Chapter 80
LXXX.
DANTE
Dante counted her breaths.
He'd lost track of the total since the battle. Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. Each one tallied like a miser hoarding coins.
In. Out. In. Out.
His hand gripped the armrest, splinters biting into his palm. He didn't move it—the pain was real, grounding, proof he was still here, still watching.
Two days since Caelum's death, since he'd poured more of himself into her than he should have.
Two days since he'd collapsed beside her, his body giving out the moment hers started breathing again. He'd woken hours later with Nathaniel standing over him, demanding he rest. He'd refused. Dragged himself to this chair instead.
Two days of watching her lie motionless while he slowly came apart.
The door opened. He didn't look up.
"My Lord." Nathaniel's voice came from the doorway.
Dante said nothing. His gaze stayed fixed on her face. On the rise and fall of her chest. Still breathing. That was all that mattered.
"You need to rest." Nathaniel didn't step into the room. "You've been here for forty-eight hours straight. Haven't eaten. Haven't slept. You're still recovering—"
"Leave."
The word came out flat. Empty. His shadows clung to him in wisps, depleted. His hands hadn't stopped trembling in two days. And her chest kept rising, falling. That fragile rhythm was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely.
A pause. Then footsteps retreating. The door closed with a soft click.
Silence again. Just her breathing. That precious, necessary sound.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head bowing under a weight that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
He'd given so much of himself that his power was recovering more slowly than it should.
Depleted. Raw. There was a hollowness behind his ribs where part of him used to live, like a room with half the furniture missing.
His muscles ached from sitting in this chair.
His eyes burned from not sleeping. His stomach had stopped complaining about food sometime yesterday.
But he didn't care about any of that. All that mattered was her.
And she still hadn't woken.
Her vitals were strong. He could feel her steady pulse through the bond, sense her body recovering from wounds that should have killed her. That had killed her, before he'd dragged her back.
But what if he'd saved her body and lost her soul anyway? What if she opened her eyes and the person looking back wasn't really her anymore?
Stop. He forced the thoughts away, focused on the bond instead. On the thread connecting them that pulsed with life and warmth. She was in there. She had to be.
Her fingers twitched.
Dante's head snapped up. Every muscle went rigid.
Her hand. Resting on the blanket. Her fingers had moved. Just slightly—barely a tremor—but they'd moved.
He stopped breathing. Afraid any sound would shatter this moment.
Her eyelids fluttered. She made a sound, her head turning slightly on the pillow. Unconscious movement, instinctive, but it was movement.
He wanted to reach for her. Touch her. Make sure this was real. But his body had locked in place and his heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
Her eyes opened.
Slowly. Unfocused at first, blinking against the dim light. She stared at the ceiling, brow furrowing.
Then her gaze slid sideways and found him.
His heart stopped. One beat, two, three, before it remembered how to work again. His vision blurred at the edges. His hands clenched the armrests so hard the bone groaned.
The confusion in her expression cleared. Her eyes widened, focused on his face with that intelligence he'd come to crave more than his next breath.
"Dante?"
The word came out hoarse, barely a whisper.
But it was his name. His name in her voice, the voice he'd been terrified he would never hear again. The sound broke something open in him. Two days of held breath, held hope, held terror, cracking apart at the sound of two syllables.
She knew him. Recognized him. Remembered.
The breath he'd been holding tore out of him. His whole body released forty-eight hours of held tension in a single exhale—shoulders dropping, spine curving, hands finally unclenching. His shadows exploded outward, darkening the room, writhing along the walls.
"You're awake." His voice came out wrecked. "You're really awake."
She blinked at him, processing, then tried to sit up. Her arms trembled. She got maybe an inch off the pillow before her strength gave out.
He moved without thinking.
One hand behind her back, the other supporting her arm, lifting her carefully. Her muscles were weak from disuse, her body still recovering.
But she was moving. Breathing. Here.
He got her settled against the pillows, adjusting them with more care than he'd shown anything in ages. His hands lingered on her shoulders, not quite able to let go yet.
She looked up at him. Her eyes swept over his face, taking in the exhaustion written in every line, the way his shadows clung weakly to him. Cataloguing his state.
"How long?" she asked.
"Two days." He pulled his hands back. Forced himself to give her space even though everything in him wanted to hold on. "You've been unconscious."
Her eyes widened. "Two—" She stopped, then her gaze sharpened on him. "You look terrible."
A rough sound escaped him that was almost a laugh. "I'm fine."
"You're not." Her hand lifted, reached for his face. "You've been here the whole time, haven't you?"
Her fingers touched his jaw. The contact sent warmth flooding through the bond. His hand came up instinctively, covering hers and holding it against his cheek.
"Yes," he admitted quietly.
"Dante—"
"You died." The words scraped his throat raw. "You died in my arms and I couldn't—" His voice broke. "I wasn't leaving."
Her expression softened. Her thumb brushed his cheekbone.
"But I came back," she said simply. "We both did."
His eyes closed just for a moment. Letting himself feel her touch, her presence. When he opened them again, she was watching him with understanding.
"What happened?" she asked quietly. "After Caelum's attack. I remember the pain. Then..." Her brow furrowed. "Then nothing. Just darkness. And then I felt you. Pulling me back."
