Free Divine Fire by Melanie Jackson Page A

she returned to her room.
    She hadn’t opened the door to join him. It was probably just as well. Though she appealed to him with those eyes that studied everything so intently while her brow furrowed and she rested her small chin in her delicate hand, he needed to be wary, to think things through.
    Naturally, her open admiration of him—of Byron; he needed to be clear about that—was a lure. It was difficult to resist a woman who spoke of him with such passion and intensity, whose adoration and longing shone like a candle in the winter night that had become his soul.
    But he needed to practice caution for that very reason. She wasn’t the first wounded woman who had called to his tender side, and he hadn’t forgotten that such affairs, when rushed, nearly always ended in tragedy. Even when allowed to develop in the fullness of time, they still often ended badly—in heartbreak and hatred and death, if they went far wrong. And cruel indifference and apathy, even if they did not. His memory was a graveyard of dead loves, and he still mourned them on the occasions that he allowed himself to pass by.
    No, it was best that she had turned away tonight, that she hadn’t ventured out to see the wildness in his eyes and the network of scars on his chest, and started asking questions. What she had witnessed was odd enough behavior in the hours just before dawn.
    Perhaps she would think it all a winter’s dream and not ask difficult questions in the morning.
    Damien wasn’t at all sure what he’d been doing outside anyway. Yes, he always enjoyed storms, and this kind of storm was particularly rare and invigorating, but it was too cold even for him. And though he was feeling uneasy, it didn’t seem likely that he would actually be able to spot any danger from up there.
    Danger.
    He couldn’t see anything, yet danger lurked nearby. In spite of what the private detectives had told him, he knew in his bones that peril lay ahead. He had developed a sort of sixth sense that warned him when doom was closing in. It had saved him more than once—from financial disaster, from an earthquake, several times from ambush, and once from a drug addict set to rob and murder him for the price of a fix. That instinct said mortal peril was near.
    Brice had seemed to sense something, too, while they were out in the streets.
    Damien hoped passionately that the warning was not also directed at her. Because he wanted Brice Ashton close by. He wanted to learn her secrets, her desires, her dreams. And he was fairly certain that he was going to make love to her eventually as well. The attraction was so bloody strong. He might even show her who he truly was, even if it was the most reckless thing he had ever done in his long, long life.
    It was a terrifying thought. But it could happen—and easily. He knew himself, knew that the old longing for companionship she stirred would eventually overwhelm him. Frustration and loneliness had been a growing shadow on his spirit. In time it began to stain the soul as surely as the blackest of the deadly sins. Damien wasn’t a glutton— usually , he amended, thinking about the dinner he’d just shared with Brice. He did not envy, did not lust after others’ possessions. He wasn’t even slothful. But he did hunger for companionship with the appetite of a starving man. He thirsted for a chance to be honest about who he was.
    He wanted to give his heart again.
    From the moment of his transformation, he had held back from people—from his lovers especially. Always he was wary. Always he held back his heart. And the secret of his identity, and his unnaturally long life, was as safe as the day he had received it from Dippel and the gods. But this time, Damien was sure he’d tell the truth to Brice.
    Because the truth will set you free? an inner voice asked, mocking his romantic sentiments.
    Perhaps. There were good reasons why men confessed their sins.
    Damien jumped down from the railing and turned to the doors