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“Here's the truth: it's important to take the necessary steps to find out who you are. Because you hold endless depths below the surface of a few facts and pieces and past decisions. You aren't only the ripples others can see. You are made of oceans.” --Victoria Erikson
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It’s the kind of summer day that feels like it could last forever.
Takara Lee sits up to take a sip of her now-lukewarm water, watching the tide wash away the sandcastle she’d spent all afternoon building. The sand is warm between her toes, golden sunlight is kissing her skin into a honeyed pink, and the ebb and flow of the ocean has lulled her into a rare feeling of bliss.
There’s something about the ocean that always brings out that easy, simple kind of relaxation. It’s exactly what she needs after months upon months of research and writing and practice in preparation for her viva, delivered before graduation.
Dr. Takara Lee, DBA, she thinks, contented.
That contentment dissipates a second later, when in the distance she hears a shout -- and turns to see each ball appear alarmingly close to her face.
Fortunately, it sails harmlessly over her head, and Takara watches a boy chase after it, calling “Scusa! Scusa!” over his shoulder, while his friends laugh in the background.
Takara can’t help but laugh, too. And why shouldn’t she? It’s summer, she’s just finished university, and she’s touring Europe as a graduation gift to herself. Life is perfect.
Her phone reads 04:50. Her mother has been nagging her about her eating habits lately (and honestly, it isn’t her fault, okay? School has just been very stressful, and it’s easy to forget to eat when she’s focused on an assignment), so Takara grabs her things and starts making her way back to her car.
The Mazda MX-5 Miata she’s been renting for the past few weeks is not the most environmentally-friendly choice on the market, but until Aeon comes out with a convertible car, this will be her favorite. Takara drives carefully through Monte Argentario; there’s a quaint little bakery she stops at, to buy a pasticciotto. Amika wouldn’t approve, but this is a vacation, Takara reasons. Dessert before dinner is perfectly acceptable.
As if summoned by the mere thought of her, Takara’s phone rings.
“I’m alive, Mom,” she says, the moment the call connects.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Takara,” Amika chides, with that knowing tone of voice only mothers seem able to master.
“Who, me?” she says innocently. “I would never.”
On the other line, Amika snorts. “Sure you wouldn’t.”
“Hey!”
“Well, was I wrong?” She can practically hear her mother smirk an entire ocean away. “So, tell me about your day. Have you eaten yet? Did you remember to wear sunscreen?”
For someone who suggested that Takara travel Europe, Amika is exceedingly worried about her. The first day, when she landed in Lisbon, Amika had called her four times before Takara finally put her foot down. Then her mother texted her constantly, until Takara also had to limit that, too.
“I’m just worried about my little girl,” she’d said one night, and Takara’s heart had filled with warmth. “And yes, you’ll always be my little girl, no matter how old you are. But, you need to learn to fly -- to soar, like I know you will -- and,” she sighed, then, and finished a little ruefully, “I have to let you spread your wings to do that.”
“By the way, Mom,” Takara says when there’s a comfortable lull in the conversation, “I’ve decided to extend my trip. I don’t know how long yet -- but don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for Meilin and Ha-joon’s wedding.” As if she’d ever miss the wedding of her CEOs. “But you’ll -- you’ll be okay?”
Despite herself, the question comes out hesitant, and Takara bites her lip.
“Takara-chan,” says Amika, clearly understanding what Takara doesn’t say. “You have always been so mature for your age. I know I worry about you a lot, and my darling, you’ve done wonderful, amazing things. But you also deserve to be young and see the world. Empress Group will still be waiting for you when you get back. You have the rest of your life to run your company. So go enjoy everything this world has to offer you, and know you’ll always be welcomed home whenever you want.”
Takara sniffs. “Thank you, Kaa-chan.”
Her mom’s voice is warm. “Never thank me for that, Takara.”
They have to cut the call short because Takara’s phone is running out of batteries (but not before she gets a lecture about it), and then she’s back in her car, pulling onto the autostrade.
