I laughed and pulled her closer. “Well, you did fight your way through Hell to save me—I always knew you were brave,” I whispered, my mouth close to her ear.

  “What choice did I have? I had to go get you and she was in my way!”

  “A terrible decision, really.” I shook my head, pretending disapproval.

  “Moron!” She laughed too when she realized I was joking. She covered my face with her hand but I pinned her wrists against the pillow and stole a kiss from her.

  “When are you going to stop teasing me?”

  “When the moon meets the sun. Now get up—I have a plan.”

  Gemma rolled her eyes. “Every time you say that I have good reason to be scared.”

  In spite of her words, I could sense her enthusiasm growing from the beating of her heart. “Don’t lie to me.”

  She climbed out of bed, instantly noticing the many cans of paint I’d stacked up in the back of the room. The floor was covered with a white drop cloth.

  “What does all of this mean?” She looked at me, surprised.

  I smiled and led her toward the paints. “It means we’re going to paint your room.”

  The walls of Gemma’s room were covered with photographs. In many of them she was with Peter. I would never have asked her to take them down because, all things considered, I was grateful to the guy for being there at her side as she grew up. Peter had been as important to Gemma as Ginevra was to me, though the feelings Peter had for Gemma had led her to loosen the bond between them. Every so often we would all meet up—our group and Gemma’s friends—and at school sometimes the two of them would even spend time alone. Inevitably he would take the opportunity to make a move on her, and when that happened I would have to fight the urge to break his neck. Knowing that he wanted her made a fire burn inside me. If it hadn’t been for Ginevra I probably would have slaughtered him long ago. But then I would look at the pictures of Gemma and me sharing our everyday lives together, and the fire would die down. She was mine and no one else’s.

  “Well? What color should we start with?”

  I turned to look at Gemma and my breath caught in my throat. Her golden skin glowed in the light coming in through the window. She still wore the clothes she’d slept in: a soft blue satin camisole and shorts. She walked toward me, barefoot, and showed me her index finger tinged with red paint. While I’d been trying to control my homicidal instincts toward Peter, she’d already cleared all the walls, taking down the photos and removing the books from the shelves. She was so electrified by the thought of painting her old room! She’d wanted to do it for a long time, but the thought unsettled her. Gemma was very attached to the memories objects held for her. She was afraid that if she changed the color of the walls, hiding the scattered pencil marks or flaking paint, she would erase part of her life. There were even lines on the wall marking her height and Peter’s as they’d grown up over the years.

  “What do you say to this?” She slid her finger across the wall, leaving behind a wavy line of red paint.

  “Actually, what do you say we use them all?” I suggested, heading toward her laptop. Typing in the password—Gevan—I started up her playlist. I adjusted the volume and the sound of Passenger’s Let Her Go filled the room.

  “All of them? What do you mean?”

  “That you don’t have to choose the color you want right away.”

  Gemma moved closer, suspicious. “Okay . . . So what do we use to paint?”

  With a flick of my foot, I swept two long paintbrushes off the ground and caught them in mid-air. I twirled them in my fingers and offered them to Gemma. They were thin but as long as her arm.

  She looked at them, puzzled, before taking them. “Where do we start?”

  “Let’s play a game.” I took her hand, pulled her in front of the cans of paint and stood behind her. “Close your eyes,” I whispered in her ear.

  “Huh?” She turned to look at me, confused.

  “Shh . . .” I squeezed her hands at her sides. “Close your eyes.”

  “How can I paint if my eyes are closed?”

  “Trust me. It’ll be fun.”

  Gemma took a deep breath and did as I said. I rested my palms on the backs of her hands and laced my fingers with hers, holding the brushes along with her. Guiding her hands, I had her dip the tips in two different colors—yellow and red—then raised the brushes, marking two spots on the wall.

  “Ready?” I whispered again. Gemma nodded. “Now free your mind and follow your instinct. Let yourself go, move as though it was just you and the paints. There’s only one rule: never take the brushes off the walls and don’t open your eyes for anything in the world.”

