DISCLAIMER:

I do not own any of the Unearthly Trilogy books. These characters and histories belong to the wonderful Cynthia Hand. This is a project of my imagination.

Enjoy, please comment! Prepare for the next part...this is a sneak peek! Also, this story might not include some stuff from the epilogue. Also, it was made before the Divine book came out (eep) so I didn't have a chance to read it etc. and still don't because monies are short, but it'll just be my imagination of what 'the next book' would be, or an alternate universe, whatever. Hope you enjoy!

My feet scuff against the ground as I grope blindly through the Aspen Hill Cemetery, my face a mask of indifference. I think I own this expression. Maybe I don't.

I feel utterly and inexplicably empty. Hollow. I have Tucker now; I don't need to be sad when he loves me with all of his unending desire that he insists he possesses. How cheesy and irresistibly cute. It's okay to be sad at Angela's mother, Anna's, funeral, because everyone's sad at funerals. Probably not because they realize that the one person they are dying to see, somebody they hadn't seen in a year since he took off out their window, is nowhere to be seen. But at least it's pure sadness, that I have. At least it isn't the fake sorrow that I see scratched into the surrounding faces like etched in a wall. I can feel them, and its rare to find somebody interested in anything other than when the funeral ends.

Thank God Angela still can't receive thoughts. If she did, she might kill me.

Watching her stand there with her hands tight around Webster and her face as pale as the snow around us, it sends stabs of pain into my soul. Her own feelings surround me like a veil. And they continue to jab at me until finally the funeral is called to an end and she stumbles out of the graveyard before I get the chance to talk to her.

Emotions churn through me like water, but I feel a slight sense of comfort at seeing her. It's been a while since Angela and I have been in contact with Webster becoming more of a hassle as he grows, and moving, and other friendship-conflicting stuff. But that doesn't mean I don't love her; she's my best friend. I'm always there for her and she's always there for me. Still, I feel empty, and the cold realization that the feeling didn't go away with seeing my friend is devastating.

I watch solemnly as all of the cars speed off one by one, looking for a familiar black truck. I never see it. The possibility of him flying here is possible. But I doubt he's here. He would have said hi, wouldn't he?

This is pathetic. I'm stuck on the boy I barely gave a chance.

No, I deny quickly in my head. He's my best friend. I need to see him. I just want to know if he's okay. That's all. I'm not stuck on him.

I definitely don't want to touch the familiar features of his face that I've memorized, to run my fingers along the sleek black-splattered ivory wings he bears, to taste his lips once more.

I try to tell myself it's just a queasy feeling, to be brushed away. Most everybody has left to eat dinner like normal people, even Tucker, though he had given be a brief kiss goodbye. But I remain, using the excuse that I want to visit my mother.

And I do, actually. Want to see my mother. Before I know what I'm doing my feet move to the small grave of hers, her name etched in stone. The absence of birth and death dates, because one hundred and twenty years is a hell of a lifespan, even in Aspen Hill. I run my fingers along the cold stone, and remember the freezing temperature of her body under the ground. This isn't where my mother is, I know. There are more efficient ways to get closer to her. But this is good enough for me, crouching by the headstone and conjuring up old memories of Mom. I close my eyes to withhold tears.

Faithful, wonderful Mom, always there when I needed it. Never before did I realize grief could ache this much. Not until she died. Nothing is wrong with grieving.

She only wanted to do what was right- it seemed all angels and angel-bloods want to do what is right. It is the way of our divine nature. We are pure beings. My face twists. Now she's gone. Now the black hole expands. I don't have her condolences and kind face.

No, I tell myself, she isn't gone. She is just fulfilling her purpose, in heaven. That damned purpose. I wish I could crush the word. But I can't. I'm useless against that power. It's a different purpose, but its enough, and it makes me shudder. At least she has Dad.

I touch the carved words gently, tears burning in my eyes. I cry so much now, and Tucker gets a bit concerned. He actually thinks I'm pregnant, for God's sake. Yeah, pregnant with a guy I can't make love to because he vomits or goes pale every time I glow, with glory. He's gotten better since the whole... prophet thing, sure, and he can handle it. And if I'm being honest, I'm not sure I feel safe, glowing around him. I'm afraid he'll die again, and I won't be able to save him. I fight back the tears in vain, and they eventually spill down my cheeks, silent and lonely. Betrayed by my own tears, I turn irrationally naïve. There isn't any comfort now, I think. Not even Samjeeza is here to mock me or riddle me. It's just me - alone.

You aren't alone.

The gentle tones wrap around my mind like warm water, yet gives me shivers. I leap up from my fatal crouch by the grave with such shock I nearly pass out there and then. I swirl my head around in confusion, completely unrecognizing the bittersweet voice in my head. It's been so long.

