Page 28 of The Vampire’s Ballerina

“When Wesley marked me,” Haven whispers, her words broken up by quiet sniffles. “When he marked me, my mom—Selene—wanted to make me immortal. She said she begged Zeus to let her give me a gift, to let her grant me the immortality of the gods so I could eventually come live with her in her realm.”

“And you turned her down?”

“I turned her down,” she confirms, “because her gift wouldn’t extend to Wesley or our children or any of our descendants. I would have stayed forever youthful as they all grew old and died. I would have had to watch the man I love, my mate, the other half of my soul, die. Then I’d have to live with that emptiness for the rest of my life.”

I inhale sharply, fresh tears filling my eyes at the pain and desperation in her voice as she tells me this secret. “That would be awful.”

“It would have broken me.” Her voice cracks. “I still—I still get emotional even thinking about what almost was. What would have been if I hadn’t stood up for myself and my mate.”

“Peter said it was my choice—”

“And it should be.” Her tone is insistent, even with her tears. “But I think you already know what you want. What you want in your heart. You don’t need me to tell you. You just need to admit it to yourself, and then, like I told you before, you need to let go of the expectations and be true to you. To Imogen.”

I nod, my face scrunching up as I hold in a sob. How she always knows the right things to say to me, I’ll never understand.

“Thank you,” I manage through the rush of emotions overwhelming me.

“Any time, Immy.”

She hangs up, and I set the phone down, pulling Peter’s sleeves over my hands. I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes, rise from the couch, and head to the bedroom so I can tell him my decision.

Epilogue

Peter

Many Years Later

A new city. A new company. A new life.

I’ve done this countless times, and yet it never gets any easier. Disappearing when too many people start questioning my youthfulness. Lying low long enough to emerge again with a new identity and either create another company or replace a director at a lesser-known one. It’s the same song and dance I’ve done for centuries now.

It’s a lonely life, but one I’ve grown accustomed to.

I grip the balcony railing and stare at the sea of audience members finding their seats and examining their programs, all dressed in their finest. Anticipation lingers in the air. It’s the premiere for the company’s season, their first season with me as their director.

Nights like tonight always make the difficulties—the loneliness—worth it. These nights give meaning to it all and remind me why I do what I do. Even so, I can’t help the flash of nerves that flickers through me. It’s unfamiliar, something I haven’t experienced in a very long time.

The corner of my mouth lifts into a half smile as I push away from the balcony, heading through the theater. I weave around the people who mill about drinking champagne and discussing the event. I don’t pay them much attention, even though a few wave at me and seem intent on speaking to me. I just give them a cursory glance and nod, continuing on my way.

I can speak with them later. There is one last matter I need to take care of before the performance begins.

The excitement backstage is as palpable as it is in the theater—perhaps even more so. My company members rush about—a mass of tulle, chiffon, glitter, and rhinestones—doing last-minute checks to make sure everything is in place for the production and running through sections they think need more rehearsing. Not that they do, but dancers will settle for nothing less than perfection.

Stepping into the stairwell of the dressing rooms, I take in a breath and close my eyes, focusing on smelling and listening for anyone who remains upstairs. My smirk from before grows into a full smile when I determine that the coast is clear, and I take off up the stairs at a brisk pace.

The farther away from the stage I go, the quieter it gets, until there is only silence. The dressing rooms are vacant, all the dancers downstairs to prepare for the opening number.

Well, all except one.

The red star on the door of the private dressing room shimmers under the extra-bright lights. I rap my knuckles twice on the center before I open the door and slip inside.

Blue eyes meet mine in the mirror. As the door clicks shut, she turns and flies across the room to me, her hands on my cheeks and her mouth on mine before I can even grab her.

The sweet taste of Imogen’s lips intensifies as I wrap my arms around her upper body. My hands press her closer, clutching at her and wrinkling the fabric of her red silk dressing gown. Her sangria, peach, and orange-zest scent swirls around me as we continue our kiss.

I revel in her softness—her soft skin, plush lips, and the tender sighs and moans she makes as love flows between us and around us—the same softness I fell in love with all those years ago.

The change into a vampire did not erase it—the change enhanced everything about her. Her softness, her sensuality, her drive, and her passion. She was already a gorgeous creature, but after turning, she became even more exquisite. And that exquisiteness extended to our connection—especially after she marked me back.