Chapter 27
It turns out that Hayden’s vault is attached to his bedroom. I have not yet been inside any of Hayden’s bedrooms—not in this life, at least—and I have no idea how many he currently has, though all signs point to a lot, but this absolutely has to be his nicest, biggest, fanciest one.
The room alone is bigger than my entire house in Irvine.
The dark red carpet is plush as pillows, and the walls are painted a deep, moody green.
The ceiling’s vaulted and the lighting is low and warm from sconces and an already-lit stone fireplace.
Two plum velvet wingback chairs are placed near the hearth, angled toward the fire, and a set of French doors leads out to a snow-dusted balcony overlooking the unending stretch of the rocky sea.
Then there’s Hayden’s bed. It’s four-postered and huge—bigger than a king-size, I think. Everything about it is decadent, the wooden headboard and posts a rich mahogany, the lush wine-red linen embroidered in gold brocade.
Have we been together on this bed before? I feel a flush swoop down the front of my throat at the thought. I catch Hayden watching me with dark eyes. I smooth a hand down my sweater and clear my throat.
“Have I visited here before?”
“No,” he says. “I haven’t had any guests here since I inherited it from my grandnephew.”
“Oh.” I bite my lip when what he’s said registers. I go to him, and he doesn’t pull away when I tuck my face against his chest. “I didn’t realize you’d had a sibling.”
“He was very young when I was turned. Probably not even three yet.” I love how his deep voice rumbles against my cheek. “I don’t really remember.” He pulls back to meet my eyes. “But I’ve had Delia for centuries now. And you.”
I wonder if he’ll pull back if I rise up and try and kiss him.
“Come on,” he says, pulling back anyway. “I want to show you my vault.”
“Your vault? Not our vault?” I tease.
His smile, oddly, gets sad. “You’ll see.”
He pulls me through a door by an arched window I had thought led to an en suite bathroom. Instead, it leads to another door, this one polished, nearly brand-new. Beside it on the wall is an electric padlock. Hayden lifts the plastic cover to type in the password.
“Bet I could guess the code,” I blurt. Hayden pauses before breaking into a smug grin. He leans against the wall.
“Knock yourself out,” he says, eyes dancing.
Our visit to Hemlock Cove Cemetery taught me I’ve always had the same birthday, November 14.
I type in original Rose’s birthday. The light on the padlock flashes an alarming red, and a single, obnoxious beep splits the room.
“Jeez.” I wince. “How much do you have in here? Not exactly in a high-traffic area.” Hayden just crosses his arms and shrugs.
I try the date the original Rose died. Another beep, more red light flashing.
“One more wrong answer and you initiate lockdown mode for seventy-two hours,” Hayden warns. I frown back at the padlock. This started as a dumb trick, but now I feel like every other Rose would have gotten it on the first try.
What does it mean about me and Hayden if I don’t guess it at all?
“You’re overthinking it.” Hayden’s lips brush my temple, his hands resting lightly on either side of my hips.
As always, my heartbeat speeds up at his touch.
I feel his knowing smile in my hair as he senses the quickening of my pulse.
“I come back here more than I probably should,” he confesses.
“When I found you again, the first thing I did was come back here.”
I don’t think about it too hard. I just put in my current birthday, year and all.
The light turns green and the door unlocks with a loud click. I don’t expect to be as surprised, as touched as I am. I guess there’s still a small part of me that thinks Hayden has favorites.
“Welcome,” Hayden says, strangely quiet, “to my vault.” When I step into the rotunda-like room, I clap my hands over my mouth. There are no gold bars here. No stacks of dollar bills, jewels, or coins here.
I’m here.
Or, at least, my things are. Personal belongings from every one of my past lives are nestled reverently against black velvet in glass cases of various sizes all along the circular wall that stretches up three or four stories high.
The floors are a polished gold-and-green marble, and a continuous iron staircase winds along the perimeter of the cylinder so anyone can access my things at the very top. There are too many things to see, too many memories.
Behind one glass panel is a stack of folded, yellowing paper.
To my Hayden, the top letter is labeled in elegant script.
There are two browning ticket stubs to a 6:35 p.m. showing of The Exorcist from 1973.
I stop in front of a glass case—on a white silk pillow no bigger than my hand are a pair of plain gold wedding bands.
They’re both covered in blood.
“Sounds insane, I know…” Hayden clears his throat. “But washing them felt like washing you away somehow.” I feel like I’ve swallowed a diamond. Every swallow hurts. I turn to face him.