  “Those are two rules.”

  “Just focus on yourself.”

  “Okay,” she murmured trustingly. After a few seconds, she moved one of the two brushes over the wall and the other one followed close behind.

  I also closed my eyes and breathed through her hair, surrendering to her movements. Gemma followed the rhythm of the music and the paintbrushes danced through the air as though she were an orchestra conductor.

  She took a step and then another, and I followed, my fingers still intertwined with hers as though we were one being. Under my control, the yellow turned to orange, the red transformed into green, then blue and purple. The colors blended together from wall to wall, morphing into still other hues as Gemma advanced slowly, following her need to fill the entire room. My eyes still closed, I let myself be guided by her movements, melding with her, her heart beating against my chest almost as though it were my own. From time to time Gemma trembled, and her shiver spread to me.

  Antar may as. Yata tvam may asi.

  She was inside me, in my heart, in my soul.

  Finally she stopped, satisfied. Slowly, I raised her hands over her head and ran mine down them. I stroked her neck, her shoulders, then moved down to clasp her hips. When I kissed her softly behind the ear, she turned slightly, rubbing her head against mine, then lowered her hands as the notes of Lana Del Rey faded. I opened my eyes and smiled, my lips on her ear. “Now you can look.”

  Gemma raised her eyelids and trembled. I could sense her amazement even before reading it in her eyes. She didn’t say a word, just turned around, her mouth slightly open and her gaze captivated by the walls full of colors. The lines were as soft as the harmony she felt deep in her heart, marked here and there by sharper segments that expressed her uneasiness. Some areas stood out more than others. I’d perceived feelings of fear and distress arise in her when she painted them. The lines ran parallel, followed each other, parted, and then rose up together to touch the sky. To the rhythm of Glory and Gore by Lorde, Gemma had painted the boldest segments. With Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain, she’d let herself go with long, interwoven lines. Lana Del Rey had reawakened grimmer thoughts, bringing out her fears. At those moments, even the sunbeams had grown dimmer and the darkness behind her closed eyelids had turned to gloom.

  “Evan, it’s . . . Did we do this?” Gemma continued to stare at the stunning weavings of colors on the walls, fascinated.

  “I didn’t do anything. It was you.”

  “Incredible,” she murmured to herself.

  Smiling with satisfaction, I took Gemma’s hand and whirled her around. She locked her big dark eyes on mine and for a second I was left breathless. I pulled her to me gently and moved her away again, guiding her movements to the sound of Ed Sheeran’s voice in an unplanned dance. Colorful droplets of paint rose from the cans into the air, drifted through the room and encircled us. Amazement and wonder filled her eyes as she watched them.

  Taking me by surprise, Gemma did a spin, never letting go of my hand, and leaned back against my chest, swaying to the rhythm of Thinking Out Loud. I closed my eyes and rubbed my head against hers, overcome by the sensations.

  The song ended, interrupting that brief moment, and the faster rhythm of Pink boomed against the walls. Gemma turned to go, but I pulled her back, spinning her around quickly and back into my arms, laughing. “You can tell the drops of paint to stop now too. One of them was about to land on my face.”

  I caught a drifting sphere of paint on my finger and smeared it on her nose. “What, like this?”

  “Why you . . . !!” Gemma’s eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped with surprise. She caught a droplet of her own and drew a line down my face with it. I let her do it and then raised an eyebrow: a clear warning that she should run, and fast. Gemma understood and let out a shriek before rushing over to the paint cans and dunking both brushes in them, challenging me.

  “You sure that’s a good move?” I said, letting a this-means-war grin escape me. I shot toward her. She let out another shriek and ran, dropping both paintbrushes. I chased her around the room and in a flash grabbed her from behind and spun her around as she squealed with laughter. I pinned her to the ground beneath me, her sweet laughter filling my soul. She tried to defend herself and counterattack but I showed no mercy, painting her arms, legs, neck. Each touch triggered something inside me. I caressed her inner thigh and moved my fingers upward, leaving a blue streak on her skin. Gemma’s laughter grew softer when I rose to her belly. In a single movement I ripped her camisole in two, her beauty leaving me breathless. Her chest moved quickly, her breathing ragged from what had just happened—or maybe from what was about to happen. Like a tidal wave, her emotions crashed down on me: anticipation, impatience . . . desire.

