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The wind whispers over the bleak landscape, and for the first time, I take a moment to examine the scenery. The mist shrouds the coarse terrain in a grayish purple haze. In the distance stands a lone tree, ravaged by time and as desolate as the moor and mist that surround it. It’s the first time I’ve seen it—lifeless, its trunk gnarled, the branches twisted and covered in lichen.

When I turn my head, I see Tristan. His tousled, dark-chestnut hair and his black shirt are teased by the gentle breeze, and the fog is circling at his feet. Tristan opens his arms, welcoming me, and I run, run like I did when I was escaping the house in Chiswick. But all I feel, propelling me toward him, is joy. Sweet, sweet joy. I throw myself at him and wrap my arms around his neck, and he swoops me into his embrace, his face split with delight. He swings me around as if I weigh nothing. I hitch my legs around his waist, holding him fast.

“I’m so glad you’re napping,” he says, his voice tight, as if restraining his emotions, and I clasp his head and kiss him. Kiss him like my life depends on it. Kiss him until I’m breathless. Kiss him until I’m lit up with joy.

He puts me down and buries his face in my hair.

“Why did you go?” I whisper, my nose and lips against the sweet-smelling skin of his neck.

“I had to. I don’t want him taking you away from me. He’s serious.”

I pull away and meet his luminous green eyes. “What did you talk about?”

“You, mainly. He says I’m no good for you.”

“That’s just not true.”

Tristan’s hands cup my face as he studies me, looking lost and lonely and as bleak as the landscape. “He’s right, Beauchamp. What can I possibly offer you?”

“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You gave me something to live for when all hope was gone.”

He closes his eyes and groans. “Oh, Emily, you sweet, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and then his lips are on mine, warm, hungry, and possessive, but beneath his kiss is a heady desperation. His hands cradle my head, and then my back, holding me tight. He wants me, his body tells me, and I want him.

I’ve had enough of my good-girl image. Where did good get me? I want to experience life. All of it.

I thread my fingers in his hair and press my body hard against his, melting into him. He groans and deepens his kiss, his tongue probing and pushing and caressing my own. And he’s tasting and teasing me, and I’m tasting and teasing him back. When he pulls away, we’re both panting.

“No,” he says, his breathing ragged. “I only brought you here so I could hold you. This will go too far.” His forehead is against mine as we catch our breath, and I trace the line of his jaw with my fingers.

“I want to go too far.”

“Emily, you don’t know what you’re saying. Sit,” he whispers. And for a moment, I hesitate, wondering if I should press him on this. But his look is wary, so I acquiesce, and as one we sink onto the soft ancient almost colorless moss.

He pulls me onto his lap and folds his arms around me. Taking a deep breath, I try to bring my raging hormones under control.

“How long do we have?” I ask as I lean against his chest. This will give me a clue for next time.

“Time enough.” He nuzzles my ear and makes a content sound deep in his throat. It reverberates right through my body, arousing and calming at once. I close my eyes and accept this precious moment of peace and intimacy.

A thought occurs to me. “It’s so peaceful here. If I died too, could I spend time here with you?”

“What?” Tristan leans back and tilts my chin up so I can see his appalled expression. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t want to be here.”

“I want to be with you. And what do I have to live for? Everyone I loved is gone.”

“Emily, that’s not true. You have so much to live for. Your life is just beginning. You have so much to look forward to. Besides, here, you’d only exist in a constant state of fear.”

“Fear?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He takes a deep breath, his eyes glinting with ghostly secrets, and I know he’s struggling with whether to tell me.

Disclosure wins out. In a quiet voice, he says, “In this land, the lost souls like me, who don’t cross over, are hunted down. Hunted by these creatures. I call them Reapers. Others here call them Custodians. I’ve been told they harvest souls for the light or the dark.”

My scalp tingled in warning. “What does that mean?”