Lord of the Forsaken

Chapter L

L.

DANTE

He woke to warmth.

For a disorienting moment, he couldn't place it. His chambers were always cold, the hearth always dying overnight, the chill of the Forsaken court seeping through stone walls that had never known summer. But something was different. Something was—

Brynn.

She was still tucked against his side, one hand curled into his shirt, her breath slow and even against his collarbone.

At some point in the night, she'd shifted, wedging herself more firmly into the space between his body and the arm of the settee, as though determined to claim every available inch of contact.

His arm was still around her. Numb from the elbow down. He didn't move it.

This was the part where it ended. He knew how this worked.

She'd touched him and survived, yes, but it had been the adrenaline, the chaos of the assassination attempt, some temporary alignment of magic that would correct itself by morning.

She'd pull away and he'd feel nothing but cold air where she'd been, and the brief, impossible mercy of her skin against his would become another thing he'd lost.

He held himself still. Didn't breathe too deeply. Stayed in the space between sleeping and waking where she was warm against him and nothing had gone wrong yet.

Her breathing changed.

He felt her awake gradually. The shift in her body, muscles tensing as consciousness returned. The slight catch in her rhythm when she registered where she was. Who she was pressed against.

He braced himself.

She yawned against his chest.

Then she settled deeper into his side, her hand sliding from his shirt to his forearm. Her thumb traced a lazy circle against the inside of his wrist, like this was something they did. Like she'd touched him a hundred times before and would touch him a hundred times again.

His throat closed.

"Your arm is numb, isn't it?" she said, her voice rough with sleep.

"Completely."

"You should have moved me."

"No."

She tilted her head up. Her hair was a disaster, pressed flat on one side, wild on the other. A crease from his shirt collar ran across her cheek. Her eyes were half-closed, squinting against even the dim twilight.

"Stop looking at me like that," she mumbled. "I haven't even had tea."

"Like what?"

"Like I performed a miracle. I fell asleep on your shoulder. People do that."

People do that. Three words that carved straight through him. Normal people, with normal lives, fell asleep on each other’s shoulders every night without it being the most significant thing to happen to them in hundreds of years.

She sat up and stretched, arms overhead, spine arching. His arm flooded with returning sensation, pins and needles crawling from elbow to fingertips. He flexed his hand.

She reached over and took it.

Wrapped her fingers around his and held on while she rubbed sleep from her eyes with her free hand.

"Still works," she said, and the corner of her mouth curved.

"Apparently."

She looked at him, and whatever she found in his face made her go still.

"You thought it wouldn't," she said quietly. "You thought you'd wake up and I'd be gone."

He couldn't answer that. Couldn't explain the particular cruelty of hope when you'd spent centuries without it.

She squeezed his hand. "I'm still here. And you're not getting rid of me before breakfast."

She stood, then wandered toward the window, stepping directly into a stack of books he'd left on the floor.

"Those are in the way," she informed him.

"They've been there for decades."

"Then they've been in the way for decades."

He felt his mouth twitch. The unfamiliar pull of muscles that had been dormant too long. She noticed and pointed at his face.

"There. Right there. You almost smiled."

"I don't smile."

"You almost smile. Which is worse, honestly. It's like watching someone get to the edge of a sneeze and not follow through."

He should not have found that charming. He found it devastating.

"Come on," he said, rising from the chair. “Let’s go get food."

She followed him through to his private dining room, but halfway down the corridor, her hand found his. Her fingers slid between his like they belonged there, and she tugged him to a stop.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing." She was looking up at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "I just wanted to do that."

His shadows curled around her wrist in response, and she laughed—a soft, surprised sound.

"They're very clingy this morning."

"They're not the only ones." The words came out before he could stop them.

Her eyebrows rose. "Was that a joke? Did the Reaper just make a joke?"

"No."

"It was. You made a joke about being clingy. I'm marking this day in history."

"I take it back."

"Too late. It's already marked." She started walking again, pulling him along by their joined hands. "The day the Lord of the Forsaken admitted to being clingy. They'll write songs about it."

"They will not."

"Ballads, Dante. Mournful ballads about the Reaper who just wanted to hold hands."

His teeth clenched against the retort he wanted to make, but warmth was spreading through his chest. A feeling that was very close to happiness.

The dining room was familiar territory now, after weeks of working meals and strategy sessions. But everything felt different this morning. She pulled him toward the table, then turned and leaned back against its edge, tugging him closer by their still-joined hands until he stood over her.

"Hi," she said softly.

"Hi."

His free hand rose to her face. His thumb traced along her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering half-closed.

"I could get used to this," she murmured.

"Don't." The word came out rougher than he intended. "Getting used to me is dangerous."

"So you keep saying." Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "And yet here I am. Undestroyed."

"The day is young."

She laughed again, and he found himself leaning down, drawn by the sound, by the warmth of her, by the impossible reality of her hands on him and his hands on her and neither of them dying from it—

The servant materialized in the doorway.

Brynn jerked back instinctively, trying to pull her hand free. They'd agreed to keep this quiet. To protect her from becoming an even bigger target than she already was.

Dante's hand tightened on hers.

She shot him a warning look. What are you doing?

He didn't let go.

The spirit stood frozen, translucent form flickering. Its eyes darted from their joined hands to their proximity to the way Dante's other hand was still curved around Brynn's jaw.

"Breakfast," Dante said flatly. "For two."

The servant's form flickered again before retreating so quickly it nearly left a vapor trail.

Brynn let out a breath. "We agreed—"

"I know."

"You're the one who said it was dangerous for people to know—"

"I know."

"Then why—"

"Because I couldn't." The admission came out rough, almost angry. His shoulders went rigid, shadows coiling with agitation. "You tried to pull away and I couldn't make myself let go."

