Chapter 38
XXXVIII.
DANTE
The eternal twilight wrapped around Dante like a familiar cloak, the cool air a relief after the punishing heat of Seraphina's domain.
He found no comfort in their return.
Brynn hadn't spoken since waking. She'd emerged from the sleeping alcove with shadows under her eyes and a blankness to her expression, accepted the travel rations he'd procured without comment, and followed him to the transport circle like a prisoner being escorted.
And now she was further away than ever.
The journey had passed in silence that felt like suffocation. Every attempt at conversation met with monosyllables. Every glance he stole showed him the same closed expression, the same distance.
Now she stood apart from him in the circle's aftermath, posture rigid, eyes focused somewhere over his shoulder rather than meeting his gaze. The wall she'd constructed had been reinforced by hours of whatever thoughts had been churning behind that mask.
"We should debrief," he said. Testing. Hoping for any crack in the distance between them.
"Fine."
One word. Flat. Final.
His shadows stirred restlessly around his boots, straining toward her despite his efforts to keep them contained. They remembered last night's closeness—her warmth, her scent, the steady rhythm of her breathing as she slept. They wanted it back.
He understood the feeling entirely too well.
She walked toward the main palace without waiting for him, her stride purposeful but stiff. The Forsaken Court's chill raised goosebumps on her bare arms. His hands flexed with the urge to pull her against him.
As if he could. As if touch was something he was allowed.
He matched her pace easily, his longer stride requiring no effort. "The other courts will need to be investigated. Thessa's domain, then Caelum's. Vex's, eventually."
"I assumed."
His jaw tightened.
This was the woman who'd spent their journey to the Violent Court asking questions about Death Lord politics, who'd insisted on understanding every nuance of their investigation strategy.
Who'd leaned close to study maps with him, close enough that her scent had wrapped around his senses and made concentration nearly impossible.
Now she walked beside him like a stranger fulfilling an obligation.
They reached the main entrance, where servants bowed as they passed.
Brynn acknowledged them with polite nods but didn't engage.
No observations about the architecture. No questions about the servants she'd been slowly befriending.
No glances at him to share some private observation, the way she'd started doing in recent weeks.
Nothing.
Just distance that formed a wall he couldn't breach.
The silence pressed against his skin as they climbed the staircase toward the residential levels.
She stopped at the landing where their corridors diverged, finally turning to face him.
Her expression was composed. Distant. The face of someone addressing a superior they didn't trust.
But her eyes—
For a heartbeat, before her jaw set and the anger rose to cover it, he saw hurt—the kind she'd never let him see if she could help it.
Something cracked in his chest.
"I need to rest properly. In my own chambers."
The words were reasonable. The tone was ice.
“Wait.” The word came out rougher than intended.
He should let her go. Should respect the distance she was demanding. Should remember that he was the Reaper, that caring about mortals only led to grief, and that whatever Seraphina had poisoned her with was probably deserved.
He stepped closer instead.
Her breath caught. His shadows surged toward her. He barely managed to rein them back before they wrapped around her.
The way she'd let them, once before yesterday.
"Whatever Seraphina said—"
"I told you." She cut him off, but her voice wavered on the last word. "It's nothing important."
Another step. Close enough to count her eyelashes. Close enough to see the flutter of her pulse beneath the delicate skin of her throat.
Close enough to touch, if he dared.
"You haven't looked at me since yesterday." The words felt like pulling teeth. "You've barely spoken. Something she said changed things between us, and I can't—"
He stopped. Swallowed the rest. He couldn't fix what he didn't understand. He couldn't defend against accusations he hadn't heard. He couldn't stand this distance when he'd only just learned what closeness with her felt like.
She was staring at him now. Finally, finally meeting his eyes, and what he saw there made his breath catch in response.
Hurt. Confusion. Anger, yes. But beneath it, something that looked almost like longing. Like she wanted to close the distance between them as badly as he did.
Like she was fighting herself as hard as he was fighting himself.
“Please.” He couldn't remember the last time he'd used that word. "Tell me what she said."