Italy as a whole is breathtaking in its beauty, but this evening, Tuscany is especially stunning. She drives past rolling hills, sprawling vineyards, and cypress-lined roads. The sun is setting over the horizon, washing the sky in shades of red and orange and gold.
A sliver of vermilion can be seen bleeding over the tops of the buildings when Takara arrives in Rome an hour later. It’s her second night here, and she’s not in a rush, per se, but her phone is about to die, and somehow her charger broke this morning and she forgot about it, which means that she needs to find the nearest store, which should be right around the corner--
She slams on the brakes.
There’s an awful thump, followed by the sound of screeching metal.
Takara’s heart is in her throat as she throws the car into park and rushes to the front--
There’s a man lying in the middle of the street.
Ohmygod I just killed somebody!
“Sir,” says Takara, inching closer and scared of what she might find, “are you alright?”
To her surprise, he sits up, “I am quite excellent,” and moves to stand.
“Wait, wait, don’t move -- Oh, nevermind.”
Takara just watches dumbly as he brushes himself off. Her hands hover uncertainly. She doesn’t think she hit him very hard, and he doesn’t look like he has injuries, but you can never be too careful. Not when a life is potentially at risk.
The man holds out a hand, and on instinct, Takara accepts it. But instead of a handshake, he bows at the waist to press his lips to her knuckles. “I am Marcus. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Takara Lee,” she manages, thankful for the darkness that hides her warm cheeks. He is the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, with a honeyed voice to boot. People would pay millions to have him narrate audiobooks.
Hell, she’d pay millions.
Collecting herself, Takara clears her throat. “I’m so sorry for hitting you, Signor1. Let me take you to the hospital.”
He chuckles. “I assure you, Ms. Lee, I am perfectly well. More than well, even.”
He chuckles. “I assure you, Ms. Lee, I am perfectly well. More than well, even.”
She tries not to give him too obvious of a side-eye. “If you say so . . . Is there someone I can call for you, at least? Or a place I can drop you off?”
“I am not in need of a ride,” says Marcus, and Takara tactfully doesn’t point out that he was standing in the middle of the street. “However, if I might borrow your phone?”
“Oh, sure!” Relieved to help in some way, even if it’s inadequate, Takara reaches into her pocket to pull out her phone.
Her dead phone.
This is absolutely mortifying. After a hurried explanation that Marcus just smiles all the way through -- and it’s a genuine smile, too, not one of those pursed-lips-holding-back-laughter smiles -- she convinces him to get into her car (and why does that sound so creepy) and drive them to the store.
Getting a new phone for him and a charger for her is simple. Paying is slightly less so. Takara tries to pay for both, discreetly slipping a black card to the attendant who greets them at the door, but Marcus is surprisingly eagle-eyed, and smoothly cuts across to offer his.
It’s as he does so that Takara glimpses the name on the card: Marcus Turi.
Marcus Turi.
She just hit one of the owners of Eclipse Holdings with her car.
The secret owner of Empress Group just hit Marcus Turi with her car.
(Forget dying of humiliation, Takara would thank whatever deity exists if the ground opens up to swallow her whole right this very second.)
Marcus is annoyingly insistent on paying for everything, but Takara manages to buy her own charger. When they leave the store, he has a smug look on his face, and that’s when she realizes that he was the true winner of their mini-argument.
“Do you believe in destiny?” says Marcus, as they’re walking back to the car. They cross, and he steps around her to place himself between her and the street.
Takara laughs. “Some stroke of fate that had you standing in the middle of the road right as I turned the corner,” she quips.
“A stroke of fate, indeed,” he murmurs. But there’s a smile tugging at his lips, and a soft look in his eyes, and her stomach flips.
Every logical rule says not to hang out with strange men in a foreign city, but Takara feels guilty abandoning him in the middle of Rome. She offers to drive him to a hospital again, and when he declines again, home to Volterra, which he accepts.