But his presence fills the gaping, hollow hole in my heart like honey. And I know, it's him.

"Christian," I breath, my legs going weak with realization. Just like that, the whisper of his name from my mouth, and this feels like an impossible dream. Christian is here, filling in my heart with his warmth of presence. And I can't believe it. This can't be happening.

There is a sense of hesitation that I get from him as my empathy reaches for him, like he's holding back, keeping away. I feel hurt trickle down my veins, poison my reverie. He doesn't want to see me. He doesn't want to look at me. He doesn't want me.

And suddenly, he's standing in front of me, an expression that almost tricks me into thinking it's desperation.

He just stepped out from behind a tree. I should have seen that coming – or smelled his sweet scent radiating towards me. It engulfs me, and my legs give out. Weak. He makes everything in me weak, by heartbeat, my body, just because he hasn't been here to strengthen me.

In a millisecond he has me in his arms before I fall to the ground, his strong hands touching my hips and holding me, right here, right now. Just a gentle touch. Enough to hold me up. Enough to make me want more.

I want more, I think quietly, stricken, unable to hide it from Christian's prodding mind. He looks a bit startled, but he's trying to keep calm. I can feel it. He doesn't want me to be scared of him. I almost laugh.

He thinks I'm scared of him.

"Oh, my God…" I whisper softly. The dream-like state still hovers over me like a protective cloud. Is this a vision, am I dreaming?

I promise you, he says quietly in my head with fierce honesty, this is real.

I laugh once, humorlessly, clipped, disbelieving. He leans back a bit, wondering if he's done something wrong.

"No," I say, reassuring him. No, I add mentally. You're not doing anything wrong. I just... there's no way this is real. It can't be- I left you, you hate me-

"I do not hate you.," he growls, literally growls, like an animal, sending a shudder down my spine. It's my turn to step back, alarmed, but his hands tighten on my hips, keep my close. "There's no way I could ever hate you," he continues softly, his intensity still there but gentler.

"I've given you plenty of reason to," I protest weakly, and I hate the weakness.

He stares at me for a moment, his brilliant green eyes scanning my face like he's forgotten about it, like he doesn't want to ever stop looking at it. Then he opens his mind to me, and I feel it, I feel his release on the walls he's been holding up, the secrets he's kept. He lets me in.

I can feel what he wants. What he wants to say, but he doesn't know how to say it. He doesn't want to hurt me, he doesn't want to mess anything up. He wants to make it up to me for the year he's been gone, I realize. He wants to show me how much he cares but he can't because he's afraid. He wants to apologize but thinks I won't believe him. And more than everything else, he just wants to hold me close, never let me go, just remember the way I feel in his arms.

"Do it." I say it so quietly that he has to strain to hear me. "Please," I add, fearful of the way my soul needs him so much. How I need him so much.

"God," he groans in a resigned way, hoarse with... with I don't know what. My empathy says its want.

And then his arms are crushing me against him, strong. That's all I feel, is strength, as he holds me to him, moving his arms to encircle my waist, as I lift mine and wrap them around his torso. He fills me with the missing strength and wholeness I'd lost.

"Christian." The name is a soft whisper on my lips. I press the side of my head to his chest, listen to the rapid but steady beat of his heart against my ear. Listen to my own fast heartbeat, matching his.

"I missed you so much," he murmurs against my neck, his breath tickling my hair, making me smile a bit, and feel warm inside. I realize then, that he wants something else. Needs it. He needs to kiss me. And I realize that I want to kiss him too.

No.

I'm married to Tucker Avery. I have been for a year now.

Christian pulls away abruptly, his hands bracing my shoulders, but trembling slightly. Oops. I let it slip. Guilt showers my expression. I screwed it all up. Screwed what up? A tiny voice that is my self-conscience snickered. I hate how often that bastard is right.

Very slowly, as if in slow motion, he reaches down for my hand. The one with a golden ring on it, seeming to burn my skin where it is as if reprimanding me. I slip my hand behind me. Close my eyes.

His face contorts, and he draws completely away. I feel hollow again. No more Christian.

You and Tucker.… He can't say it. I hear the strain. I realize he'a back to empathy. As if speaking is too much for his resolve. Wonderful. We must look like idiots, sitting here with pained faces and not speaking. Wow.

We're married. I finish his though, looking away with shame in my head. I begin to slip my wall of protection over my mind, tears burning my eyes. I ruined it. He will never forgive me.

To my surprise, he gently grabs my chin and turns it to face him. I tense immediately, but backtrack when I see his eyes.