She stared at him. The Reaper, Lord of the Forsaken, who had built his entire existence around restraint, couldn't let go of her hand.

"The entire palace will know by midday," he said, releasing her fingers at last. "I'm sorry. That was selfish."

"Dante." She caught his hand before he could pull away completely. "I don't care."

"You should. This paints a target—"

"I already have a target on my back. Someone's already tried to kill me." She squeezed his fingers. "At least now I get something good along with the danger."

He looked at her for a long moment. The walls he'd spent decades building were crumbling, and he couldn't find it in himself to care.

"You're reckless," he said quietly.

"So are you, apparently." She smiled.

His thumb brushed across her knuckles once before he stepped back. "Sit. Eat. We need to talk about what happens next."

"So commanding." But she was smiling as she took her usual chair, and when he sat beside her instead of across from her, she immediately hooked her ankle around his under the table.

They ate like that. Shoulders brushing, legs tangled, her stealing food from his plate just to see if he'd let her.

He let her.

Halfway through the meal, she set down her fork and asked, "Any word on who sent the assassin?"

"My shadow-guards are hunting." He reached for his glass.

"But you have suspicions." She waved her fork. "Beyond the obvious—same person behind the ward failures, same person behind the knife in my direction."

"The timing was too precise to be a coincidence. They knew exactly when the wards would destabilize." He took a sip of water. "Which means access to information most don't have."

She nodded slowly, tearing a piece of bread between her fingers. "So we're looking for someone with inside knowledge. That narrows it down to what—the other Death Lords and their inner circles?"

"Essentially."

"Flattering company." She stole another piece of fruit from his plate, her knee pressing more firmly against his. "Any theories on which of your fellow Death Lords might want universal chaos?"

He set down his glass, considering. "All of them benefit in some way.

Seraphina gains power when violence increases.

Vex feeds on the desperation that comes with instability.

" He traced a finger along the table's edge.

"Caelum positions himself as the reasonable alternative whenever chaos makes the other courts look dangerous.

Instability benefits his reputation as the merciful option. "

"And Thessa?"

"The Lingering court profits from souls that refuse to move on. Chaos creates more of them."

She was quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. "We've visited Seraphina, Thessa, and Caelum. We still need the Consumed court."

His hand stilled on his glass.

Her eyes narrowed.

"You don't want to take me there."

"Vex is different from the others." He chose his words carefully. "His power works through desire. Through obsession. He finds what you want most and uses it against you."

"You think I can't handle it?"

"I think you're remarkably resistant to most forms of manipulation." He released his glass and leaned back in his chair. "But Vex doesn't manipulate the way others do. He gets inside your head. Shows you things. Makes you want things you shouldn't want."

"Things like what?"

Like me, he didn't say. Like staying in this realm forever. Like abandoning everything you were for the promise of something that will never satisfy you.

"Things that feel true until you realize they've consumed you," he said instead.

She turned in her chair to face him. "You're worried about me."

"Yes."

"Because of Vex, or because of what he might show me?"

"Both."

She grabbed his hand again and squeezed. The contact still sent a jolt through him.

"I survived the Violent court," she said. "I survived your court. I survived someone literally trying to kill me last night." Her thumb traced across his knuckles. "I can handle one manipulative Death Lord with an obsession problem."

"You don't know what he's capable of."

"Then tell me." She squeezed his hand again. "Brief me. Prepare me. But don't try to protect me by keeping me ignorant. That's not how this works."

That's not how this works. As if they had an established dynamic. As if "this" was something with rules and expectations that she had every right to invoke.

He supposed it was. He supposed she did.

"The Consumed court looks beautiful," he said finally, his thumb moving absently against her palm.

"Perfect, even. Midnight light, endless luxury, everything designed to appeal to your deepest desires.

But it's all hollow. The food never satisfies.

The wine never fills you. The pleasures never end because they never actually complete. "

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is. That's the point. Vex feeds on the wanting, not the having. His entire realm is designed to create desire that can never be fulfilled."

"We go together," she said. "We stay together. We don't let him separate us." Her grip tightened on his hand.

He should say no. Should insist she stay here, where his shadows could protect her, where Vex's influence couldn't reach.

But she was right. They needed to investigate the Consumed court. And she'd proven, again and again, that she was stronger than he gave her credit for.

"Deal," he said.

She smiled—that sharp, satisfied smile that meant she'd won and she knew it. "Good. When do we leave?"

He glanced toward the window, where the eternal twilight was brightening toward its approximation of midday.

"This afternoon. I want my shadow-guards to finish their hunt first. If there's any information about last night's attack, I want it before we walk into Vex's domain."

"Reasonable." She stole one last piece of fruit from his plate, popping it into her mouth with exaggerated satisfaction. "That gives us a few hours."

"For what?"

"I don't know." She leaned back in her chair, her ankle still hooked around his under the table. "I've never had a few hours with nowhere to be and nothing trying to kill me. It's a novel experience."

He was in over his head.

He'd grown familiar with the sharp ache of want over recent weeks. This was different. Quieter. The realization settling into his bones that this woman, stealing his food and teasing him about ballads, had become essential.

Not because he needed her to fix the wards.

Because he needed her.

"We could stay here," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. "A few hours of nothing trying to kill you sounds like something worth protecting."

Her expression softened, the sharpness giving way to warmth. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She smiled again, but this one was different. Gentler. She tugged on his hand, pulling him closer, and when she leaned up to press her lips to his cheek—soft and quick and over before he could fully process it—his entire world narrowed to that single point of contact.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Let's do that."

They stayed at the table. Her legs tangled with his. His hand in hers.

She trusted him. He could see it in the way she leaned into his side, the way she'd stopped bracing for impact every time he moved.

He wasn't sure he deserved it.

He held her hand anyway.