“Raphael took care of Marguerite, and Alex left.” With a warning from Gabriel to stay a hundred yards or more away from Sara or he would vanquish him. The demon version of a restraining order. “Everything’s okay, I promise.”

He reached for her, but she took a step back. “What do you mean, took care of Marguerite? Explain to me what is going on. They were floating in the air. That’s not possible. And you and Alex . . . those punches should have knocked you both unconscious.”

This wasn’t how he wanted to have this particular conversation, but he didn’t really have a choice. “Sara, I know this is going to seem crazy, impossible, but just listen to me and trust me. The truth is that Alex, Rafe, Marguerite, and I are all immortal and have known each other for hundreds of years. We don’t age. Alex is Marguerite’s father. Rafe is Dr. Raphael from the old court records.”

She shook her head. “What? That’s insane.”

“No. It’s true. And I am Jonathon Thiroux—the painter, the pianist, the addict.”

Those three words summed up the entire length and breadth of his existence.

Her face drained of all color. “Oh God, the hair. The DNA . . . Jocelyn said the two hairs came from the same man, but I thought it was a mistake. That I had mixed up the samples somehow. Because it can’t be possible.”

“What hair?” He had intentionally refused to give her his DNA because he had known what she would find. But apparently she had found precisely that—that he was a match to John Thiroux—and she had chosen to believe it couldn’t be true. She had chosen to accept the more logical explanation that there was a lab error, which he had to admit was probably what the majority of people would conclude. The truth really was unbelievable when you didn’t come from his world.

“One of your hairs was stuck to my pillow so I took it. I had Jocelyn compare it to Thiroux’s hair, and she said it was from the same man. A perfect match.” She shook her head. “I thought I had goofed somehow, but now you’re telling me it’s true? That’s crazy. Just crazy.”

“It’s not crazy. It’s true, Sara, I swear to you.” He had no idea how to convince her. He had never told anyone the truth of what he was. So what he did was instinctive, the only way he knew to show her so she could believe. He reached out and took her hands, opening his mind and projecting it onto her, letting her see his thoughts, feel his emotions, trace his life back to the beginning. Back to when he was Jonathon Thiroux and Dauphine Street was filled with brothels and drinking holes.

He opened himself and showed her the truth.