Eustace sighed. Then, with resolve, he made eye contact. “All right, Beth. I’ll leave it alone. This will stay between us. Won’t it, Regina?”

She nodded. “’Course. Your secret’s safe with us.”

A hint of pressure lifted from Elizabeth’s shoulders.

The bell on the door jingled again and two more familiar faces stepped through: Sheppy and Bill Thurman. “We’ve come to say sorry,” Bill said, removing his hat and wringing his hands around it.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. Will you boys be having your usuals?” Bill liked his mochas with extra cocoa and Sheppy’s only preference was lots of foam in his espresso.

“I will,” Sheppy said with a giant smile on his face. It made her realize that even when no one had been on her side before, Sheppy hadn’t really been on a side at all, just gone with the flow of the crowd. Probably he would have always smiled that smile at her. She would always have a friend in Sheppy, because his innocence made it possible. It made it impossible for her not to like him.

“Extra foam, right, Sheppy?” she asked with a smile just as wide.

***

The sun had just risen, leaving the almost-summer air cool and damp. Henry stood on Elizabeth’s back porch, letting his recently scorched skin absorb the drizzle in the air as he wore nothing but the pants he’d left out the night before. The morning rain had a way of calming his transformation, of putting out the fire. It’d been less than twenty-four hours since he’d woken from his poison-induced coma, and his muscles still held a trace of fatigue; but for the most part he had healed, his stitches removed the night before. He’d taken them out himself, when the irritating itch told him it was time.

During the night, he hadn’t gained the courage to approach Elizabeth’s house, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because every drape appeared to be pulled tight. Was she staying away because she thought it was what he wanted, or had she simply realized he was right—that he was a monster?

He couldn’t blame her for thinking it was what he wanted, though, since he hadn’t given her a reason to think otherwise.

Either way, he had no right to be here. But right or not, he couldn’t help himself. After he’d made her leave his mansion the morning before, he hadn’t planned on seeing her again. Finally, it seemed he’d won—that he’d been able to push her away successfully. It wasn’t long after Arne’s lecture, however, that things began to sink in. She knew everything, but was that really so bad? She had already accepted it, weeks ago, back when he’d been consumed with worry that she would find out.

He’d come to terms with the reality that a life without her wasn’t what he wanted at all, no matter how much safer it made her or how much he didn’t deserve her. He’d never experienced internal pain at such levels, or such depleting loneliness, even after years of wandering alone. And just maybe, the need she claimed she had for him compared to the one he harbored for her.

Put simply, his life had been altered drastically since she’d been in it, and there was no going back. The longer he tried forcing his skin to be thick and his heart indifferent, the more he realized he needed her. The more he realized he’d never been more wrong in his life.

And the more brutally he hit rock bottom.

His fist was against her door before he could stop it, knocking quietly. He deserved to die for everything, deserved to live every day of his life without the sight of her face, but the ache in his heart trumped his self-hatred; just one more chance was all he needed.

After no answer, he rested his forehead on the doorframe. He almost knocked again but lowered his hand, along with his shoulders. It wasn’t until he turned away that the door unlocked, and when he turned back, a thousand minutes passed within a matter of a second. Her hair wetted the shoulders of her white robe, and the rest of her was damp too, the silky material clinging to her curves and accentuating the details that left his abdomen heavy with heat.

“Henry,” she said, “are you all right?” Her vision shifted to his waist, to his nearly healed wound, then back to his eyes, and he realized what she saw. His eyes were afire, her image swimming in his tears. He didn’t know how long they’d been there, perhaps just since seeing her.

With an inhalation both painful and as refreshing as the sight of her, he stepped in and ran his hands into her damp hair, cradling her face. She smelled of soap and clean air, and her warm skin revived the life only she could give him. He lacked the drive to remove the desperation from his voice when he managed, “I don’t want to be alone anymore, Elizabeth.” He’d said it to her before, in his other form. He wanted to say more, wanted to apologize over and over again, but couldn’t gather words.

Her brows pulled together. “You don’t have to be,” she whispered. And whether that was an invitation or not, he kissed her, because he simply couldn’t deny her love anymore; he accepted it, longed for it. His mouth held more desperation than his voice had, or even his shaky hands—more desperation than he’d ever felt.

She broke away from his lips, leaving his mouth wanting and his breath excited, and closed the door. Leaning against it, she stared up at him, her eyes saying everything. When he brought his forehead to hers, she caressed her hands slowly up his chest, and he closed his eyes at the feel of being touched by her. He heard the lightness of her breath, and when she moved her fingers delicately over his tattoo he opened his eyes, where a love he couldn’t fathom filled her own. At the same time he met her lips, she ran her hands into his hair, taking hold as though it could save her life.

Before he knew it, his hands were moving up her smooth thighs, beneath the robe that insisted on clinging to her moist skin, and when he reached her naked hips his breath caught, making him grasp her so tightly he worried he might hurt her. But she exhaled a sound of pleasure instead, and he lifted her onto him, her legs attaching as though they belonged there. He sat her on the edge of the tiled kitchen counter, a dish clattering to the floor, and continued to kiss her, his every muscle tense with want as his hands traveled over her flesh. With a rough exhalation, he moved his mouth to her neck, his hands now untying the belt of her robe. His entire body trembled, leaving a physical pain where he yearned for her most desperately.

He trailed his lips down her skin, his breath adding moisture to it, and tasted her collarbone and shoulder, too, the taste of water and silk. Without the security of the robe’s belt and with the urging of his mouth, one side slid down and unveiled her breast, exposing what her robe had failed to hide: ample, goddess-like femininity, center expressive. He groaned, his heart thudding, and slid his hands inside her robe, wrapping his arms around the small of her back and pushing her against him. She tightened her legs around his waist and her fingers in his hair. “Henry,” she sighed.

Kissing his way up her neck, he too sighed, at the way his name in her voice was almost enough to make him a whole man. With his lips against her neck, he tried not to sound too controlling when he pled, “Say it again.”

His command seemed to weaken her, and with a breathy, elevated tone that could be heard only in a moment like this, she repeated his name.

Amid another groan he met her mouth, and with their tongues in an intimate embrace, the heavy intensity in his groin lent a frenzied aggressiveness to his limbs—one that would seem more appropriate for his other self. And that self was the last person he wanted to be with her. He pulled away from her mouth, unable to find words as his chest heaved. He forced his eyes to remain on hers, rather than wander below to the supple curve of her breast.