Chapter XLIX
XLIX.
DANTE
The wreckage surrounded them. Broken glass, scorch marks, the smell of spent death magic. His guards had been dismissed. The other Death Lords had retreated.
And his face was still burning where she'd touched him.
"Come with me." The words were out before he could stop them.
She nodded.
He led her through the shadows, bypassing corridors where servants might see. They emerged in his private chambers, the one place no one entered without invitation. Not his servants. Not his guards. Not anyone, in centuries.
Until her.
The hearth still held embers from this morning. He waved a hand without thinking, and flames leapt up, casting warm orange light across the room. A strange contrast to his nature: this pocket of warmth he'd carved out for himself in a realm of cold. His one indulgence.
She looked around. Taking in the space. Seeing him in the books stacked by the chair, the worn blanket he'd never replaced, the bed that suddenly seemed to dominate the room.
His gloves were still on.
He looked down at his hands. Black leather, butter-soft from years of wear. His constant companions. His barrier against the world.
Against her.
Slowly, he reached for the first glove. His fingers fumbled with the button at his wrist. Ridiculous. He'd done this thousands of times. But his hands wouldn't cooperate, trembling too badly to work the simple fastening.
She crossed the room.
He went still as she stopped in front of him. Close enough that he could see the firelight dancing in her eyes. Close enough that her warmth ghosted across his skin.
Her hands rose to his.
"Let me."
He should say no. Should maintain this last barrier between them.
He turned his wrist toward her instead.
Her fingers worked the button free. Gentle. Unhurried. Like they had all the time in the world. Like undressing the most dangerous creature in the death realms was something she did every day.
She tugged the glove off, finger by finger, and set it aside. Reached for his other hand.
He watched her work the second button. Watched her slide the leather free.
His bare hands hung at his sides.
Brynn looked up at him.
Then she raised her hand. Palm up.
He stared at it. Such a simple gesture. Such an ordinary thing, to offer your hand to someone. People did it every day in the mortal world. Casually. Thoughtlessly. Never understanding what a gift it was.
His hand met hers.
The first thing he noticed was the texture. The calluses on her fingers, rough from years of lockpicks and rope. He'd forgotten that skin had texture, that each person's hands told a story.
The second thing was warmth.
Such an inadequate word. Her hand was alive. Heat radiated from her palm into his, and his body didn’t know how to process the information. His nerve endings were screaming, overstimulated, trying to interpret the sensation they’d forgotten how to understand.
His fingers trembled. He couldn't stop them.
She stepped closer.
His breath stopped. Actually stopped, lungs forgetting their function, because she was right there and she wasn't dying and he could feel her pulse thrumming against his palm—
Her free hand rose toward his face.
He flinched.
The reaction was involuntary, a lifetime of conditioning snapping through him. Don't let them close. Don't let them touch—
She paused. Waited.
Patient. So impossibly patient with the Reaper who'd forgotten how to be touched.
He forced himself still. Forced his eyes to meet hers. Managed a nod that felt like surrender.
Her fingertips brushed his cheek.
The sound that escaped him—
He didn't have a name for it. Something between a gasp and a groan, wrenched from somewhere beneath his ribs. His eyes slammed shut. His whole body shuddered.
Her thumb stroked along his cheekbone.
His knees almost buckled.
Just that. Just her thumb, tracing a slow arc across his face, and he was shaking so hard his teeth should have been chattering. The apex predator of the death realms, undone by a thumb on his cheekbone.
Pathetic. Weak.
He didn't care.
Her fingers slid along his jaw. Exploring. Learning the shape of him through touch, and the intimacy of it was so piercing that it felt like she was reaching directly into his chest.
He'd forgotten what this felt like, to be known through someone's hands. To have another person map your edges and choose to stay anyway. He'd told himself for so long that he didn't need it, that he'd evolved beyond it. That touch was a weakness he'd outgrown.
Lies. All of it.
He was starving. Had been for centuries without realizing it. Now her hand was on him, and he didn't know what to do with it.
"Dante." Her voice, soft. "Open your eyes."
He couldn't. If he opened his eyes, he'd have to see her looking at him. Have to witness whatever was on her face: pity, perhaps, or worse, the dawning realization of how broken he truly was.
"Please."
He opened his eyes.
She was looking at him like he was something rare.
The breath that left him came out ragged. He couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but feel.