“I’ve actually been there once,” Takara comments.
“Have you?”
“For my 18th birthday. It’s a beautiful city, though border security takes a while. But I guess it’ll be quicker for you since you’re a resident.”
The Associated State of Volterra is known, among many others things, for its stringent security and entry requirements. This has drawn a lot of backlash in the past several years, especially with the popularity of the St. Marcus Day Festival, but as a sovereign, independent nation associated with Italy, the city is free to govern itself as it sees fit.
Takara and Marcus talk freely. Easily. It’s remarkable how relaxed she feels around him, like she can tell him anything, everything, all the secrets of her heart, and and trust it will go no further than here. It’s strange, because she met him just a few hours ago.
As they near Volterra, Marcus grows quieter. Takara finds herself glancing at him more often, and his expression is troubled. She wonders, briefly, if it’s their destination that is putting him on edge -- but no, in all the interviews the Turi brothers have expressed nothing but adoration for their home. And Marcus just spent fifteen minutes telling her about his favorite places in the city. Still, would it hurt to ask outright . . . ?
Takara waffles for a few minutes, but is saved from making a decision when Marcus takes a deep breath.
“There is something I must tell you, Ms. Lee.”
A sinking feeling in her gut--
“I am a vampire.”
“. . . “
He gazes steadily at her.
“Alright,” Takara says with a sigh, pulling over to the side of the road. “Can I see your pupils?”
He lets her reach over to take his chin and tilt his face to her, though he is clearly disgruntled. “I do not have a concussion.”
“I didn’t think so either, until you claimed you’re a creature of the night.”
“I am serious, Ms. Lee. I can prove it to you.”
“Sure,” she says. “You can prove it to me after a brain scan.”
Takara moves to turn the car around, away from where Volterra glitters in the distance, to drive to the hospital in Florence--
She blinks and Marcus is standing by the driver’s door.
“What? How did you--?”
“Let me show you the truth, Ms. Lee.” He holds out a hand, palm up. “Please. Will you give me the chance?”
This is stupid. This is so, so stupid. This is an obscene level of stupidity that is going to get her kidnapped or killed or worse.
And yet Takara takes Marcus’ hand anyway. And ten minutes later, she is leaning against the car, knees weak with surprise, and completely speechless at the extraordinary feats of speed and strength she has seen him perform.
Extraordinary. Supernatural. Inhuman.
Seeing is believing, and what she has just seen--
“There is more,” Marcus says, “that I must tell you.” He hesitates, and she sees now the stillness with which he holds himself, that calm and fluid grace. “This must be a shock. Would you like to wait to hear--”
“No,” Takara says, rubbing her temples. “No, tell me now.”
He does.
When he’s finished, and Takara’s headache has grown exponentially, she releases an explosive sigh.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go to Volterra. You won’t follow me, or send anyone else to follow me, including your brothers or your -- your guards.” Marcus looks like he wants to object, but Takara barrels on before he can. “I am going to go back to Rome, and sleep on all -- this.” She makes a vague gesture. “And then in the morning, maybe, if I feel like it, I’ll text you.”
A fragile, breakable kind of hope has filled Marcus’ eyes. “Truly?”
“If,” Takara repeats. “I will think about it, and if I feel like it, I’ll text you.”
“That is all I ask,” Marcus says.
He smiles then, and it’s a beautiful, dazzling smile, one that softens every edge and takes her breath away.
The moon is full. Warm winds tug at her hair. The moment stretches, suspended, elastic, and Takara feels her cheeks warm again. She isn’t sure if she’ll text him. Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. Because there’s a spark here, not love, or even anything close to it, but it’s the first step. One that could lead in a million different directions, if she chooses to take it.
It’s the kind of summer day that feels like it could last forever, and for just a moment -- two figures frozen against the Tuscany landscape -- it does.
- Hitting, or hitting on? ;) [ ▲ ]