Page 55 of Song of the Heart Scale
Damien was quiet for a beat as his dark eyes searched mine. “And what do you think?”
I blinked. “I asked you first.”
A slow smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Honestly? I haven’t had the luxury of thinking about it. Between Thorne, the council, and the emperor’s death... the idea of leaving Elaria seems like something out of a dream.”
“You mean a nightmare?” I muttered.
He didn’t answer that.
“Would you come with me?” I asked softly. Even though he already said he would, I had to ask again. I had a feeling that initial answer was null and void.
His gaze lifted to mine. “To your world?”
“Yeah. We’ve got running water, indoor plumbing, and music that doesn’t require a troupe of drunk men with flutes, for starters.”
He gave a quiet laugh.
“Also, pizza.”
His brow furrowed. “What’s a pizza?”
I grinned. “Only the single greatest food ever invented. You’ll understand once you have it.”
He sobered again, but didn’t respond.
I took a step closer. “He said some things I hadn’t thought about. Like what might happen if you left. Would your powers work there? Would you still be able to shift into a dragon? And if not... would you be okay with that? Could you live a human life?”
His brows furrowed and his lips slightly parted. Clearly, he hadn’t considered any of those things, either.
“And even if you could,” I continued, my voice soft, “would you want to live an immortal life in a world where I’m just... human? Where I’ll die, and you’ll be stuck there with nothing but memories?”
Damien reached out and took my face in his hands. “Cat.”
“I’m not saying it changes how I feel,” I rushed to add. “But it complicates things. I thought I was the only one taking a risk. I never stopped to consider what it might costyou.”
His thumb brushed my cheekbone. “Then we figure it out. Together.”
I met his dark-eyed gaze. “Even if that means saying goodbye to everything you’ve ever known?”
He returned my stare unflinchingly. “If it means waking up next to you instead of a cold pillow, then yes.”
My breath hitched. I reached for his wrists and held them, grounding myself in his touch. “Okay,” I whispered.
“Okay,” he echoed.
Truthfully, I still wasn’t convinced. I couldn’t do this to him. I wasn’t heartless enough to turn his world upside down. But I didn’t say anything. I just agreed and stepped into his arms as he embraced me, allowing the warmth of his touch to banish my tumultuous thoughts, if only for a moment.
11
ARYA
Iwas finally starting to master the basics of this baffling modern world. I could use a cell phone without flinching (most of the time), cross a street without shrieking at the oncoming metal beasts (though I still preferred to scowl at them as a warning), and apply contour like a professional (because I was one). Angie had even taught me how to make toast without assuming the toaster was possessed by demons.
But for all my triumphs, one thing remained consistent: Monica.
Monica, the woman who refused to take no for an answer. Monica, who called me nearly every other day asking—no, demanding—that I return to “the set” for some ludicrous new stunt job.
“Absolutely not,” I said into the phone as I strutted down Hollywood Boulevard in my heeled boots, which Angie assured me were “hella cute” and absolutely impractical. “I will not be diving from rooftops or throwing myself from mechanical dragons.”