Dante pulled the chair closer with shadows, positioned it so they were at eye level. Her hand slipped from his face but he caught it, held it in both of his.
"Caelum's strike tore your soul from your body." His voice came out even. Like he could control this if he just explained it properly. "The courts were pulling at you. Fighting over you. You were fragmenting. Coming apart."
His grip tightened.
She went very still. Her pulse jumped beneath his fingers.
"I remember," she whispered. "The pulling. Different directions. Coming apart."
She'd felt it. Known what was happening to her. The knowledge sat in his chest like broken glass.
"I couldn't let that happen. So I anchored you. Poured my death magic into you. Enough to tether your soul. To hold you together."
Her gaze searched his face.
"You gave me part of yourself to save me."
"Yes."
"And now we're..." She trailed off. He felt her reaching through the bond, testing it.
"Bound." His jaw clenched. "Our souls are connected. I can feel you now. Constantly. Your presence. Your emotions once you're strong enough to project them clearly." He forced himself to keep going. "You're carrying my shadows. My mark. I'm woven through everything you are."
He watched her, bracing for the fear. The anger. The regret.
Instead she smiled.
"Good," she whispered.
He blinked. "Good?"
"I felt you," she said, meeting his gaze. "When I was dying. When the courts were pulling. I felt you reaching for me. And I reached back." She said it like it was simple. "So yes. Good."
Something in his chest loosened. Let go.
"I changed you," he said quietly. "Made you into something you weren't. You didn't have a choice."
"I chose." Her free hand came up, covered both of his. "When I was dying, I chose. I could have let go. Let the courts take me. But I didn't. I fought to come back. To you. So don't you dare feel guilty for saving me."
His throat closed. She'd chosen him. Even while dying, she'd chosen him.
She shifted, wincing slightly, then looked down at her hands. Her brow furrowed in concentration. He felt what she was doing—reaching for his gift, testing it.
Shadows stirred beneath her skin.
Dante stopped breathing.
Tendrils emerged from her fingertips, white-edged in silver. Not his black shadows. Something new. Something uniquely hers, born from his darkness and her own essence.
They moved with her will, responding to her thoughts. Dancing between her fingers, curious, testing, exploring their range before curling back beneath her skin like they'd always belonged there.
His chest ached. His eyes burned with something that might have been tears if he'd had the strength left for them. She was beautiful. Beautiful with his power transformed through her, made into something neither of them had been alone. Something better.
She looked up at him, eyes bright with wonder.
"They're part of me now," she whispered. "I can feel them. Like another limb. Like they've always been there."
"Yes. You're connected to me now. In ways that go beyond any bond I've known."
"Show me."
He blinked. "What?"
"The bond. I can feel something." She pressed a hand to her chest. "Like there's a thread between us. But I don't understand it yet. Show me."
Dante hesitated. Opening the bond fully would expose everything. His exhaustion, his lingering fear, what her death had done to him.
But she was asking. And he'd already laid himself bare in every other way.
He slowly opened his side of the connection.
Her vitals, strong and steady—the exhaustion in her muscles that would fade with rest, the confusion still lingering. And beneath it all, the core of who she was. Her soul wrapped in his shadows, anchored by his power.
Her eyes widened. Her hand pressed harder against her chest.
"I can feel you," she breathed. "Your presence. Like you're inside me."
"Yes."
"And you can feel me the same way?"
"Yes." Always. Forever. He would feel her like his own heartbeat. Would know if she was hurt, scared, or safe.
She stared at him, her chin lifting slightly as understanding settled over her features.
"We can't be separated," she said. "Can we? Not really. Not anymore."
"No." He held her gaze. "Even if we're in different realms. Different courts. I'll always know where you are. How you are. And you'll know the same about me."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
She should look scared. Trapped. Instead, her smile widened, and the frozen thing that had lived in his chest for two days finally cracked apart.
"Good," she said again. Then grimaced. "Though right now I feel disgusting. Two days unconscious probably means I smell terrible."
The shift caught him off guard. From profound connection to practical concerns in a heartbeat. But that was Brynn. Facing down death and eternity with the same attitude she'd use for a sticky lock.
"You want to clean up?" he asked.
"Desperately. But..." She tested her legs, managed to move them, but the weakness was obvious. "I don't think I can walk yet."
"I'll help."
"Dante, you barely look like you can stand—"
"Let me take care of you." He met her gaze, let her see how much he needed this. The desperate urge to do something, anything, to prove she was really here. "Please."
Her expression softened. The protest died on her lips.
"Alright," she said quietly.
He stood. His legs protested after two days in that chair. He pulled back the blankets, then bent and lifted her.
The weight of her in his arms. The warmth of her body against his chest. The way her head fit perfectly against his shoulder.
He'd carried her before, but never like this.
Never after two days of watching her breathe and being unable to touch her, help her, do anything but count breaths and pray to gods he didn't believe in.
She was lighter than she should be, and he filed that away.
Something to fix. Food, water, rest. He would take care of all of it.
Her arms came around his neck. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest.
"You know," she murmured, "I could probably walk with help."
"Indulge me."
"Fine." He felt her smile against his skin. "But only because I really do feel gross."
He carried her toward the bathing chamber, each step grounding him further. Reminding him she was solid in his arms.