Chapter 32 #2
Ilys dismounted stiffly, wincing as her boots hit the ground. Her body sang with complaint, each muscle sore, each joint tight. She stretched her arms overhead, hissing softly when her shoulder pulled.
“Don’t overdo it,” Death said without looking at her, already tying his horse to a low-hanging branch.
“I can’t very well ride hunched like a crone all day,” she argued, wiggling her fingers out toward the misty horizon.
“You’d frighten fewer people.”
“I frighten enough.”
A flicker of a smile.
She stepped off the trail a little, behind a bramble of shrubs, and took care of what needed doing, quickly and quietly.
When she returned, Death had spread his cloak on a dry patch of grass and knelt beside the packs, preparing the salve again.
His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, and the muscles there flexed with each small movement of his hands.
Ilys slowed, watching him.
The light cast the scene in a silky silver.
She watched the careful way he opened the tin, the thoughtful way he stirred it with the tips of his fingers.
Even that, especially that, was tender. His hands, broad and strong, moved with medicinal calculation.
She imagined them on her again and had to look away before her face gave her away.
“Come here,” he said, not looking up.
She did, and sat down beside him on the cloak. He pulled her bodice down gently at the collar and inspected the wound with a furrowed brow. His fingers brushed her collarbone in the process, just a passing touch, clinical.
It lit her nerves like fire.
The salve cooled where it touched, but she found skin warm. Ilys felt it all, every light brush, every moment he steadied her with one hand on her arm or the small of her back, but when his thumb pressed gently along the edge of the bruising, she gasped.
“Sorry,” she offered without thinking. What did she have to be sorry for?
His voice came even, calm. “Don’t be.”
He finished the binding quickly, with the same measured efficiency as always, but she could feel the effort it took for him to keep it neutral, distant. His hands lingered a moment too long at the knot.
When she shifted, his fingers slid away.
She watched him pack the salve back into the satchel, sleeves still rolled, wrists dusted with dried herbs. His forearms flexed as he cinched the strap tight, and her eyes followed the line of movement before she caught herself.
“So now that you’re,” she paused, searching for the right word, “mortal… and eating, and drinking, and feeling things… Tell me all that you love about food.”
Death blinked at her, clearly caught off guard.
She smiled faintly. “Favorites. Least favorites. What makes you want to steal a second bite, what makes you think the world is broken.”
He spoke fondly, “I like warm bread. The kind with a crust you can tear. Soft inside. With butter, if it’s salted.”
She nodded, satisfied.
“And honey,” he added, almost sheepishly. “Not stirred into anything. Just as it is.”
“On a spoon?” she asked.
He looked at her. “Or fingers.”
Her brows lifted, amused.
He went on, voice quiet. “Stew that has been left to sit too long on the fire. When it thickens. And the meat falls apart. Roots cooked until they lose their bitterness. And blackberries. The kind you find half-fermented on the vine.”
She watched him now, not smiling exactly, but expression soft. “What do you hate?” she asked.
“Vinegar,” he said instantly. “It covers too much. Salt, when it’s careless. Burned garlic. And eggs. Above all, eggs.” Death paused and looked at her, mirth warming his glance. “And you?”
She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Roasted pear. When it’s soft but not falling apart. With a bit of cream. And, cheese. Good cheese. Sharp, hard. The kind you have to slice thin.”
He nodded once, approving, imagining it himself.
“I like tart things,” she continued. “Cherries, green plums. And pepper, if it burns just a little. I’ve no taste for polite flavors.”
“What do you hate?”
She squinted toward the horizon. “Boiled cabbage. Lukewarm broth. Bread that crumbles before you bite it.”
He looked over, brow faintly raised. “Not fond of softness?”
She shook her head. “Not fond of disappointment. If it looks hearty, it should be. If it smells rich, it shouldn't taste like water.”
She plucked a blade of grass, rolled it between her fingers.
“I didn’t expect you to have so many opinions,” she said after a moment.
“Why?”
“I assumed you’d eat like a monk, just enough to survive.”
“I did. Until I had reason not to.”
She met his eyes. “And now?”
A beat passed.“Now I want more.”
The words hung in the air between them, suspended.
Death rose to check the horses. Ilys watched the fluid, confident way he moved—no wasted motion. His hand smoothed over the neck of his mare, and she leaned into him, trusting. He whispered under his breath, words she couldn’t hear, and the gentleness in it tugged low in her chest.
She watched the way his cloak stretched across his shoulders and the faint triangle of skin exposed at his throat where his shirt hung open. He caught a strand of mane between his fingers and tucked it behind the mare’s ear with such absent care that it made her chest tighten.
He was still learning this body. Still learning himself.
And she was learning to want him.