  I gently stroked her belly, then kissed it over and over. Gemma smiled at me. My immense love for the baby filled her with joy. But instantly my eyes found hers, like those of a wolf. My hand rose over her middle and found the clasp to her bra. I propped Gemma up and slipped it off her as she slid her hands down my chest, then sat on the floor and drew her to me, holding her tightly by the waist. Gemma watched the little drops of paint floating around us. She lifted her hand and moved her fingers through them.

  A sweet melody filled the room. I brushed the hair from her face and sought her eyes, whispering the lyrics: “’Cause all of me loves all of you. Love your curves and all your edges, all your perfect imperfections.”

  Gemma closed her eyes and rested her forehead against my cheek, then lowered her hand, dipped her finger in the little pool of paint that had formed there, and drew symbols on the white drop cloth that covered the floor.

  “Give your all to me. I’ll give my all to you. You’re my end and my beginning. Even when I lose I’m winning.” I stroked her fingers, following her lines, weaving together our movements, seeking her hand. Our thumbs playfully touched and clasped together to complete the tattoo that united us. Stay together, fight together: the writing connected to the two rings in the infinity symbol. I rested my palm on her hand and led it to the drop cloth, our laced fingers dancing together, creating new colors. I felt like we were making love. It was the most sensual moment of my entire life. Every movement was so erotically charged that the paint almost felt hot against our skin. Or maybe it was me, boiling with desire for her. I raised our clasped hands, spread open her palms and gently took her wrists, pulling myself against her skin as our fingers continued to seek each other out, touch each other, slide at times tenderly, at times with need. I felt I was losing my mind: it was a sweet hell from which I wished no redemption. Overcome by those sensations, I squeezed her bottom and pulled her on top of me.

  In my ethereal form my emotions were more intense—they flooded me with a force that was uncontrollable, devastating, vital. A multitude of tiny explosions that changed my universe. I sought her lips and our tongues touched, teasing each other playfully. She moaned and I let out a long breath, yearning to rip off the fabric still dividing us. As if sensing my need, Gemma undid the button on my pants and unzipped them, leaving me breathless. Anticipation was killing me like never before. My hand slid into her shorts, stroking her underwear. Gemma trembled with pleasure, gripping the mark of the Children of Eve on my forearm. She arched her back, yearning for contact, and rubbed her hips against mine, her hot panties pressing against my erection. I moaned, her reaction leaving me stunned, and kissed her intensely on the mouth as our bodies burned, melting together. I grasped her nape with one hand while with the other I pushed her underwear aside and penetrated her, groaning with pleasure.

  Gemma panted, driving me wild. I gripped her nape tighter and she raised her chin, letting my lips slide down her neck in slow, sweet agony. With my other hand I pulled her against me more firmly, her hot breasts on my chest sending quivers through me as I moved inside her. I could feel Gemma’s emotions growing with mine, so powerful they clouded my senses. I perceived the exact moment when her pleasure reached its peak and at that very moment I climaxed inside her, overwhelmed by the intensity of the emotions.

  Cradling her neck, I rested my forehead against hers and a smile escaped us both. I swept her hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ear and kissed her—a long kiss, sweet and necessary—as shivers of pleasure shook my body once more. A star had just exploded inside of me. Its name was Gemma.

  POTENTIAL

  Gemma laughed. “You have my handprint on your back.”

  “Where? Oh, that’s okay. It’ll be my spoils of war.”

  “Hey!” She hit my shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know, I did fight for you all night long.” I raised an eyebrow to provoke her. “This way I can show Simon it was worth it.” I laughed, teasing her.

  Gemma’s jaw dropped and her face turned bright red. “You’re not showing Simon,” she warned me. “Now go straight to the spa and take a shower!”

