anything, including my life. Just like he could deny me nothing, I could deny him nothing. "You have my word," I swore to him.

The seriousness lifted from his face, and was replaced by a familiar expression. "Just because I've given you my word to try your way first, doesn't mean I'm going to let up on my coercion any . . . it's only going to get worse," he said, his eyes afire with mischief. "I'll have you _begging_ to leave in a week," he promised, and to prove his point, he showed me.

When I felt certain my sternum would crack from the force of my heart pounding against it from his mouth moving against mine, I surrendered my lips from his still advancing ones. "One day at a time, my love," I whispered through my irregular breathing.

He tilted his head back from mine, and his expression was full of warmth. "That's enough for me . . . for now. But you're not the only one who wants it all—I do too. I want _you_ every day of forever, Bryn, not just one day at a time. But it's enough for now," he repeated, his eyes overflowing with fondness.

"Now that we've got that all straightened out," I teased, smiling and lifting my head from the floor to return his coercion. My lips polished along his jaw line, making their way to his chin, where I'd release my counterattack on his lips. "Would it be asking too much if I requested a little more coercion before I have to move in with one of your brother's?" I murmured against his neck. He trembled and sighed at the same time, before lifting back from me.

His eyebrows rose, looking somewhat appeased, and then the longing in his eyes exploded. "Come here my little temptress." He pulled me to him, his lips burning beneath mine. "Everything will work out. I'll make sure of that," he vowed in the space between our temporarily parted lips.

Somehow, despite everything, I knew it would too. His vow made my hope explode, knowing William would never give up until we were together.

But we were together now, and now would be all William and I could ever depend on—and it was enough for me. I'd spend an eternity of _nows_ loving and protecting William Hayward.

And so we drifted into our eternity together—however bittersweet it would be. The welded, unbreakable bond between us the universe had forged could never be eradicated, despite whatever cruel fate the world had planned for us. I was prepared to fight with my life, to spend the rest of eternity with the man who presently, rested above me, worshipping me with his entire being.

My eyes found our star, and I smiled, knowing at least somewhere in the universe, we would always be together.

### THE END

Find out what fate has in store for William and Bryn

in the second book of the trilogy:

Fallen Eden

Coming out in summer 2011.

Eternal Eden

by

Nicole Williams

Copyright 2011

Smashwords Edition

