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“All part of the big, dark secret as to why I’m supposed to secretly hate you, yadda, yadda, yadda.” She gestured her hand idly in the air. She waited for him to lift his martini glass to his lips and then eyed him narrowly. “Are you sure we’ve never fucked?”

She laughed as he snorted martini up his nose and began coughing into his napkin. The glare he shot her was utterly priceless.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m trying to go easy on you. But this is just too much fun.”

“Your cruelty”—he wheezed—“is astonishing.” When he could breathe again, he cleared his throat, shook his head, and took a sip of water to try to settle everything down. “And to answer your question for the last time, no. Believe me.”

“True. I feel like I’d remember that, anyway.” She nudged his foot with hers under the table. “Something tells me you’re hard to forget.” She ran her fingertips along the thumb of his hand that rested on the table, playing lightly over him.

He snatched her hand, tight around her wrist. “Marguerite,” he growled out her name, “you are playing with fire.” And just like that, his mood shifted from beleaguered suffering to such a dark intensity that it took her breath away. There was that feeling of being sucked under the avalanche again—like a riptide had snatched her when she had been carelessly playing in the surf.

It was a warning and a promise.

The beast in the cage was starved. Rabid. Desperate. And she was teasing it with dinner. It might not want to hurt her—it might not want to devour her—but if she kept going, it might not be able to help but try.

She knew he wasn’t going to hurt her. If she yelled at him to stop, she knew he would back down. She had no doubt about that. But she would have lost the trust of the creature in the cage.

It was a crossroads. One she had stood at many, many times before. Suddenly, it all flashed over her. Image, after image, after image filled her mind. A hundred lives. A hundred times she had stood at the doorway of Dr. Gideon Raithe and had to choose which way to go.

Could she let herself want him?

Or did she prefer to bury her head in the sand and pretend that whatever this was between them wasn’t real?

She knew how she had chosen a hundred times. Deny him, deny herself, deny this pull that existed between them. There was a strange gravity that made it so easy to overlook how obviously strange he had been as her fake psychiatrist. All the signs had been there. She had just chosen to ignore them.

She had wanted to hide from what she was.

She had wanted to hide from what they were.

With a whisper, she made her choice. “I’m done hiding.”

* * *

“I’m done hiding.”

The words left her full lips, barely audible in the din of the restaurant, and he felt his heart hitch in his chest—which was rather remarkable. He had forgotten what that felt like, seeing as he hadn’t been in possession of the rather important organ for a very long time.

Slowly, he released her wrist. She hadn’t recoiled from his abrupt movement. She had only frozen, staring at him, wide emerald eyes flicking between his in a desperate attempt to grapple with her situation.

It was his turn to watch her now, in awe, as she picked up the rest of her bramble and downed the drink in one gulp. She gestured for the waiter and ordered them both another round. How many centuries had he known this poor, tortured soul, and seen her shiver and cower in terror from the nightmares that haunted her?

Who was this version of Marguerite? Where had she been hiding? What was he doing differently this time that let such a dying ember ignite and burn anew? Maybe something in her soul recognized that she was at the end and was mustering every ounce of strength to survive. Or, perhaps, it was this modern era that allowed her such freedom.

Most likely…it was because he had surrendered in many ways to his fate, and now no longer dogged her steps with his incessant needs. He had not given up the hope for continued life, but he had certainly given up the hope for love.

But he would happily lie down on the fire and serve as fuel for her flame. If such a thing were possible. If she would even let such a thing happen. The dreaded word “maybe” circled around his head like Eurydice on the hunt. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time she would survive.

Maybethis time…she might love him in return.

He shook his head. He was a damnable fool. A damnable, cursed, lamentable fool. No. It wasn’t possible, nor would it ever be. She was merely testing the limits of her newfound resolve. And for all his protests, he enjoyed her teasing and playful bullying.

Something did feel different between them this time. When he had snapped at her, she was shocked. But she was not afraid. Now she was looking at him with curiosity and another expression he wasn’t sure what to make of. He knew what it was. He knew what to name it. But to accept it, to follow where it may lead, would be crossing a point of no return.

Passion.

She was looking at him with desire.

His sudden outburst should have frightened her. That had been his intention. He had tried to scare her off the trail to protect himself as much as to protect her. Silently, he begged her not to toy with him. Not to do this to him. Not to bring him so close to something he had wanted for so very long, only to turn away and deny him at the last second.