  I moved my lips to her ear. “Only if you’ll join me,” I whispered, gently sucking her earlobe.

  Gemma trembled and closed her eyes, at the mercy of her emotions. Then she pushed me away and laughed. “I bet Simon would get himself injured on purpose just to have Ginevra heal him.”

  “You would win that bet.”

  “So tell me, did the two of you plan all this last night? Otherwise why would you want to show him my handprint on you?”

  I raised my hands. “I didn’t tell him anything. I came here with honorable intentions, I swear.” I tried to hide a grin but failed.

  “Yeah, right. You expect me to believe you weren’t planning on this?” she said, gesturing at our entwined bodies on the floor.

  I leaned over her and nibbled her neck. “I always plan on this.”

  Gemma laughed and let out a shriek when I pinned her beneath me and tickled her. I stroked her belly, growing serious again. It was unbelievable that a tiny creature was growing right there inside her. Gemma toyed with my dog tag but I continued to stare at her belly, enchanted. I leaned down and rested my ear against it as I continued to stroke it.

  “Hear anything?” she asked, curious.

  I listened to Gemma’s breathing, then heard a rapid flutter and smiled. “I can hear his heart beating. Tell me again about how you heard him. Are you really sure it’s a boy?”

  “Not a hundred percent, but my instinct says so. I heard something while I was talking to Simon and Ginevra. I thought it was because the baby had powers, but instead they were mine. I was the one reading his mind. But it hasn’t happened again since then.”

  “It must be amazing.” I kissed her belly, but as I caressed the silvery streaks on it I grew sad.

  She instantly realized why I looked concerned. “Evan, do you think the baby will be human?”

  “I ask myself that question every day.” I raised my head to look her in the eye. “Whatever his nature is, he’s ours and we’ll protect him together.” Gemma’s eyes moved to the matching tattoos on our hands, her expression a mix of fear and concern.

  Stay together. Fight together.

  She’d made a pact with the Witches to save me, but I still couldn’t accept it. Gemma was convinced the transformation wouldn’t obliterate her, that she would manage to cling to our love to drive the evil out of her, but I was consumed by doubt. I couldn’t allow her to transform. I couldn’t run the risk. I had to come up with a way to prevent it.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” she said, stroking my head.

  “I’m thinking about how happy we’ll be together with him.”

  Gemma smiled. “Do you think the Màsala will ever give up and let me be?”

  Only two things could make the Màsala stop hounding Gemma: her transformation or her death. In either case, I would end up defeated because I would lose her. I propped myself up on my elbows and moved closer to her, looking into her eyes. “No,” I admitted, “but we’re not about to give up either.”

  Gemma nodded in silence. I stroked her cheek. I would have turned Heaven and Hell upside down to be with her—no one was going to take her away from me. I pressed my lips to hers and our kiss burned with passion, kindled by our caresses. I slid my hand up her thigh, ready to start all over again. Gemma clung to my biceps, letting me kiss her neck and breasts. I sensed the desire growing in her, but suddenly it was replaced by something else: astonishment and wonder. She darted around me and rose onto her palms.

  “Oh my God.” Gemma’s jaw dropped, her eyes widening as she peered up. On the ceiling had appeared the image of the two of us entwined in a starry sky. She got to her feet, still staring at the painting, entranced.

  “Wow.” I also looked up, stupefied.

  “You mean it’s real? It’s not my imagination?”

  “Well . . . Define imagination.”

  “Don’t kid around, Evan. It’s—”

  “It’s us,” I whispered, holding her from behind, “and it’s magnificent.”

  “But how? When?”

  I laughed and moved my lips to her ear. “Want me to tell you a secret?” She nodded eagerly. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Gemma turned to look at me, amazed. “What? You mean . . . ?” I nodded for a long moment as she reflected. “It was me?” she asked, still confused.

  It was the truth. As we made love, the paints had danced across the ceiling, creating the incredible image of the two of us locked in an embrace in our universe. Gemma’s soul was what had given life to that magical dance.