They are a rich green, no longer sharp with betrayal. They're soft and tender, practically drawing me towards him. No wonder everybody loves him; he's still hotter than the nonexistent fires of hell. But it's clear in his eyes, then, something I already knew but couldn't bring myself to say because...

"You haven't moved on." I whisper hoarsely.

...Because neither have I.

Now it's his turn to look away. I stare at the ground before he looks back at me, with his eyes clouded with pain and something else. It doesn't take empathy to realize in shock- he's crying. Christian is crying because he still loves me. And it takes whatever is left of my heart and crushes it easily.

I had a vision, Clara.

His words make my head snap up. Vision, purpose, destiny, fate. Those words had haunted me for years. And now they're back. He notices the shock register on my face.

"You didn't?" he asks, like he expects me to have had one too, which only means one thing.

I'm in it.

"I can't believe you're still hung up on me, Christian," I mutter, my eyes downcast, trying to make my words genuine and failing.

Without warning, he grasps my hand, the one without a ring, and clasps it between his firmly. Right about now I feel like slapping him, but he has that same softness in his eyes, and the same intensity.

You don't mean it, he says, calling my bluff. I'm trying to do what's right, Clara, and it's tearing me apart.

These are the last words that ring in my head, and then the world is spinning, and blackness engulfs me.

I'm in his vision.

The first thing I notice through the utter blackness in the smell of burning tires. It burns my lungs and I choke instinctively, my eyes darting around as I try to find some other clue, some way of finding out where I am, a habit.

And suddenly I come face to face with Christian, whose green eyes burn.

Go, Clara, he whispers, his words remorseful. It isn't safe. I scramble away, my back slamming against something hard, hurt flooding my emotions. Go away? Why?

Oh dear God, it's happening again. The brilliant flares of nothing less than flames explore the sky, filling my lungs with smoke and making me dizzy. Instinctively, I call for Christian, though he's less than a few feet away.

Instinctively.

Something warm grabs my hand. I look up. His beautiful eyes, they're back. I swallow against a lump in my throat. You never listen, he says softly, almost remorsefully. Close your eyes.

I do. I don't question him. There isn't a need to. I just do, and I feel him smile with my empathy. With my back pressed up against the wall, my eyes closed, and my breaths shallow, I begin to feel weak. And vulnerable. Air brushes my cheek and I struggle to keep my eyes shut. It's hard. I can feel the closeness of his body to me, like a vibrating heat source like fire itself. I want to feel his strength combined with mine, yet he isn't quite touching me. He's waiting, as his breaths caress my face.

And then I open my eyes. He has me pressed against a wall, arms braced against it near my head to hold himself above me, and his eyes are roving every inch of my face like he can't get enough.

There is a possessive but gentle glint to his eyes; want. His eyes fall on my lips, and then, without warning, his collide into mine. This is goodbye. The vision abruptly fades.

I come back, panting, palms sweating. Christian looks no better. He is shaking with nerves. I bite down hard on my lip, as I think about the kiss, and the hidden sentence in it. The action draws his attention to my mouth even as I quickly release my bite.

Christi-

And then he's kissing me, his arms curling around me and fitting themselves perfectly into my hip and back. It's so sudden, so instant that I start to kiss him back, my lips brushing against his, enjoying the taste so solidly Christian. But then I stand rigid.

Tucker.

Tucker's name startles him into submission. He has honestly forgotten. But it doesn't prepare me for what happens next, after he draws away with a panicked look in his eyes, even though the action is my own. Maybe it's the heat of the moment, or my hormones. Maybe it's the lingering reminder of the vision.

"Are you-" he starts, but I don't let him finish.

I move without warning. One instant we're standing there gasping, and the next I've fitted my mouth to his like its normal, like this is the only thing in the world that matters. It's my turn to embrace him, my hands moving up his neck and tangling into his curly hair with desire. He responds after a second of hesitation, pushing me backwards a bit until my back is pressed against the tree he was behind and his fingers are skimming lightly down my arms.

With the desire comes a feeling I'm no stranger with. The feeling if brilliance and wholeness, completely free. There is nothing but lightness and Christian.

I'm glowing with glory.

It doesn't stop me. I crush myself against him like the space between us is too little, and we intertwine like vines. I part his lips in full control, my tongue finding its way into his mouth hungrily, intertwining with his, sending a stronger surge. More, more, more.

Is it me, or him, who thinks that?

Only when his hands reach my hem of my shirt and his fingers brush the exposed skin do I break the kiss and gasp for air. I open my eyes and instantly wish I didn't.

We are both glowing. His is a brilliant, soaring white light. Mine pales in comparison, but he seems to not notice it. He catches a strand of loose hair and brushes it away from my face, gentle. His face is expressionless. But I know better.

He loves me.