“Was that from the first time?”
“Yeah,” Hayden says roughly. The throat cutting.
I can feel the memory of how slippery my fingers got when they went to my neck in my nightmares.
My body was cold when he found me, but Hayden must have tried putting pressure there anyway.
Hayden whirls away, dragging both hands through his hair.
“Fuck. Let’s look at something that’ll make you happy.
” He moves to the other side of the room, pausing in front of a glass panel, looking expectant.
I stop breathing when I see what’s in there.
A battered, age-worn book with a tattered fabric cover sits on a mount. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley, it says on the spine.
“It’s a second edition,” Hayden says. “But it was your copy. You carried it around with you everywhere.”
“So, I guess…” I lick my lips, overwhelmed. “I guess some things really don’t change, huh?”
“I hope—” He lets out a harsh breath. “God. I really fucking hope that some things do.” For a moment we just hold each other’s terrified gaze. Then we step into each other, and his arms wrap me in a tight hug.
“Can’t believe you have all this,” I say into his chest. “Can’t believe you decided to keep all this stuff.”
“Wasn’t a decision. I had no choice.” He lets out a long, shaky sigh.
“This was all I had left of you in the world.” I pull back and lift my chin to him, a wordless request. Hayden’s face gets stormy.
“I’m…We haven’t gone over our strategy yet.
You’re gonna need to memorize the escape routes.
” Distractedly, gaze dark and torn, he starts to head toward the door.
I wrap my arms around myself, afraid if I don’t, my ribs will burst out of my chest from the pain.
“Can I stay here?” I ask in a tiny voice. “Just for a little bit?”
Hayden blinks at me, caught off guard. “Oh. Um. Sure.”
When he slips out, I scrub my eyes, willing them to dry up. I want to throttle Hayden. Tell him how much he’s breaking my heart. How he’s not keeping me any safer by pushing me away. How it’s so needless, such a waste of time—how I can help him protect me too.
I look over at our bloody wedding rings, the dark oxblood smear on pale gold. Old blood. How would I have felt if I had come upon Hayden’s body, bloody and throat opened? How would I have felt if I’d done that at least ten times?
With a sigh, I keep perusing this heartbreaking museum of our love. There’s an antique sewing kit with a threaded needle, a vintage set of broken Crayola crayons, the shards of a shattered teacup.
In a large niche, glowing behind a glass panel, is a beautiful cream-colored dress that could easily have been worn by a heroine from Bridgerton. As soon as my eyes land on it, I know it belonged to the very first Rose.
And I know I want to try it on.
Maybe it’ll make me feel more connected with my past lives, I think as I search the glass case for the opening seam. When I press on the glass, it pops open. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if Hayden will be angry.
But it’s my freaking dress, isn’t it? These are my lives, my deaths.
My current life. My possibly imminent death.
I get that Delia and Hayden are literally some of the most powerful creatures on the planet, but, like, show me another human that dies every night and wakes up and eats her Cheerios and goes to school with minimal complaining.
So I take it out of the glass case and slip back into Hayden’s bedroom to try it on.
It takes me a second to fasten and get it to sit right.
There’s a short, front-laced corset to put on first, one that barely covers my boobs.
I pull it snug, admire how it makes my modest chest swell a little and accentuates the tuck of my waist. The dress itself falls to my ankles, clinging to my silhouette, my breasts, my torso, my hips.
The sleeves fall to my elbows, and the neckline is square and low, showing a vast expanse of my collarbones and shoulders, the rise of my chest.
I stare at myself in the full-length mirror by Hayden’s bed, my heart pounding.
It fits perfectly. It’s a silky, thin fabric that feels cool and soft against my skin.
I don’t look like I’m wearing a costume.
I look like an eighteen-year-old girl from the year 1820.
I look like I clutched carrier pigeons and wrapped fresh bread and hunks of cheese in cloth and carried it to my father for his supper.
I look like me.
Blinking hard, I pull the rubber band from the tail of my braid and shake out my hair, letting the long brown waves fall over one shoulder.
I step close, examining my pale, overcast eyes, my too-wide mouth, my cheeks that so easily blush, that are blushing right now just from standing in Hayden’s bedroom, wearing this dress that Hayden loved on me so much that he kept it.
A dress that Hayden might have taken off of me before.
There’s a crashing sound behind me.