It was reckless, dangerous, to tell her that, but he was too angry to care. She thought she was the only one who had suffered, the only one who staggered under the burden of guilt that she was alive while a loved one was dead. He had felt the weight of that so oppressively for a hundred and fifty years it was amazing that he was still mobile.

“What?” She looked slapped. Her cheeks drained of color. “Oh my God,” she murmured. “Oh, God. That’s why you started drinking, isn’t it? That’s why you don’t paint, why you don’t hear music . . . Oh, Gabriel, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t right to accept her pity. He didn’t want it, hadn’t earned it, wasn’t entitled to it. So he said, aware of how harsh his voice sounded, “Don’t. It’s not your problem. It’s mine.”

“I know it’s not my problem. But Gabriel, you have the same problem I do. And I’ve been sitting here acting like the victim, like I’m the only one who has suffered, when you obviously have too. I’m sorry for that.”

She looked so plaintive, so concerned, that he was exasperated. He wanted to be angry, and she prevented him from having that release. She sucked all the anger right out of him with her soft features and luminous eyes. Which irritated the hell out of him. “Don’t be sorry for anything. You have your shit to deal with and I have my shit to deal with. It’s all even.”

“I wasn’t suggesting a tally sheet. What I’m saying is that I’ve been so wrapped up in my own grief, I couldn’t see yours.”

“I don’t have any grief.” It was guilt. Disgust. Self-recrimination and a desire to find some kind of meaning in a long, endless existence.

“No. You have a determination to ignore your grief.”

Gabriel didn’t know when the conversation had turned into her trying to enlighten him, and he moved away from her, determined to end the ridiculous dissection of his psyche.

“You deny yourself pleasure—physical and emotional pleasure—as a punishment for yourself. God, I should have guessed about your girlfriend. It’s so obvious to me now.”

That sparked his anger again. He wasn’t obvious. He was a demon, for hell’s sake. She didn’t know any fucking thing about him. “Well, congratulations.” He knew she was coming up behind him, with the purpose of touching him, so he shifted, avoiding her touch, but turned back and locked gazes with her. “You think you’ve figured me all out. And while I know you’re wrong on a lot of levels, you got one thing right. I do deny myself physical pleasure. I can’t handle it. Alcohol, sex. I can’t handle it. I don’t want to handle it.”