But even though I normally couldn’t care less about the clothes he wears or his ride to school, when I look at him again, I get this horrible ping in my gut—an insistent push, demanding my notice. A definite warning that this is merely the beginning. That this sudden transformation goes way deeper than some cost-cutting, altruistic, environmentally conscious agenda. No, this has something to do with last night. Something about being haunted by his karma. Like he’s convinced himself that giving up his most prized possessions will somehow balance it all out.
“Shall we?” He smiles, grasping my hand the second the bell rings, leading me away from Miles and Haven who’ll spend the next three periods texting back and forth, trying to determine what’s up with Damen.
I look at him, his gloved hand in mine as we head down the hall, whispering, “What’s going on? What really happened to your car?”
“I already told you.” He shrugs. “I don’t need it. It’s an unnecessary indulgence I no longer care to—indulge.” He laughs, looking at me. But when I fail to join in he shakes his head and says, “Don’t look so serious. It’s not a big deal. When I realized it’s not something I need, I drove it out to a depressed area and left it by the side of the road where someone can find it.”
I press my lips together and stare straight ahead, wishing I could climb inside his mind and see the thoughts he keeps to himself, get to the bottom of what this is really about. Because despite the way he looks at me, despite the dismissive shrug that he gives, nothing he’s said makes the least bit of sense.
“Well, that’s fine and all, I mean, if that’s what you need to do, then great, have fun.” I shrug, fully convinced that it’s not at all great, though knowing better than to say it out loud. “But just how are you planning to get around now that you’ve ditched your ride? I mean, in case you haven’t noticed, this is California, you can’t get anywhere without a car.”
He looks at me, clearly amused by my outburst, which is not exactly the reaction I’d planned. “What’s wrong with the bus? It’s free.”
I gape, shaking my head, hardly believing my ears. And since when do you worry about cost, Mr. I Make Millions Playing The Ponies And Just Manifest Whatever Else I Might Want? Realizing just after it’s out that I forgot to shield my thoughts.
“Is that how you see me?” He stops just shy of the classroom door, obviously hurt by my careless assessment. “As some shallow, materialistic, narcissistic, consumer-driven slob?”
“No!” I cry, shaking my head and squeezing his hand. Hoping to convince him even though I actually did kind of mean it. Only not in a bad way like he thinks. More in a my boyfriend appreciates the finer things in life kind of way, and less in a my boyfriend’s the male version of Stacia kind of way. “I just—” I squint, wishing I could be even half as eloquent as him, but still forging ahead when I say, “I guess I just don’t get it.” I shrug. “And what’s up with the glove?” I raise his leather-clad hand to where we can see.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He shakes his head and pulls me toward the door.
But I just stay put, refusing to budge. Nothing’s obvious. Nothing makes sense anymore.
He pauses, hand on the knob, more than a little hurt when he says, “I thought it was a good solution for now. But perhaps you’d prefer I not touch you at all?”
No! That’s not what I meant! Switching to telepathy the moment some classmates approach, reminding him how hard it’s been avoiding any and all skin-on-skin contact for the last three days. Pretending I had a cold when we both know we don’t get sick, and other ridiculous avoidance techniques that left me feeling deeply ashamed. It’s been torture, pure and simple. To have a boyfriend so gorgeous, so sexy, so amazingly awesome—and to not be able to touch him—is the worst kind of agony.
“I mean, I know we can’t risk any accidental palm sweat exchange or anything like that, but still, don’t you think it looks kind of—odd?” I whisper, the second we’re alone again.
“I don’t care about that.” His gaze open, sincere, and fixed right on mine. “I don’t care what other people think. I only care about you.”
He squeezes my fingers and opens the door with his mind, leading me right past Stacia Miller as we head for our desks. And even though I haven’t seen her since Friday when she woke from Roman’s spell, I’m sure her hatred for me hasn’t dampened a bit. But while I’m fully braced for her usual ploy of dropping her bag in my path in an attempt to trip me—today she’s too distracted by Damen’s new look to play that tired old game. Her unhurried gaze traveling the length of him, from his head to his toes, before starting all over again.
But just because she ignores me doesn’t mean I can relax or trust that it’s over. Because the truth is, it’s never over with Stacia. She’s made that abundantly clear. If anything
she’s probably more charged up and vicious than ever—making this little reprieve nothing more than the calm before the storm.
“Ignore her,” Damen whispers, scooting his desk so close the edges practically overlap.
And even though I nod as though I am, the truth is—I can’t. As much as I’d love to pretend she’s invisible—I can’t do it. She’s in front of me now and I’m completely obsessed. Peering into her thoughts, wanting to see what, if anything, happened between them. Because even though I know Roman’s responsible for all of the flirting, and kissing, and cuddling, I had no choice but to watch. Even though I know for a fact that Damen was completely deprived of free will—that doesn’t change the fact that it happened—that Damen’s lips pressed against hers while his hands roamed her skin. And even though I’m pretty sure it didn’t go any further than that, I’d still feel a heck of a lot better if I could just get some evidence to back up my theory.
And despite how crazy, hurtful, and completely masochistic it is—I won’t stop until her memory gives, and every last horrible, painful, excruciating detail is finally revealed.
I’m just about to delve deeper, travel to the very core of her brain, when Damen squeezes my hand and says, “Ever, please. Stop torturing yourself. I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to see.” I swallow hard, gaze fixed on the back of her head, watching her gossip with Honor and Craig, barely listening as he adds, “It didn’t happen. It’s not what you think.”
“I thought you couldn’t remember?” I turn, overcome with shame the instant I see the pain in his eyes as he looks at me and shakes his head.
“Just trust me.” He sighs. “Or at least try to. Please?”
I inhale deeply, gazing at him, wishing I could, knowing I should.
“Seriously, Ever. First you couldn’t get over the past six hundred years of my dating, and now you’re obsessed with last week?” He knits his brow and leans closer, voice urgent, coaxing, as he adds, “I know that your feelings are unbelievably hurt. Really, I do. But what’s done is done. I can’t go back, I can’t change it. Roman’s done this on purpose—you can’t let him win.”
I swallow hard, knowing he’s right. I’m acting ridiculous, irrational, allowing myself to veer way off track.
Besides, Damen thinks, switching to telepathy now that our teacher, Mr. Robins, has arrived. You know it’s meaningless. The only one I’ve ever loved is you. Isn’t that enough?
He brings his gloved thumb to my temple, gazing into my eyes as he shows me our history, my many incarnations as a young servant girl in France, a Puritan’s daughter in New England, a flirtatious British socialite, an artist’s muse with gorgeous red hair—