Oh, god, I wanted it all, right then. The creature in my arms was promising me everything that a man could possibly wish for. We could be saints all day and sinners all night. I could have my talent back, and play the world’s greatest concert halls, have power and prestige. I would be able to control it. I wouldn’t lose control . . .
“Do it, Tristen,” she urged. Her breath was warm against my lips, and I could smell the potent mix of chemicals. “Just kiss me.”
My talent . . . power . . . sex . . .
“Oh, Jill,” I groaned, losing my fight with temptation, “don’t do this to me.”
I muttered that protest—yet I bent my head to meet her mouth.
Chapter 81
Tristen
AND THEN, JUST BEFORE I fell prey to all my darkest desires, I opened my eyes.
“No,” I said, pulling back. There was nothing for me in her eyes. Nothing.
Of course I still grieved my old talent and yearned to hear, even one more time, the applause of a crowd. And there was a part of me, I was ashamed to admit, that missed some of the beast’s most twisted, unfettered thoughts, the longings expressed and experienced freely without the slightest twinge of guilt. The way the beast was free to live without moral constraint—there was a seductive element to that, too.
But more than talent or accolades or freedom from the world’s moral strictures and the pressures of my own conscience, I wanted Jill.
I didn’t want the girl who was offering herself to me shamelessly right then. I wanted the girl I’d planned to refuse to make love to that same night, because I thought in the end Jill would regret sleeping with a doomed man mainly because she felt time was running out. Under different circumstances she would have waited.
I knew that most people would consider us too young to talk about lifelong commitments or marriage, but I couldn’t imagine taking her to bed without that promise. Even if it meant never being with her, I didn’t want to have one desperate, hurried, hidden night. I wanted to put a ring on her finger. I wanted a future—or nothing. I knew, in her heart, that she would want that, too.
“Where’s the rest of the formula?” I demanded. “I want Jill back.”
“Never,” she insisted, shaking her head. “You’re so weak, Tristen.”
But the creature I held, she was the one growing weak. I could already see her eyes softening and growing weary. Her hands were loosening around my neck.
“Come on.” I slipped my arms beneath her legs, lifting her and cradling her against my chest. “I’m taking you to bed.”
“Finally,” she said with a hint of a snarl. But her head rested heavily against my chest. “It’s about time.”
“We’re just going to sleep,” I told her. I wouldn’t leave her alone that night, in case there was still some formula in the house. I doubted that she would get up and drink again, but I couldn’t risk it. “We have a contest to win tomorrow, remember?”
“Oh, fuck that,” she grumbled, yawning as I climbed the stairs. “We could have that money and so much more . . .”
“All I want is Jill back,” I repeated. I was confused, though. The girl who uttered that curse had sounded like Jill. But she would never say that word . . .
I wanted to get her to talk again, but she was already sound asleep as I placed her on the bed. I removed her shoes, then gingerly pulled the earrings from her bloody ears. The wounds were small but obviously crude.
Oh, Jill . . . How could she have done that to her own body?
How could I have carelessly kissed her with the formula on my tongue?
After locating some rubbing alcohol and cotton in the Jekels’ bathroom, I sat on the bed and, cradling Jill’s jaw in my palm, wiped away the dried blood, making sure the disinfectant went deep into the holes. Jill grimaced in her sleep, and I flinched, too, knowing how the alcohol would sting. “Hush, love,” I soothed when she whimpered. “This needs to be done.”
When the wounds were clean, I took off my shoes, too, and lay by her side, wondering what she would say when she woke up to find me next to her. Would she be appalled to learn of her alter ego’s behavior? Or had the incidents of the day—the lie of a friend and her own reckless, dangerous response—would those things change Jill so much that she would never be quite the same?
As she slept in my arms, I lay awake wondering, with more than a little apprehension, if I would ever recognize the girl I loved again.
Chapter 82
Jill
I WOKE UP in the middle of the night, felt an arm around my waist, and panicked. The last thing I remembered was Becca telling me she’d slept with Tristen, so it couldn’t be him . . .
Bracing myself, I rolled over, and I didn’t know if I was relieved or horrified to see that it really was Tristen in my bed. Had we . . . done anything after I’d changed? If so, I’d stolen from myself. Even though I didn’t love him anymore. I didn’t . . .
“Tristen.” I shook his shoulder. “Wake up.”
He opened his eyes, tensing. “Jill?”
I could tell that he wasn’t sure if he was with me or a monster. “It’s me,” I said. “Just me.”
His muscles relaxed, and he held me tighter, not saying anything. I didn’t try to pull away, and after a while he asked in a whisper, “Where’s the formula, Jill? Do you have more?”
“No,” I promised. “It’s gone.”
“If you do, tell me,” he urged. “It’s unpredictable. The novel says so. It’s wearing off for you now—but what if it doesn’t next time? And what if you don’t have enough to drink and change back?”
“I don’t have any,” I insisted.
Then I started to cry and buried
