I Should Die

complete.
    Vincent seemed to understand the meaning behind the kiss. It was in his smile as he touched my face and then my hair with his fingertips. It seemed to cost him as much effort as it did me to pull apart, because after one last hasty kiss he practically sprinted out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
    I changed into an oversize T-shirt and sat on my bed, turning things over in my mind: the way I had almost lost him. And could again. The fragile nature of human life: One minute we’re here and the next we’re gone, like my parents. And the desire to be closer to Vincent. To love him with more than my heart and mind.
    My feelings from that morning returned full force. My resolution to actually do something if I was able to get Vincent back. I had told myself I was ready. That it was time. Now that it was possible, did I still feel the same? I realized that, yes, I knew what I wanted. This time I was a hundred percent sure.
    I grabbed the vase of lilacs and my room key, and hoped no one would see me sprinting with the flowers down the hallway in my T-shirt and undies.
    Up one flight of stairs and I was there, standing nervously in front of Vincent’s door. I knocked. He opened, a bemused expression on his face. “To what do I owe this surprise visit?” He looked at the lilacs and then back to me, confused. “You decided you didn’t like the flowers?”
    I pushed past him into the room and placed the flowers on a low table. “I don’t want to be apart from you anymore,” I said.
    Vincent smiled sadly and closed the door behind him. “I know exactly what you mean,” he responded. “Five days as a wandering soul, unable to touch you and thinking it was permanent . . . I feel like never letting you out of my sight again.” He threw himself down on the bed and patted the spot next to him. “You can stay here tonight.”
    “No, I mean I don’t want to be apart from you. I want to be with you. Really with you.” I had to force myself to say the words. My voice shook because I was afraid he was going to say no. That this wasn’t the time. That we should wait until things had calmed down.
    But I had made up my mind. We were going back to Paris the next day, and Vincent and his kind would be facing a danger that could possibly destroy him. Again.
    He propped himself up on his elbows and sat there for the longest time, watching me with an expression that I couldn’t read. “If you’re still too weak, we can be careful,” I offered, wondering if that’s why he was hesitating.
    Grinning, he shook his head, and pushing himself up from the bed, he walked to me. With only inches separating us, he looked into my eyes. It felt like he was reaching deep inside my mind, furthering the connection between us. Heart. Mind. And then body. It was the next step and it was now.
    Vincent’s lips curved up slightly. He leaned down just as I reached up, and we met in between, our lips touching first and then the rest of us, pressing deliciously against each other, pulling the other as close as possible, needing, giving, weaving a tapestry of our bodies. Of our selves.

THIRTY-THREE
    I AWOKE TO THE SENSATION OF VINCENT’S LIPS on my forehead, and opened my eyes to see his face above mine. “ Bonjour, ma belle ,” he said in his low sexy voice.
    I squinted around, not knowing where I was for a moment, and then the hotel room came into focus around me. Oh my God. I was in Vincent’s bed. And it was morning. I had spent the night in Vincent’s bed. And last night we had . . .
    My skin lit with a fiery flush, and an unstoppable smile possessed my face. I leaned forward and, letting the covers drop, threw my arms around Vincent’s neck and squeezed him against me.
    He laughed and pulled back so he could look me in the eyes. “Was that hug for last night?”
    “I love you,” I answered.
    He pulled me back to him and whispered, “And I adore you, Kate Beaumont Mercier. With a love I never thought I could feel. With all my soul and every inch of my body. Which, by the way, is now marked by you forever.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked. He turned to show me a bluish tattoolike mark on his shoulder. “What is that?” I touched it, mesmerized.
    “Isn’t this where you pressed the lock of my hair into my clay doppelgänger?” he asked.
    I looked more closely. The mark had a circular pattern to it and was the size of . . . “It’s my thumbprint!” I exclaimed, holding my thumb next to the