Chapter LVII
LVII.
DANTE
Dante kept a firm hold on Brynn's elbow as they materialized back at his palace. Firm enough that she couldn't just walk away from him again.
He could feel the fury radiating off her. But he wasn't ready to unleash his own. Not yet. Not where his people could witness whatever was about to happen between them.
Their footsteps resonated on the floor. Hers were pointedly loud, a defiant statement echoing through the halls, while his were quiet.
"I suppose dragging me away like property was your idea of diplomacy?" The words dripped with sarcasm. "Very lordly of you. Very controlled."
He said nothing. Couldn't trust himself to speak yet.
Because if he opened his mouth, he'd tell her exactly what it had felt like to watch Caelum's hands on her. To hear that bastard call her my dear like he had any right. To watch her smile at every male who'd touched her while she'd barely looked at Dante all evening.
A shadow-servant pressed itself against the wall as they passed, wisely giving them a wide berth. Even his bound servants could sense the storm building between them.
"Oh, wonderful. The silent treatment." Her voice sharpened with frustration. "Because that's exactly what this situation needs. More of your dramatic silences and brooding."
His jaw clenched. The shadows trailing behind them grew thicker, darker, writhing as they responded to his emotional state.
A pair of his courtiers rounded the corner ahead, their conversation dying mid-sentence as they took in the scene: their lord gripping the tribute's arm, shadows billowing like storm clouds, the air around them crackling with tension.
They immediately found somewhere else to be.
"Every Death Lord in existence just watched you lose control like a jealous—" She cut herself off, but the unfinished word hung between them like a challenge.
Jealous what? He wanted to snarl at her to say it. Call him what he was.
But he kept walking, kept silent.
"Are you planning to speak to me at all," Brynn continued, her voice rising slightly with each word, "or just grunt like a caveman who's claimed his prize and is dragging it back to his cave?"
A decorative vase on a side table developed hairline cracks that spread. The cold flames in the wall sconces flickered and dimmed.
"I can walk by myself, you know." She tried to pull free, but his fingers tightened fractionally, making it clear she wasn't going anywhere until they reached his chambers. "I'm not actually property, despite tonight's performance suggesting otherwise."
Wasn't she? The thought was dark, possessive, and he didn't try to fight it anymore. Wasn't she his? Hadn't she been his since the moment she touched his face and didn't die?
They passed the great hall where court was usually held. The massive oak doors were closed, but he could hear whispered conversations of courtiers within—no doubt discussing tonight's spectacle.
The Reaper's loss of control.
His public claim of the human tribute.
Let them talk. Let them gossip and speculate and draw whatever conclusions they wanted. None of it mattered compared to getting her alone.
"This is ridiculous," Brynn muttered, but her voice had shifted slightly. Lost some of its sharp edge. "I can't even look at you right now."
Her tone made him glance down at her. Her jaw was set in stubborn lines, her chin lifted in that defiant angle he'd come to know meant she was fighting tears or anger or both.
But there was vulnerability beneath the defiance now. A fragility that hadn't been there before. As if his silence was cutting deeper than his public possession had.
As if being shut out by him hurt worse than being claimed by him.
His hold on her elbow gentled fractionally before he caught himself. No. Don't soften. Not yet.
They turned down the corridor leading to his private wing. Here, the shadows were always thicker, always moving with awareness. They reached for her automatically, curling around her ankles and wrists like they were greeting her. Like they'd missed her.
She shivered at the contact, and he caught the way her breath hitched. Not from fear. Want. The recognition made his blood run hotter.
"You're being childish," she said, but her voice had lost its bite. "Whatever I did, we should discuss it like adults. Like—"
"Not. Here." The words came out as a low growl, the first he'd spoken since they'd left the terrace.
She went quiet at that, perhaps finally hearing the dangerous edge in his voice. The promise of exactly what kind of discussion they were going to have once they were behind closed doors.
His chambers were at the end of the corridor, past shadow-guards who straightened to attention and tried very hard not to stare at their lord dragging his tribute past them with violence in every line of his body.
The heavy wooden door, carved with intricate scenes of death and rebirth, loomed ahead.
"Dante." Her voice was quieter now, almost tentative. Uncertainty creeping in beneath the anger. "I—"
His name. His actual name, from her lips. Not the title, not "Lord Reaper," but Dante. After she'd wielded it like a weapon at the gathering, used it to cut him in front of everyone.
Now it sounded different. Softer. Almost like she was reaching for him.
It nearly broke him.
"Save it," he said without looking at her, reaching for the door handle. "Whatever you're going to say, whatever explanation or excuse you have, save it for when we're alone."
The door swung open to reveal his private sanctuary. He guided her inside, finally releasing her as he turned to face her for the first time since they'd left the gathering.
The moment the door sealed shut behind them, Brynn put space between them. Quick steps backward until she was in the center of his chamber, arms crossed defensively over her chest.
The firelight caught her figure, played across the curves he'd watched other men admire all evening. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Now you can explain what the hell that was about," she said, her jaw set in that stubborn way that made him want to either throttle her or kiss her senseless. Both. Definitely both. "What gave you the right to drag me away from a diplomatic gathering like—"
He didn't answer immediately. Just looked at her, really looked at her—taking in the flush of anger on her cheeks. The defensive set of her shoulders, even as she stood her ground against the Reaper, who was barely containing himself.
She was magnificent. Beautiful and fierce and completely, utterly his.
"You're going to stand there and glare at me?" Her voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding into anger. "After what you just did? Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? How—"
She started to pace, gesturing sharply as the words poured out of her in a rush. Her movements were agitated, catching light with each step.
"Every Death Lord there watched you drag me away like some kind of primitive, like I was property you were reclaiming. Like I had no say in the matter. Like my choices don't matter at all because you decided—"
He moved.
One moment, she was in the center of the room, ranting about his behavior, her hands gesturing wildly. The next he was there in front of her, crowding her space with his body. He backed her up until her shoulders hit the stone wall with a soft thump.
His hands slammed against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in with his body without quite touching her. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the violence radiating from him.
But not touching. Not yet.
The effort of holding himself back made his arms tremble against the stone. Made his breath come ragged. Every instinct screamed at him to close the distance, to claim her mouth, to show her exactly who she belonged to.
"Stop. Moving." His voice came out low and dangerous, finally unleashing everything he'd been holding back all evening. All the jealousy and possessiveness and desperate need he'd been trying to control.
Her eyes went wide, her breath catching audibly. Her pulse hammered visibly in her throat, fast and frantic.
She was pressed against his wall, caged by his arms, surrounded by his shadows, and her body was responding to him, anger be damned. He could see it in the flush spreading down her neck. In the way her lips parted. In the slight sway toward him before she caught herself.
She was just as affected as he was.
And they both knew it.
Between them, the air crackled with tension that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the fact that they were finally, finally alone.