His free hand rose toward her face. Hovering. Not quite brave enough to close the distance.
What if this is the touch that kills her? What if the first one was a fluke—
She leaned into his palm.
Her cheek was soft. He could feel the tiny muscles shifting as she pressed into his touch. Could feel the heat of her blood beneath her skin. Could feel a person choosing to be close to him.
His thumb traced her cheekbone. Reverent. Terrified.
She didn't die.
His hand curved around the side of her face, fingers sliding into her hair. Silk and softness, and his hand was shaking so badly he was probably pulling it, but she didn't complain. Just watched him with those steady eyes while he fell apart.
"You're shaking," she whispered.
He tried to laugh. It came out broken. "I can't stop."
"Does it hurt?"
"No." Yes. "It's just…a lot."
That was the understatement of the century. His entire body felt like an exposed nerve. Every point of contact was a universe of sensation. Her hand in his, her cheek against his palm, her fingers still resting on his jaw. Too much and not enough, and he didn't know how to hold it all.
She stepped closer.
Her body pressed against his.
A low growl rumbled through his chest.
His arms wrapped around her. Instinct, not thought. Her head tucked under his chin. Her arms circled his waist. Her warmth bled into him.
His face buried in her hair. Smoke from the attack. Warm citrus underneath that was just her, and he was breathing it in with desperate gasps because he didn't know how long this would last, didn't know when she'd realize what a terrible idea this was—
She held him tighter.
Her fingers dug into his spine, holding tight, like she was afraid he'd disappear. Like she was claiming him just as much as he was claiming her.
His shoulders were shaking. His breath came ragged and uneven. He was coming apart in her arms and couldn't stop it.
He should pull back. Compose himself. Pretend he hadn't just buried his face in a mortal woman's hair like she was the only thing holding him together.
He buried his face deeper instead.
Her hand came up to cradle the back of his skull. The gesture undid him all over again.
His arms tightened around her. Probably too tight. He couldn't gauge pressure anymore, couldn't remember how hard it was when you weren't trying to kill someone. But she didn't complain. Just held on while he learned how to let himself be held.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. His body slowly stopped trembling, the overwhelming flood of sensation settling into something he could almost bear.
She didn't let go.
Eventually, she pulled back. Just far enough to look at him.
He braced for it. The pity. The discomfort. The realization that she'd just witnessed the Lord of the Forsaken break and needed to extract herself politely.
"Hi," she said softly.
"Hi."
"Was that okay?" she asked.
The question almost broke him again. Was that okay? As if she'd done something wrong. As if giving him the first genuine touch he'd experienced in longer than he could remember could ever be anything less than—
"Okay," he repeated. The word came out hoarse. "You're asking if that was okay."
Uncertainty flickered across her face.
He caught her hand. Pressed her palm to his cheek. Held it there while he looked at her with everything he'd spent so long learning to hide.
"That was the single most..." He stopped. Started again. "I don't have words. For what that was."
"Good," she said. "Words are overrated anyway."
His lips twitched—almost a smile.
He guided her toward the settee near the hearth without letting go, unwilling to break contact now that he finally had it.
She curled into his side before he could overthink it.
Her head found his shoulder like it belonged there. Her hand settled on his chest, over his heart. Her legs tucked up, body fitting against his.
His arm wrapped around her.
They sat in silence. The fire crackled. His shadows drifted in lazy spirals, utterly content.
His free hand found hers. Their fingers interlaced.
He studied the way their hands fit together. Her small fingers between his long ones. Her warmth against his cold. Her calluses against his smooth palms.
He memorized it.
"Stop thinking so loud," she murmured against his shoulder. "I can hear you catastrophizing from here."
"I don't catastrophize."
"You absolutely do. I can feel your whole body tensing up."
She wasn't wrong. He forced his muscles to relax. Forced himself to stay present instead of spiraling into all the ways this could end badly.
Her thumb traced circles on his chest. Idle. Soothing. Like touching him was natural. Like she'd been doing it for years instead of minutes.
His arm tightened around her.
At some point, her breathing evened into sleep.
He closed his eyes and listened to her breathe and let himself exist in this moment without trying to hold onto it.
She leaned against his side. Her hand over his heart.
Her fingers twitched in sleep, curling tighter into his shirt.
He pressed his lips to the top of her head.
His shadows curled around them both.
For the first time in centuries, the Reaper slept peacefully.