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Memento Mori.
I trace the letters with my fingers, feeling the weight of them in my chest. It’s a mantra that I’ve lived by for years. But there’s another half to that phrase, one that I’ve never given much thought to.
Memento Vivere.
Remember to live.
Maybe… Maybe that’s the part I need to focus on.
34
FREYA
The sun is just dippingbelow the horizon, casting long shadows across the grounds of the Mori house. I watch the gardens slip into twilight before I step outside. I take a seat on the back terrace, wrapped in a soft cardigan, nursing a cup of my “morning” coffee.
I glance at my phone, rolling my eyes when I see the simple thumbs-up emoji response from Annika to my question about doing something later tonight.
Yeah, that’s a no. That’s code for “sorry, actually, Kenzo and I will be locked in his suite banging each other’s brains out until we can’t move, at which point we’ll probably do it again.”
I grin, sighing.
I’m happy for her. Even though we’re all living in the same house, and I’ve barely seen her in a week.
There wasn’t a precise point where I “decided” to stay in Kyoto. I just…didn’t go back to New York. New York was never “home” for me. A lot of places have held that designation over the past eleven years since I left home. Some for longer than others—likewhen Annika and I were basically trapped with Valon, living in Milan.
New York was only a temporary stopping point. I mean, I spent the few months I was there living exclusively in hotel rooms.
But Kyoto?
I smile to myself as I sip my coffee. It feels weird to say a place I’m just visiting “feels like home”. But itdoes. Annika is here, for a start. Kir has zero issues with me doing my work for him from here.
Mal’s here.
The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts.
Instantly, a heated tremor ripples up my spine.
I don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. His presence is unmistakable—dark and inevitable, like a storm rolling in over the mountains. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just stands behind me, his long shadow stretching across the terrace.
Finally, he speaks, his voice low and commanding. “Come with me.”
I blink, glancing over my shoulder at him, frowning slightly.
“Come with you where?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, just steps forward, reaching out to take my hand, and before I know it, I’m being pulled to my feet. I take another large sip of my coffee and then set the mug down, stumbling after him.
Mal leads me through the house and out the front door to the sweeping driveway, where his Jeep is parked. The top is down,and in the back seat are two surfboards, their sleek forms jutting up into the evening sky.
I stop in my tracks, my eyes widening before I turn to glance at him. “What…?”
He grins that rare, crooked smile that always sends a jolt of electricity through me. “Get in.”
I hesitate for a moment, my mind spinning with questions. But then I feel that familiar pull—the irresistible urge to go with him and see where this will lead. Without another word, I climb into the passenger seat.
We don’t speak as he pulls out of the driveway and onto the winding mountain roads that lead away from the house. The wind rushes past us, cool and fresh. I glance over at him: Mal is focused on the road, his hands steady on the wheel.
I watch the moon climb, the sky turning a deep shade of purple as the stars begin to peek through. After a while, I can’t help but ask.
