“Is it a lot?” Bankrupting the House seemed like something the GP would want to do.
“It is surprisingly little.”
“Little?” I asked. “Why?”
“Because, apparently, that’s only the first half of their plan for our contrition.”
“What’s the second half?”
“I’m not sure. But Lakshmi is traveling here to tell us in person.”
Before I could dive into the paranoia that upcoming event was going to foster, there was a knock at the door, and Margot peeked inside. “Special delivery?”
“Oh?” Ethan asked.
She opened the door fully and wheeled in a cart.
“Margot, how thoughtful. But you didn’t need to go to the trouble.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “Merit made the cake.”
Ethan’s eyes went dinner-plate huge. “Merit made it?”
“Sir, your tone is not flattering,” I advised him.
“She did. For you, on Valentine’s Day, because she’s got a thing for you, I think.” With that, she winked, and rolled the cart out again.
Ethan looked over the cake. “It looks surprisingly delicious.”
“I am not above hitting you, you know,” I said.
He chuckled. “I have something for you as well. Put on your shoes.”
“My shoes? But there’s cake.”
He gave me a look that didn’t allow argument. “Just do it.”
I slipped my boots on again, then followed Ethan silently to the door.
The rest of the House was quiet, and when Ethan opened the front door, the eastern sky was beginning to pinken with the first light of dawn.
But the sky was hardly the point.
On both sides of the front lawn, in the crisp, white snow, an enormous heart had been drawn in the snow with a thousand rose petals, a shock of crimson against the snowy ground.
“What is this?” I asked, putting a hand over my heart.
“A heart,” Ethan said. “For you. My heart, which is very much yours.”
He took my hand and led me through the snow, pausing at the edge of the heart. I picked up a petal and ran my fingertips across its surface, as soft as velvet, so soft it barely felt like I’d touched anything.
“I don’t understand,” I said, glancing back at him with wonder in my eyes.
“We aren’t human,” he said. “Nor are we average. We take on challenges and obligations that, arguably, are not our burdens to bear. We do it because it’s right. Because it matters, and we’ve decided—you’ve decided—to stand for those who cannot stand for themselves. That means, unfortunately, that we don’t always have the opportunity to enjoy human rituals.”
“Valentine’s Day?”
Ethan nodded. “Valentine’s Day. But even if the rituals can’t be the same for us, the symbolism is important.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve asked about the tattoo on the back of my calf.”
I smiled. “I have asked,” I confirmed. “More than a few times.”
“It was actually Amit’s fault. We were in India, on a night train to Varanasi, and I lost a bet. A small bet, but a bet nonetheless.”
I was stunned. That was so unlike him. “You got a tattoo because you lost a bet?”
“I did,” he said, “and in Sanskrit, because those were the terms I’d agreed to. He graciously allowed me to select the phrase.”
“What does it say?”
“Eternal life, undying passion.”
“Oh, that’s very nice.” It was a beautiful phrase, and particularly appropriate for immortal vampires.
Ethan nodded and took my hands. “I had a sense of your passion when we met, Merit. When you first stormed into my House with fire in your eyes.”
“That wasn’t fire. That was sheer, unmitigated fury.”
He chuckled. “Acknowledged. But a soul without passion doesn’t feel fury. Or love. And there was definitely passion in your soul. I selected the phrase because I thought it lovely. Now, I feel lucky that I can deem it true.”
Tears gathered at my lashes.
“I have eternal life,” he said. “But you are my undying passion.” He put his hands on my cheeks and kissed me deeply. There was passion in his kiss, in the nip of his tongue, but this kiss was about promise. About tenderness.
About love.
He drew back and pressed the softest kiss to my lips. “I love you, Caroline Evelyn Merit. Happy Not Valentine’s Day.”
“Happy Not Valentine’s Day, Sullivan.” I moved into his arms, surrounding myself with his body, his warmth, his crisp cologne.
The wind began to lift, then rushed toward us in a gust. As I glanced back, it scattered the heart, lifting the rose petals into the sky. I watched in awe as they circled around us, love rendered aloft by forces outside our control. A fitting metaphor, I thought.