I shivered as Nireas leaned in, kissing the top of my ear where a scar so old it was barely noticeable shimmered faintly on my skin.
"If I'd known…" He shook his head, and I smiled at him as he leaned back.
"You were still freshly heartbroken," I said.
"Maybe just four years, then," he said roughly, frowning.
I covered the expression with a kiss, Nireas's arms drawing me in close. Damnit. Maybe I did forgive him. Maybe I didn't care either way. He knew. They all knew now.
"I don't know how long I'll live," I murmured, tucking my face into his throat.
"I don't care. Eight years, five hundred. It's not going to hurt less later, and I want every minute of it," Nireas whispered. "I wasted enough of them already."
This wasn't the wild celebration Jude had on the stage the night before. This was quiet and private, and somehow a little sad too. My body was heavy, as if the battle of keeping my secret was now lifted, and I was twice as weary and limp in my victory. I didn't fall asleep, although Nireas was humming something sweet—the song he'd played the night of our performance—and his arms cradled me perfectly.
I lay in the hazy light of the comfortable apartment for a long time, an hour or more, listening to that song and thinking about the future I might have. And when my eyelids did grow heavy, my muscles giving up completely and demanding rest, I heard Nireas's whisper against my ear.
"Sleep, nymph."