Even as he kissed her with melting softness, Luce was uncomfortably aware that they hadn’t actually resolved anything. He was still threatening to talk to the FBI, and she still had no idea what to do about Anais. She hadn’t yet tried to explain why the mermaids had destroyed the Dear Melissa, and Luce couldn’t help but realize how empty her reasons would sound to him. She hadn’t answered his questions about her knowledge of things on land, either. Somehow she felt an intense reluctance to let him know she’d once been human herself, but how could she avoid that forever? And it wasn’t even clear if his tenderness toward her was only a lingering effect of enchantment.

Dorian had the indication around him, the same dark shimmer as the mermaids, and she’d assumed that it helped protect him from their power. Luce hoped that his shimmering didn’t mean he could also see the sparkling around her. If he could, he’d be able to see that she’d been just as human as he was. Worse, if he just looked at her from the corners of his eyes, he might be able to see the events that had changed her.

His own cloudy shimmering proved that someone had once done something terrible to him: terrible enough to leave a lasting crack in his very identity as a human. So far, though, a kind of shyness or politeness had kept Luce from looking to see what that heartbreak was. But as his lips flowed on hers like a velvet wave Luce stole a single sideways glance. She couldn’t stifle a cry at what she saw there. A younger Dorian lay pretending to be asleep, straining to control his terrified breathing, while his mother—

“Luce?” Dorian pulled away slightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m okay,” Luce whispered back. She slipped one hand up and lightly brushed his cheeks. “You don’t have to stop.” She wanted to kiss him until she forgot everything else: her own overwhelming problems, yes, but also the cruelty that made being human insupportable for so many others like her.

She wasn’t nearly as sorry now that Dorian’s parents were dead.

8

The Jacket