Her lips parted. The lower one trembled, just slightly, and his gaze dropped to it without permission. The soft pink of her mouth, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips—
His shadows slipped their leash.
One tendril curled around her wrist before he could stop it. Just touching. The way they'd touched her during training, when she'd let them guide her movements and hadn't pulled away.
She didn't pull away now, either.
Her pulse jumped beneath the shadow's grip. He felt it like it was his own heartbeat, racing and ragged. Her breath came faster, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that made him want to step closer still, to press her against the wall and chase whatever she was hiding until she gave it up.
For one endless moment, they stood there. His shadow on her wrist. The space between them was charged with everything they weren't saying.
Her mouth opened. Her eyes softened.
She was going to tell him.
He could see it: the wall cracking, the words rising in her throat. Whatever Seraphina had said, whatever poison had been planted, she was going to let him in. Let him defend himself. Let him—
Her gaze dropped to the shadow wrapped around her wrist.
And the wall slammed back into place so fast he almost felt the impact.
She yanked her arm free. His shadow recoiled, wounded, and the loss of her pulse beneath his touch felt like amputation.
"Goodnight, Reaper."
The title landed like a blade between his ribs. Twisted. Buried to the hilt.
She barely used it anymore. Only when she was angry. When she wanted distance. When she wanted to remind them both what he really was.
She turned and walked away. Every line of her body rigid. Every step carrying her further from him.
He didn't follow.
His shadows writhed at his feet with something that felt like grief and want and rage all tangled together. The phantom sensation of her pulse still throbbed against the tendril that had touched her.
The click of her door closing echoed off the stone walls.
He stared at the empty corridor long after the sound faded. The tightness in his chest didn't ease. It deepened.
Dante tried to focus on reports from the other courts, analyzing patterns that might reveal the saboteur's identity.
His shadows crept toward the door without permission, straining in the direction of her chambers. He called them back. They went reluctantly, and he felt their displeasure like an ache behind his ribs.
Or perhaps that was his own.
Near midnight, he gave up pretending to focus. The maps and documents from their investigation lay scattered across his desk, marked with notes in his handwriting and her more casual script.
Their partnership, visible in ink and parchment.
He stared at a notation she'd made about ward harmonics, remembering the way she'd leaned over the desk to write it.
Close enough that he caught the scent that haunted him now.
Close enough that his shadows had curled toward her without permission and she'd swatted them away with a distracted hand, like they were nothing more than overeager pets.
She'd smiled when she did it. A small, private thing meant just for him.
He could go to her. Demand answers. Use the authority that came with his position to force the truth from her lips.
The thought made his stomach turn.
He couldn't stay here.
His sanctuary waited through the private entrance of his chambers.
The midnight garden was the one place in his domain where nothing recoiled from him. He'd found the black roses long ago—a wild tangle in a forgotten corner, its blooms so saturated with death magic that it thrived under his touch when everything else withered.
He'd built the garden around that single miracle.
Now they climbed the stone walls, blooming in reverse, from withered darkness into velvet softness. Death to life, over and over. Deep moss cushioned his steps. Night-blooming jasmine scented the air. At the center, a fountain of black stone, its water flowing soft and quiet.
No servants came here. No courtiers sought audience. Even his shadows behaved differently in this space, settling around him like a cloak rather than reaching restlessly for something they couldn't have.
He lowered himself onto the worn stone bench and let the quiet wrap around him.
Here, he didn't have to be the Reaper. Didn't have to calculate the danger he posed or maintain the iron control that kept everyone safe from his nature.
Here, he could just exist.
But even the roses couldn't quiet his mind tonight.
Goodnight, Reaper.
The words echoed through him. She'd wielded his title like a weapon, and the worst part was that he understood. She was angry. She wanted distance. She wanted to remind herself, and him, that whatever had been building between them wasn't safe.
That he wasn't safe.
His hands curled into fists against his thighs.
He'd been alone so long he'd made peace with it. The distance kept people safe. He hadn't minded.
Until her.
The roses bloomed in their quiet defiance. And Dante sat in his sanctuary and ached for something he'd never thought to want.