“I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.”
—A.S. Byatt
Present day
Rory
My life is contained in a round, beautiful snow globe.
The kind no one has bothered to pick up from the dusty shelf in years. Unshaken. Quiet and still. From the outside, my manicured Swiss village looks perfect. And it is. Kind of. At twenty-six, it appears I have my life together.
Perfect job.
Perfect apartment.
Perfect roommate.
Perfect boyfriend.
Perfect lies.
Well, they’re not lies, per se. All my accomplishments are real. I worked hard for them. Problem is, I promised eight years ago to give them all away in the blink of an eye if I bumped into him again. But back then, I wasn’t the same person I am today.
I was lost. Grieving. Broken. Confused.
Not that it matters, because that was then, and this is now, and it’s not him I’m staring at. Nope. There’s no way.
It’s not.
…Then why can’t I tear my eyes from the mysterious stranger who glides through the doors of The Beerchman Hotel’s ballroom, turning every head along the way?
Ruddy cheeks tarnished by the unforgiving winter, an aristocratic square jaw, Roman nose, and lips made for the darkest sins and most sordid pleasures—all framed by tousled, coal black hair curling at the ears like ivy, rumpled in a thousand different directions. His slanted, brooding eyes, broad shoulders, and narrow hips make him more than handsome. He’s perfect. Too perfect.
As with all cruel, fairy-tale princes, I long to spot something that would indicate his immortality, a lack of humanity. Something that would prove his perfection truly is impossible.
Pointy ears. Long fangs. A little tail.
C’mon, God, give me something to work with here. Anything.
He is tall, but not enough to demand any special attention. No, Malachy Doherty doesn’t need imperial height, fancy clothes, or millions in the bank to justify the awe he triggers in people. His existence alone is enough to make women fall to their knees. I saw it then. I see it now.
All eyes at the ball are on this enigmatic man, mine included.
Stop it, Rory. It’s not him.
If only I could see his eyes. Then I’d be able to put this to rest, to know for sure. No one else has those eyes. A rare shade of violet, like crushed crystal candy.
“Lack of melanin mixed with light reflecting off red blood vessels,” Mal explained the night he took my innocence, heart, and panties all in the same breath.
I watch as the man strides past security and into the VIP area without missing a step, ignoring the curious glances and lip-biting female admirers. Even celebrities throw themselves at him, chasing his lazy stride, trying to strike up a conversation as the large, bald bouncer unhooks the red velvet rope separating the mortals from the deities.
The man who cannot be Mal ambles toward the bar, his eyes zeroed in on something. Or rather someone: record label tycoon Jeff Ryner, who has up-and-coming R&B darling Alice Christensen, known onstage as Alicious, sprawled in his lap. Jeff’s forty-something face is hued pink by excessive drinking and cocaine.
As the man approaches, Ryner stands, letting Alicious slip from his lap, her ass hitting the floor with a thump. Stepping over her body, he rushes to Mystery Man, falls to his knees theatrically, and plucks a large stack of cash from his breast pocket to wave in the stranger’s face. The man who is not Mal lets loose a cold smirk, plucks the money from Ryner’s sausage-like fingers, and slips it into his coat pocket, saying something that makes Ryner stand up in a rush.
Well, that puts a lid on things.
Mal would die before making a deal with a bigwig like my boss. Set himself on fire before attending a glamorous gala. Drink cyanide straight from the bottle before associating himself with the likes of Jeff Ryner.
Mal is not cold, or arrogant, or high-browed. He cuts his own hair and high-fives strangers and thinks brown sauce is the cure for all of the world’s problems. Mal hates lavish events, entertainment journals, mainstream record labels, and elegant food. He loves his mammy, having the craic, getting shit-faced, and songwriting while lying under the flawless night sky in his backyard. He refused a check for sixteen-grand a pop sweetheart tried to give him to buy one of his songs, simply because he had a good laugh watching her confused manager and agent try to decipher the word no.
But that was eight years ago, a little voice inside me points out. For a period of twenty-four hours.
What do I know about today’s Malachy Doherty?
What did I ever know about him at all?
“There she is.”
Callum’s arms wrap around my waist. I jump in surprise, his posh, English accent startling me for a second.
“The belle of the ball.” His lips, still cold from the outside, brush my ear from behind.