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The ability to speak the language of love, as Shira had put it, required a solid foundation and an unburdened heart. But those parts of her had been broken, perhaps beyond repair. The ability to trust, to allow someone close enough to hurt her—she wasn't sure those pieces could be reassembled.

"He waited a long time for you," Shira said. "That's patience and dedication."

"That's the part I don't understand." Fenella waved a hand. "Who carries a torch for that long? Especially for someone they barely knew and thought was probably gone?"

Shira shrugged. "Immortals have a different perspective on time. And maybe Din just couldn't find anyone else who evoked such strong feelings in him." She settled her luminous green eyes on Fenella. "Did he tell you about fated mates?"

A jolt that felt like an inner earthquake shook Fenella. Din hadn't mentioned it, but Jasmine, Kyra, and even Max had talked about that enough for her to know what it meant for immortals.

"Forgive me for sounding like a heretic, but I don't believe in all that Fates nonsense."

"Oh, it's real." Shira put the rag aside and came to sit next to Fenella at the counter. "Fated mates are real, and that might have been what Din felt for you all those years ago. He didn't know that you were a Dormant, so he couldn't understand the pull, but it would explain why he's never forgotten you and why he flew over here as soon as he heard that you'd been found. Don't you feel the same pull toward him?"

Before Fenella could formulate a response, her phone buzzed with an incoming text. She glanced at the screen, frowning.

"Everything okay?" Shira asked.

"It's Bridget," Fenella said. "She wants me to come to the clinic at ten-thirty."

Shira looked concerned. "Why?"

"I don't know," Fenella muttered, but a cold tendril of fear slithered through her stomach. "She didn't say."

What if Bridget had found something during her examination when Fenella first arrived at the keep? She'd taken a lot of blood samples, and not all the results had been available immediately.

What if it was something the Doomer had done to her?

Something that was permanent damage or worse, a progressive disease that would undo her immortality and make her human again?

Fenella had been subjected to countless indignities and abuses during her captivity, most of which she didn't remember and others that she tried not to think about.

"It's probably just a follow-up to your initial screening," Shira said.

Fenella nodded, but the knot of anxiety didn't ease. "Yeah. You're probably right." She looked at the time on her phone. "I should shower and get dressed."

"Do you want me to walk with you to the clinic?" Shira offered. "I don't start work until noon."

The offer was unexpectedly touching. Fenella wasn't used to people looking out for her without wanting something in return.

"Thanks, but I'll be fine," she said, forcing a smile. "I know how to get to the clinic."

As she headed to the bathroom, Fenella tried to convince herself that she had nothing to worry about but failed.

The hot water of the shower did little to wash away her anxiety, and as she let it cascade over her back, her thoughts oscillated between Din and Bridget's summons.

Din's face appeared in her mind's eye—the way he'd looked at her when they'd said goodnight, the gentle press of his lips against her cheek when she'd turned at the last moment. Why had she done that?

Part of her had wanted that kiss, had been curious about what it would be like to be kissed by him. Yet something in her had pulled back, erected a barrier at the crucial moment.

Sighing, Fenella turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel, studying her reflection in the foggy mirror. Her face was youthful, unmarked by the passage of time, but her eyes told a different story. They'd seen too much, those eyes.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she dried herself briskly and thought instead about meeting Atzil at the bar. That was something concrete she could latch on to that didn't require adjusting her feelings or anything complicated like that.

Bartending was simple. She knew how to do it, had done it countless times before, and she was good at it.

Once Fenella was dressed, she sat on the bed, pulled out her phone, and googled Din's name on a whim to distract herself. To her surprise, several hits came up—a university faculty page, publications in archaeology journals, a couple of articles about an excavation in Turkey that had made minor waves in academic circles.

Dinnean MacDougal, PhD. The formal name looked strange to her, almost like it belonged to someone else. The faculty photo showed him in a tweed jacket, looking scholarly and serious. It was hard to reconcile this academic figure with the immortal who had bared his fangs last night at the mention of avenging her.