I sip. Look up. And freeze.
He’s here.
“Everyone.” Julian breaks in on my earpiece. “He’s here. East path, approaching the pool bar.”
Damien is walking along the path toward the pool bar. Casual. Unhurried. Wearing the kind of resort outfit that costs a fortune and blends in with any other wealthy guest enjoying a tropical afternoon.
He looks like a man who has all the time in the world.
Because he does. He’s had a hundred and forty-six years to plan this moment.
I see Elena close her book. See Sofia shift her weight, ready to move. They’ve spotted him, too. They’re tracking his approach with the focused attention of predators sizing up prey.
“We see him.” Sofia’s voice is tense. “Orders?”
Damien spots every single one of them.
“Hold position,” Julian responds. “Let him approach. Don’t intervene unless he tries to harm her.”
It was hard for him to say that last part.
Then Damien walks toward me, and my earpiece cuts out.
There’s a team of vampires watching me, but I feel all alone.
My heart is pounding. My hands want to shake. Every instinct screams at me to run, to call for help, to do anything other than sit here and wait for that monster to reach me.
But I don’t run.
I set down my champagne glass. Remove my sunglasses. Meet his eyes as he approaches.
If I’m going to face this, I’m going to face it head-on.
Damien sits on the lounge chair beside me, casual as anything. Like we’re old friends catching up. Like he wasn’t threatening Julian to hurt me.
“We should talk,” he says. “About Julian. The real Julian.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Please.” His smile has an edge. “Drop the pretense. I know he told you what he is. The question is whether he’s told you everything.”
I keep my voice steady. Barely. “What do you want?”
“To tell you a story.” He places his drink on the table next to him. “About a woman named Katya.”
The woman Damien loved. The woman whose death started all of this.
“I’m listening,” I say.
Damien pauses. When he speaks, his voice has changed—lost its edge, gained something rawer. Something that almost sounds like grief.
“Katya was a violinist. Vienna Philharmonic. An amazing feat for a woman during that time.” He stares at his untouched drink. “She was fierce and brilliant and completely unafraid. When I told her what I was, she didn’t run. She laughed and said she’d always known there was something different about me.”
“She sounds remarkable.”
His face softens. “She was. Twenty-six years I had with her. After centuries of nothing—after believing I would spend eternity alone—I finally had something worth existing for.”
Despite everything I know about this man, despite what he’s done and what he’s planning to do, I feel something shift in my chest. Sympathy. Understanding.
