Page 135 of Two Sides of Sin

She offered a small, watery smile, resting her head back against the seat.

She didn’t know it, but tonight was just the beginning. A few weeks ago, she had mentioned in passing how much she loved French food and how it was her dream to travel to France one day. If tonight went well. If this massive, terrifying secret I was keeping, didn’t implode and destroy us both before the year was out, I fully intended to plan a trip for us next year. I wanted to show her the winding streets of Paris and the sprawling vineyards in the south.

The car glided to a halt before an exclusive, discreet French restaurant, a secret hidden in the heart of the city's most affluent district.

The inside of the restaurant was stunning. It was intimate and bathed in the warm, low glow of taper candles and vintage crystal chandeliers. A hostess led us to a private, semi circular velvet booth tucked into a dark corner, handing us two heavy, leather bound gold trimmed menus before disappearing.

I settled back against the velvet, but my attention was instantly caught by the adorable, highly distressed look forming on Sages face.

She was staring down at the menu, her delicate brow furrowed in deep concentration. Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink as she slowly lowered the menu to look at me across the candlelit table.

“I have a confession,” she whispered, leaning forwards as if admitting to a terrible crime. “As much as I love French food… I don’t understand a single word on this menu. I have no idea what any of this is.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, pretty girl,” I smiled warmly, reaching across the table to gently tug the menu out of her hands. “I’ve got you.”

A century of walking the earth had its advantages. I had spent years in Europe, the language was now second nature to me. When our waiter approached the table, standing with ramrod straight posture, I didn’t even glance back down at the menus.

In flawless French I ordered an incredibly rare, expensive bottle of Bordeaux that I knew she would love, followed by a selection of delicate, rich entrees that I had already mentally picked out for her.

The waiter took our order with a polite nod and headed back to the kitchen.

Sage was staring at me, her piercing blue eyes wide, her red lips parted in shock and awe. “You speak French?”

“A little,” I lied, offering a casual smile.

I leaned back, letting the ambient, low candlelight wash over the table. In the flickering glow, she looked ethereal. The stark contrast of the black dress against her skin, the bold red lip, the soft, dark curls cascading down her shoulders—she looked like a masterpiece. My masterpiece.

She rested her arms on the white tablecloth, her slender fingers idly tracing the base of her wine glass.

My eyes dropped to her left hand.

The velvet box felt like it was burning a hole straight through the inner pocket of my suit jacket. I watched her smile, listening as she launched into a story about one of her favourite artists, but the rest of the crowded restaurant was already fading into white noise. The clinking of silverware and the low hum of voices blurred into nothing, my focus narrowing entirely, until I was locked onto the sight of her bare ring finger.

In my mind, I could already see it perfectly. The heavy platinum band resting on her finger. I could see the deep, mesmerising green of the massive emerald and the glittering halo of antique diamonds catching the candlelight.

As anxiety started to flare, my heart hammered a heavy, anxiety induced rhythm against my ribs, making it suddenly hard to breathe.

I had fought wars. I had survived endless years of violence and blood. But sitting across from her, preparing to offer her the rest of my immortal life… I had never been more terrified, or more certain of anything, in my forcefully prolonged existence.

The rest of the dinner passed in a warm, intoxicating blur. I could barely taste the expensive Bordeaux or the decadent food placed in front of us. My entire focus was consumed by the woman sitting across the table.

I spent most of the evening simply admiring her in the low candlelight, the heavy velvet box sitting quietly in my jacket pocket as I waited, trying desperately to pinpoint the perfect moment to ask her if she would be mine forever.

When the main courses finally arrived, the formal atmosphere of the restaurant dissolved between us. Sage was relaxed and glowing. She reached across the table, laughing brightly as she fed me a bite of her rich, truffle infused pasta right off her own fork. I caught her wrist, holding her hand in place just long enough to lean over the table and press a slow, deep kiss to her lips, tasting the dark wine and the pasta sauce.

She giggled against my lips, her eyes sparkling as she pulled back and playfully tapped my nose with her fork.

I leaned back against the booth, swirling the dark red wine in my glass.

“So tell me, Sage,” I murmured, my voice dropping into a softer, more serious tone. “What exactly do you want from your future?”

She paused, setting her silver fork down on the edge of her plate. She tilted her head, her dark curls falling over her bare shoulder as she considered the question.

“I’ve never really been one to meticulously plan anything out,” she admitted, a soft, self deprecating smile touching her lips. “I just know that whatever it is… it has to be exciting. It has to be passionate. Life is way too short to do anything that doesn’t make you feel alive.”

A heavy, invisible weight pressed down on my chest at her words. Life is too short. She had no idea the terrifying, heavy weight of that truth, or how her previous life had been stolen from her before it even truly began.

“I’m pursuing a career in art obviously ,” she continued, her eyes drifting towards the flicker of the candle. “But even then, I don’t really know exactly what path I want to take with it. I just know that I want to live a life worth looking back on when I’m lying on my deathbed.”