Chapter 45
XLV.
DANTE
Dante didn't go to his chambers.
Instead, he found himself in his study again, standing before maps and reports that suddenly meant nothing. His hands were braced against the desk, head bowed, as he breathed through the wreckage of the last hour.
The look on her face when she'd understood about her parents. The way she'd needed comfort and he'd given her ward construction.
Pathetic.
His shadows shifted restlessly around his feet, straining toward the door. Toward where she'd gone. He yanked them back, but they fought him, responding to wants he refused to acknowledge.
He could still smell her. Sunshine and citrus. It didn't belong here. Neither did she. His body remembered how close she'd been. How easy it would have been to close the distance instead of widening it.
There's nothing happening between us beyond the investigation.
The lie tasted like poison even in memory.
He moved to the window, looking out over his domain. The twilight seemed heavier tonight, the aurora less vibrant. Even the realm was responding to his turmoil.
He'd finally said it—finally admitted the fear that drove every retreat. And instead of understanding the danger, she'd looked at him like he was breaking her heart.
Maybe he was.
You're already caught in your own pattern. Unable to move forward, unable to let go.
His hands clenched on the windowsill hard enough that the stone cracked beneath his grip.
She was right. That was the worst of it. She'd seen exactly what he was doing and refused to let him hide from it.
A soft knock interrupted his spiral. He didn't turn around.
"Enter."
Lord Aldric materialized from the shadows. The Bone Knight, who had served as his captain for multiple ages. One of the few bound souls who had earned something approaching trust.
"My lord. There are instabilities throughout the domain." Aldric's hollow voice carried concern. "The ward-keepers report fluctuations. Souls experiencing unusual dreams. The borders with adjacent realms showing weakness."
When a Death Lord's control slipped, the realm felt it.
"And the Weeping Marshes have gone silent," Aldric continued. "The souls there have stopped their mourning for the first time in recorded history."
Dante's jaw tightened. His personal crisis was destabilizing the entire domain. The souls felt his turmoil and responded, their eternal torments disrupted by his loss of control.
"Have the ward-keepers check all boundary stones. Anyone experiencing unusual phenomena should report immediately."
"Yes, my lord." Aldric hesitated. "Should we postpone tomorrow's diplomatic visit?"
"No." The word came out sharp. "Tomorrow proceeds as planned."
Aldric bowed and faded back into the shadows, but not before Dante caught the knowing look in his eyes.
Alone again.
He returned to his desk, forcing himself to focus on tomorrow's visit to the Mourned Court. After Seraphina's hostility, Caelum's gentle nature should feel like a reprieve.
The thought of taking her into any Death Lord's domain still sent a ripple of unrest through his realm.
He tried to settle into his usual meditative state. But his mind kept returning to the corridor. To the moment she'd stepped toward him, voice breaking, asking him to try.
And he'd retreated. Again.
His shadows slipped their leash, creeping toward the door before he caught them and forced them back. They wanted her. His power wanted her. Some fundamental part of him pointed toward that door like a compass needle seeking north.
A week since the garden. A week since she'd stood before him with her hand outstretched, reaching for his face, telling him he wouldn't hurt her. Telling him to trust himself.
And he'd vanished rather than let her touch him.
A week of seeing that moment every time he closed his eyes. Her hand suspended in the space where he'd been. The look on her face when she'd realized he was gone.
A week of telling himself it was mercy when it felt like cruelty.
At least she's alive. At least she's safe from him.
Even if the look in her eyes when she'd walked away had gutted him.
He moved back to the window. In his garden below, the black roses were dying. Actually dying, when nothing in his realm had truly died in lifetimes. Petals fell like dark snow, littering the ground.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
She didn't understand. Couldn't understand what it meant to watch someone die from your touch. To learn through grief that your nature didn't allow for connection.
But even as he told himself that, he knew it wasn't the whole truth.
He wasn't just afraid of killing her.
He was afraid of what it would mean to try. To hope. To let himself want something he'd spent lifetimes convincing himself was impossible.
And she'd seen that. Had looked right through his excuses to the cowardice underneath.
He returned to the maps, forcing himself to focus on routes and protocols. But underneath it all, one thought kept circling:
She was the first person in centuries who'd made him feel like something other than a monster.
And he'd treated her like she was nothing.
He blew out a breath. Let the mask fall back into place.
Even if it killed something in him to maintain it.
The instability pulsed through his realm one final time. In the Weeping Marshes, the souls began their mourning again. But the wails had taken on a new quality.
They were mourning for him now.