We drove for a few hours. Ciar struggled to stay with traffic, his hands white on the wheel as he resisted the temptation to fly past the speed limit. I understood his strategy: Stay as unobtrusive as possible, especially since speeding might get us pulled over. But it killed him the whole way.

I felt the moment he thought we were safe. We'd left the highway, opting instead for deserted back roads somewhere in the middle of nowhere, New Hampshire. Evergreens towered above us on both sides, creating the illusion of a tunnel as they blocked the light from the moon.

I leaned back against the window, watching Ciar as the clock stretched toward two. I knew he felt my gaze, because he held himself unnaturally still, presenting me with nothing but his profile.

I wished he wouldn't, because just like that, the tension from earlier rose up again. Why would he avoid looking at me if he didn't feel it? And if he felt it, what would happen when he stopped the car? Would he bolt, or would he finally turn to me, too?

It's only natural, I tried to convince myself. You almost got shot together. You're just glad to be alive and over-feeling everything.

What about the night I'd spent with him as Tilda? Was I over-feeling things then, too?

"Shut up," I muttered.

My voice startled both of us, the silence having grown into something warm and fuzzy, like a blanket. Comfortable. Safe. In a heartbeat, I'd ruined it.

Ciar threw me a fleeting glance. "What?"

I rubbed my temples and sank further into my seat, cinching my arms against the too-large shirt I'd borrowed. "Nothing."

"We're gonna need gas soon," he said.

A safe topic. I didn't know if I wanted that.

"Yeah."

The quiet welled up again, ballooning into something with a life of its own—a monster waiting to strangle us the second we made a wrong move, said a wrong word.

I wished I could reach back through time and take back my missing memories of the night we'd spent together. It obviously still haunted him, and I didn't know if it was because of something I'd said or done, or because he thought he'd done something wrong because I wasn't in my right mind.

Maybe both.

"What happened that night?" I blurted, shattering the fragile peace between us.

His foot let off the gas for a second, and the absence of the engine's whine was deafening. But I'd chosen my course, and I stuck to it. If I never asked, I'd never know, because those memories were lost to me. They lived in his mind, and I'd never wanted to read anyone's thoughts so badly.

"What did we...what happened?" I whispered.

I heard him gulp even over the creaks of the aged car as we hit a bump. "Nothing that bears repeating."

"No! I need to know!" I swung on him with half a mind to yank his hands off the wheel, but decided against getting us killed. For tonight.

"Maisye..."

"Please," I tried again, more gently this time. "I need to know."

His knuckles were ghostly white against the steering wheel. For several minutes, I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he pulled sharply off the road, coming to rest in a stand of gravel along the shoulder.

The engine's silence could have woken the dead. He threw the keys into the cup holder and ran his hands down his thighs.

"We, uh...we slept together."

"I know that," I said. "What happened?"

He laughed, but it jittered from his mouth with erratic unsteadiness. "Come on, Flash, do you want a play-by-play?"

"Yes."

He paled.

"Start at the beginning." I settled my back against the door, waiting. "How did you find me?"

He stared through the windshield, eyes unfocused. He wasn't going to tell me anything; his stone-still tension made that clear.

And then he did. "You found me."

I leaned forward, my heart thumping insistently against the base of my throat. I watched him avidly now, like I was starving and he offered food. I wished with all my heart, all my soul, that I could remember what he did, see what he saw.

He drew in a long breath, still concentrating on the road. "I know the guy who impounds the cars for Malden P.D. I went to get mine back, and then I drove it back to the garage afterward. I was working on the Porsche during the off-hours. You walked in about a half hour later."

I traced the line of his profile with my eyes. Exactly like the photo at the lake. Rough, jagged, full of angles. Just like his personality.

"You didn't say anything. Just got in the Mustang and waited. I got in and started driving. I thought you might tell me where you wanted to go."

"How did I get mud all over my shoes?" I couldn't help interjecting.

"You wanted to walk along the Mystic. It made sense. I thought you wanted to be closer to her, after what I told you." He swiped at his lips with his thumb. "I didn't realize you were already..."

Already her, the silence whispered.

"I mean, I didn't know. If I had—"

"You didn't," I said sharply. "I never told you. I didn't want anyone to know."

He finally glanced at me, but it was my turn to feign fascination with the world outside the windshield.

"What did I do after that?" I whispered.

"We got back in the car. Drove some more. And then all of a sudden you were telling me to stop." He let out a careful, measured breath. "I did. Of course I did."

"And?"

He shook his head.

"Tell me everything. I want to know."

"You, uh..." His voice shook, then broke. He cleared his throat. "You climbed right over the gearshift and..."

His eyes slipped to my lips, and I understood.

I leaned closer. "Like this?" I whispered before I kissed him.

The way he returned it was answer enough.

He wasn't Donovan. The press of his lips wasn't possessive or aggressive. It was gentle, like everything that rested in their care was fragile.

I hated it. That hesitance, like he might break me if he so much as breathed the wrong way. I reached for the back of his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him harder because a tingling warmth had started to spread from the spaces where our skin met. As it melted into my veins, I shifted, bracing myself on the center console.

"No," he mumbled, pulling away. "No, not if you're—"

Frustration welled under the fizzing bubble of life in my stomach. He didn't understand. I hadn't felt her all night. Not with him.

I clapped both hands to the sides of his face, forcing him to look at me. "Say my name," I demanded.

His brows pulled together, but he obeyed. "Maisye."

I nodded. "That night, on the roof, when you tried to pretend like you were just shotgunning me but you really did want to kiss me. You said my name. I was becoming her, but you brought me back."

I watched the wrinkles in his forehead shift from confusion to understanding. "Maisye."

I nodded.

"Maisye..."

I kissed him hard, and this time he didn't resist. He even helped me as I clambered awkwardly over the gearshift and settled myself into his lap. I reached down between us and pulled my shirt over my head, briefly shielding him from view, but when I re-emerged, he hadn't moved.

His eyes never left my face.

"You keep me here," I said, and he nodded in agreement. "Say my name. I want to remember this."

And I did. Because what I'd had with Donovan was the result of desperation—unloved for so long that I'd forgotten what it really felt like. But this, with Ciar... He looked at me, he wanted me for me. He had never seen me as her, and the thought that he wanted this anyway had me higher than any shotgun ever would.

Breathless, I dove for the groove where his collarbone met his neck. I buried myself in it, rolling my tongue along its ridge, sinking my teeth gently into the skin. His hands tightened around my hips, holding me down.

His jaw pressed hard against my cheek as he whispered in my ear.

"Maisye."

I wasn't even close to becoming Matilda, but I didn't tell him to stop. I wanted to hear my name on his tongue forever. It was like rising from ashes, letting them fall from my skin until I was someone who'd never died in the first place.

Not a lonely orphan. Not a mentally ill divorcee. Not Donovan's fantasy.

Just me.

"Get in the back." He lifted me, helping me scramble over the front seat. As I plunked down in the rear, he was already climbing after me. His hands found my waist and mine closed around the hem of his shirt, tugging.

He helped wiggle out of it, then paused. In his eyes, I saw not veneration, but want. Human need, so pure and simple and clear in the crystal blue of his irises.

I drew in a long, deep breath and held it until my lungs screamed. Ciar's lips grazed the base of my throat, and as my exhale whispered against his hair, something I didn't recognize fluttered to life beside my heart. Warm, invigorating, and safe, it settled into the space under my breastbone where a void had once lived.

As my name fell from his lips one more time, I laced my fingers through his hair and tilted my head toward the sky, praying hard for something I'd never once wished for.

Let me live.