Hey guys, this is Fallen but the difference is Daniel and Luce's roles in the curse have been swaped. All belongs to the wonderful Lauren Kate. Enjoy. :)

Helston, England September 1854

Around midnight, his eyes at last took shape. The look in them was feline, half determined and half tentative—all trouble. Yes, they were just right, those eyes. Rising up to his fine, elegant brow, inches from the bright mop of his hair.

She held the paper at arm's length to assess her progress. It was hard, working without him in front of her, but then, she never could sketch in his presence. Since she had arrived from London—no, since she had first seen him—she'd had to be careful always to keep him at a distance.

Every day now he approached her, and every day was more difficult than the one before. It was why she was leaving in the morning—for India, for the Americas, she didn't know or care. Wherever she ended up, it would be easier than being here.

She leaned over the drawing again, sighing as she used her thumb to perfect the smudged charcoal pout of his full bottom lip. This lifeless paper, cruel imposter, was the only way to take him with her.

Then, straightening up in the leather library chair, she felt it. That brush of warmth on the back of her neck.

Him.

His mere proximity gave her the most peculiar sensation, like the kind of heat sent out when a log shatters to ash in a fire. She knew without turning around: He was there. She covered his likeness on the bound papers in her lap, but she could not escape him.

Her eyes fell on the ivory-upholstered settee across the parlor, where only hours earlier he'd turned up unexpectedly, later than the rest of his party, in a black suit, to applaud the eldest daughter of their host, after a fine turn on the harpsichord. She glanced across the room, out the window to the veranda, where the day before he'd crept up on her, a fistful of wild white peonies in his hand. He still thought the pull he felt toward her was innocent, that their frequent rendezvous in the gazebo were merely ... happy coincidences. To be so naive! She would never tell him otherwise—the secret was hers to bear.

She stood and turned, the sketches left behind on the leather chair. And there he was, pressed against the ruby velvet curtain in his plain white robe. His blond hair was ruffled from sleep. The look on his face was the same as the one she'd sketched so many times. There was the fire, rising in his cheeks. Was he angry? Embarrassed? She longed to know, but could not allow herself to ask.

"What are you doing here?" She could hear the snarl in her voice, and regretted its sharpness, knowing he would never understand.

"I—I couldn't sleep," He stammered, moving toward the fire and her chair. "I saw the light in your room and then"—he paused, looking down at his hands—"your trunk outside the door. Are you going somewhere?"

"I was going to tell you—" She broke off. She shouldn't lie. She had never intended to let him know her plans. Telling him would only make things worse. Already, she had let things go too far, hoping this time would be different.

He drew nearer, and his eyes fell on her sketchbook. "You were drawing me?"

His startled tone reminded her how great the gap was in their understanding. Even after all the time they'd spent together these past few weeks, he had not yet begun to glimpse the truth that lay behind their attraction.

This was good—or at least, it was for the better. For the past several days, since she'd made the choice to leave, she'd been struggling to pull away from him. The effort took so much out of her that, as soon as she was alone, she had to give in to her pent-up desire to draw him. She had filled up her sketch book with pages of his arched neck, his fine abs, the bright curls of his hair.

Now, she looked back at the sketch, not ashamed at being caught drawing him, but worse. A cold chill spread through her as she realized that his discovery of the exposure of her feelings—would destroy him. She should have been more careful. It always began like this.

"Warm milk with a spoonful of treacle," she murmured, her back still to him. Then she added sadly, "It helps you sleep."

"How did you know? Why, that's exactly what my mother used to—"

"I know," she said, turning to face him. The astonishment in his voice did not surprise her, yet she could not explain to him how she knew, or tell him how many times she had administered this very drink to him in the past when the shadows came, how she had wrapped her arms around him until he fell asleep.

She felt his touch as though it were burning through her gown, his hand laid gently on her shoulder, causing her to gasp. They had not yet touched in this life, and the first contact always left her breathless.

"Answer me," he whispered. "Are you leaving?"
"Yes."
"Then take me with you," he blurted out. Right on cue, she watched him suck in his breath, wishing to take back his plea. She could see the progression of his emotions settle in the crease between his eyes: He would feel impetuous, then bewildered, then ashamed by his own forwardness. He always did this, and too many times before, she had made the mistake of comforting him at this exact moment.

"No," she whispered, remembering ... always remembering... "I sail tomorrow. If you care for me at all, you won't say another word."

"If I care for you," he repeated, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "I—I love—" "Don't."
"I have to say it. I—I love you, I'm quite sure, and if you leave—"

"If I leave, I save your life." She spoke slowly trying to reach apart of him that might remember. Was it there at all? Buried somewhere? "Some things are more important than love. You won't understand, but you have to trust me."

His eyes drilled into her. He stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. This was her fault, too—she always brought out his contemptuous side when she spoke down to him.

"You mean to say there are things more important than this?" he challenged, taking her hands and drawing them to his heart.

Oh, to be him and not know what was coming! Or at least to be stronger than she was and be able

to stop him. If she didn't stop him, he would never learn, and the past would only repeat itself, torturing them both again and again.

The familiar warmth of his skin under her hands made her tilt her head back and moan. She was trying to ignore how close he was, how well she knew the feel of his lips on hers, how bitter she felt that all of this had to end. But his fingers traced hers so lightly. She could feel his heart racing through his thin cotton robe.

He was right. There was nothing more than this. There never was. She was about to give in and throw herself into his arms when she caught the look in his eyes. As if he'd seen a ghost.

He was the one to pull away, a hand to his forehead.
"I'm having the strangest sensation," he whispered.
No—was it already too late?
His eyes narrowed into the shape in her sketch and he came back to her, his hands wrapped around her waist,

his lips parted expectantly. "Tell me I'm mad, but I swear I've been right here before..."
So it was too late. She looked up, shivering, and could feel the dark descending. She took one last

chance to seize him, to have his arms wrap around her as tightly as she'd been yearning to have them for weeks.
As soon as his lips melted into hers, both of them were powerless. The honeysuckle taste of his mouth made her dizzy. The closer he pressed against her, the more her stomach churned with the thrill and the agony of it all. His tongue traced hers, and the fire between them burned brighter,

hotter, more powerful with every new touch, every new exploration. Yet none of it was new.
The room quaked. An aura around them started to glow.
He noticed nothing, was aware of nothing, understood nothing besides their kiss.
She alone knew what was about to happen, what dark companions were prepared to fall on their

reunion. Even though she was unable to alter the course of their lives yet again, she knew.
The shadows swirled directly overhead. So close, she might have touched them. So close, she wondered whether he could hear what they were whispering. She watched as the cloud passed over his face. For a moment thought she saw a spark of recognition growing in his eyes.

Then there was nothing, nothing at all.