Chapter 85
LXXXV.
brYNN
One Month Later
"Hold still, my lady."
Naia's fingers worked through another section of Brynn's hair, weaving it into a pattern that pulled at her scalp with each twist. Sharp enough to remind her she was still real.
"I don't understand why we need this." Brynn shifted on the stool, earning a sharper tug in response.
"The people need ceremony." Naia secured another pin. "They need to see their rulers in all their glory. Makes them feel the realm is stable."
"The realm is stable." Brynn caught her eye in the mirror, saw silver threading through her irises that hadn't been there a month ago. "We fixed the wards. Caelum's gone. Gabriel's handling the Mourned Court. This feels—"
She stopped. Elaborate display. Performance. All the hallmarks of the cons she used to run, except this time she wasn't working the angle.
"Unnecessary?" Naia supplied.
"Like showing off."
"When has necessity ever stopped the Death Lords from being dramatic?" Naia's voice held amusement. "Besides, Lord Reaper specifically requested you look..." She paused. "Devastating."
Warmth crept up Brynn's neck. Of course he had.
"One month of relative peace and now he wants to parade me around like—"
"Like his equal?" Naia interrupted, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "Like the Lady of Boundaries who saved all the realms?"
Brynn's mouth opened. Closed.
"There." Naia stepped back, admiring her work. "Now let's get you into that dress."
Her hair was swept up into a tight braided crown that wrapped around her head before knotting at her nape. Pieces framed her face, softening the severity just enough.
Behind the dressing screen, the gown waited, black fabric with silver thread that shifted like constellations. At certain angles, ward-symbols appeared in the threading before dissolving back into shadow.
She let her white shadows rise, working the fastenings with more dexterity than her hands could manage. The fabric settled against her skin, heavier than it looked. The silver threads pulsed faintly in response to her.
"That dress isn't just about looking beautiful," Naia said from the other side of the screen. "It's armor. Political armor. Every Death Lord who sees you tonight will understand exactly what you are."
Brynn smoothed her hands down the fabric, feeling ward-magic woven through every thread. "And what's that?"
"Untouchable. Permanent. His."
The possessiveness in that last word sent warmth pooling low in her stomach. One month of being claimed by the Reaper, and her body had learned to respond to that edge.
She emerged from behind the screen.
Naia whistled low. "Forget what I said earlier. You won't even make it to the throne room looking like that."
"We have to make it to the throne room."
"Here." Naia retrieved the familiar crown from its velvet-lined box. Black metal worked into patterns that looked like frozen shadows, set with stones that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. "He insisted you wear this one tonight. The one he gave you right after he claimed you.”
Before the battle. Before her transformation. When being his equal had felt like a dream she didn't dare believe in.
The circlet settled onto her braided hair. The weight of it familiar and right.
"The whole court's taking bets on how long before he drags you back here," Naia added, amusement dancing in her voice.
"Naia!"
"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking." Her smile turned knowing. “The palace has learned to avoid the west wing between midnight and dawn."
Brynn's cheeks flushed. "We're not that—"
"You are. And good for you. A Death Lord who looks at his companion like she's the only thing in existence? That's rarer than you'd think."
Brynn turned back to the mirror before Naia could see how much those words affected her.
His presence moved through the palace corridors like a storm approaching. Her pulse jumped before she even felt his attention focus on her.
Here, she felt through the bond.
The door opened.
Dante stood in the doorway, dressed in his Death Lord attire. All black and silver with bone details. His dark eyes traveled slowly down her body.
His shoulders tensed. His shadows surged. His fingers curled at his sides.
Want flooded through the bond.
"Naia." He didn't look away from Brynn. "Out."
The servant curtsied quickly, shooting Brynn a knowing look. “I hope you at least make the presentation."
The door clicked shut.
The air changed. Charged.
Dante crossed the room in three strides, backing Brynn against the vanity. His hands braced on either side of her, caging her in without touching. Close enough that she could feel his body heat, that his scent surrounded her.
Close enough that her body arched toward him without permission.
"We have to go," she managed, but her voice came out breathier than intended.
"We do." His eyes hadn't left hers, pupils dilated. "In a moment."
"The other Death Lords—"
"Can wait." His voice dropped to that dangerous tone that made her core clench. "But first, let me make something very clear."
His shadows curled possessively around her waist, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel their presence. Her own shadows rose to meet them. Light meeting dark, intertwining.
"You will only be dancing with me tonight."
Brynn's eyebrow arched. Challenge sparked in her chest. "Is that so?"
"If another man so much as thinks about asking you to dance—" His voice went darker, edged with possession. "If you even consider accepting—"
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. His eyes were pure black now. "I will drag you back to these chambers and ensure you can't walk for a week."
Her breath caught. She knew he could see it in the flush spreading across her chest, in the way her pupils dilated, in the pulse jumping at her throat.
His satisfaction bled through the bond.
"Is that supposed to be a threat?" She kept her voice level.
"It's a promise."
She leaned forward slightly. Testing. "Because it only makes me want to test your limits."
His teeth ground together. His shadows tightened around her waist, still not touching, but the pressure was there. The vanity beneath his palms creaked.
She could feel him fighting. Fighting the urge to make good on his threat right now. Fighting the need to pin her against this vanity and show her exactly what happened when she pushed him.
"Later," he growled, the single word holding enough promise to make her shiver.
"I look forward to it," she whispered, and watched something dangerous flash in his eyes.
For a moment, she thought he might forget the ball entirely. His shadows pulled her closer, finally making contact, wrapping around her waist like bands of darkness. Her own shadows surged to meet them.
His control hung by a thread. The war between duty and desire was playing out across his face.
Then footsteps echoed in the corridor. Voices. Other Death Lords were arriving.
Dante stepped back with visible effort, every muscle tense. His shadows retreated reluctantly, trailing across her skin before pulling away completely.
He offered his arm, hunger still burning in his eyes. "Shall we, Lady of the Boundaries?"
She placed her hand on his arm and felt him tense. A simple touch made devastating by everything left unsaid. "Lead the way, Lord Reaper."
His shadows writhed around his shoulders, betraying what his face tried to hide.
She thought about trailing her mouth—
His grip on her arm tightened in response. "You're testing my control."
"I know."
"It won't end well for you."
She smiled. "I'm counting on that."