“So she killed my mother because Rafe was in a relationship with her? That’s appalling.” And she didn’t know what was worse—when she hadn’t known why someone would do that, or now that she knew someone had for such a flimsy, selfish reason. But there was a soft, sad comfort in knowing that she had been right about Rafe, that his love had been genuine. It helped to know that her mother had enjoyed the last year of her life with him, and that it was legitimate emotion on his part.

“I’m sorry, Sara. I truly, truly am.”

Sara looked up at him, her brain still processing everything, lingering sorrow from Gabriel’s memories hanging over her. There was so much to ask, so much she needed and wanted to understand. “What happened to you, Gabriel? You were drinking before Anne . . . why?”

How could he explain who he was, what he’d been, how he had fallen so hard, so fast? He didn’t understand it himself, and some days he found it hard to comprehend what exactly he had been thinking all those years ago. “Do you believe me when I tell you I’m immortal, that I was an angel once, now a demon?” he asked.

Her eyes were so wise, such a deep blue, so full of the knowledge of life that came from hard living, immense joy and agonizing pain. She nodded. “I believe you’re something more than what I thought or can truly comprehend.”

“I was sent to watch humans, to guide and protect them. But I wasn’t prepared for the suffering, the sadness, the devastation of emotion that radiates from mortals. It was so hard to watch, so difficult not to be able to ease their pain, and it was overwhelming. When I drank, it was easier to handle. I could simply ignore all of it.” That was his shame, but he wanted to face it, admit it, forgive himself for it, and move forward.

“I understand that. I do. I couldn’t sleep you know, like I can’t sleep now, and I would lie there and my mind would race with guilt and grief and fear and I just wanted it all to go away. I wanted oblivion. That’s what the sleeping pills gave me.”

“And now you still can’t sleep.” He touched her cheek, brushing his thumb across the deep bruises under her eyes, the stain of months and months of inadequate sleep.

“Yeah, but it’s better this way. Better to not sleep and be in control. To face my grief, to deal with it.” She turned her head, rubbing her lips over the inside of his wrist, her eyes drifting closed. “And do you notice,” she whispered, “that I can sleep when I’m with you?”