Chapter 33 #3
“I killed the man Grim loved. A man I loved.” Her voice wavered, breaking on the edges. “He will never want to lay eyes upon me again. And I understand that.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she let them, setting her cup down as she steadied her breath, pulling herself together piece by piece.
Softly, she asked, “Are you scared to die?”
He hummed, rolling his cup between his fingers, his eyes distant.
“I have walked so many souls into the hands of the Fates. There is a part of me that knows what waits.” He tilted his head, considering.
“But there is a mortal part, one that did not exist before, that very much wants to live.” He gestured vaguely around them, to the warmth of the fire, to the clatter of dishes in the other room, to her presence beside him. “And to keep feeling this.”
Ilys watched him, a strange tenderness taking root in her chest. The drink lent her courage, or maybe the pull that had always lived between them finally demanded to be answered.
She shifted, moving onto her knees, crawling closer until she sat just before him.
The space between their bodies narrowed and she reached out, pressing her palm against his chest, against the exquisite thrum of his heart.
“This?” she whispered.
His breath hitched, his gaze flicking to where her hand lay. His lips parted, his expression wanton. He nodded, serene, as if her touch had tethered him to this earthly plain.
She hummed, her thumb brushing absently against the fabric of his tunic, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath. Her eyes roamed his face, memorizing him in the dim firelight, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips parted as though to speak.
She bent toward him until her lips found the small rise above his brow. When she pulled away, his eyes were on her, charcoal and searching.
“Ilys,” he breathed, his voice quieter than she had ever heard it. Unsure.
She did not pull away.
“Tell me to leave, and I shall,” she vowed.
Her breath met his skin, hazy and warm, the air between them pulled to a trembling thread. Beneath her palms, he held himself rigid, caught in that fragile pause between want and refusal.
She pressed her lips to the pulse at his neck, feeling the tantalizing thrum of life beneath her mouth.
The warmth of his skin, the scent of him, earth and smoke and a fragrance uniquely his, curled around her senses.
Her fingers ghosted along the edges of his jaw, the roughness of stubble catching against her touch.
He had always been untouchable, unknowable, a thing that drifted between worlds without belonging fully to either. Here, now, he lived in full—breath warm against the air, body caught between being and restraint.
“But I will tell you,” she whispered against his skin, her lips barely brushing the words into him, “that I am lonely.” Her hand slipped down, pressing lightly against his chest. His heart hammered beneath her palm. “And I should like to stay.”
His hands came to rest against her waist, fingers curling as though testing her. He breathed with care, but she could feel the conflict in the way his fingers flexed, in the way his body refused to yield even as it longed to.
The hesitation stretched, ponderous and uncertain.
Then, tentative as the turning of the tide, his lips brushed against her temple, soft, uncertain, reverent. His grip on her waist tightened, and he released a tortured exhale.
“Then stay,” he begged, voice rough and resigned.
The words settled between them. She felt them in the space where their bodies did not quite touch, in the way his hands tightened against her waist as though grounding himself, as though coming to terms with the thing they were about to undo between them.
Ilys drew in a breath and pressed closer, her fingers following the line of his collarbone, dipping into the hollow of his throat.
His skin radiated heat, startling in its warmth.
His mortal form burned, a stark contrast to the cool, distant presence she had known for years.
He had always been a shadow. Now, he was real.
A man. A dying god clinging to his last breaths of life, to the pulse of the ephemeral.
He let her explore him like that, let her trace the sharp lines of his jaw, let her fingertips memorize the shape of him.
At her side, the charcoal stick she’d been sketching with earlier still lay forgotten on the table.
Without thinking, she reached for it, pressing the dark edge to his shoulder, to the rise of his collarbone.
He stilled, but did not stop her. The charcoal moved in reverent lines, mapping him where her fingers had been: his ribs, the hollow of his throat, the taut skin where torso met leg.
Each stroke blurred against his skin, black dust marking the proof of his mortal form.
Then, like gravity pulled him forward, he moved.
His lips found her temple again, hesitant. Then her cheek, softer still, his breath ghosting against her skin. An unraveling, careful and measured, as though he savored a sweet he had long denied himself.
She turned into him, catching his mouth before he could second-guess himself, before he could think to stop.
It was a quiet kiss, their lips meeting. Not rushed, not desperate, but older than either of them could name. His fingers flexed at her waist before sliding up the curve of her spine, pulling her closer as though she might disappear if he let her go.
Ilys hummed against him, a sound of satisfaction, of confirmation. She had imagined this, that it would feel like to kiss him, to strip away his godhood, to find the man beneath. But this felt different. This was real.
He groaned low in his throat, a sound caught between amusement and need, roughened by the effort to stay composed. His hands splayed wider across her back, fingers pressing firm, tracing the fabric of her dress as though committing it to memory.
She pulled back just enough to study his face.
His pupils were blown wide, dark swallowing his irises.
Ilys traced her fingers through his hair, letting the curls slip through her grasp, watching as he closed his eyes at the sensation.
He was learning himself, learning this form, and she relished the power in that knowledge, that she could teach him something new.
Her hands moved lower, palms pressing against his chest, feeling the drum of his heart, the breath expanding in his ribs. He had a body that responded, a body that wanted.
“I should like to know all of you,” she confessed, her lips ghosting over him once more, an offering, an invitation.
His fingers dug into her waist, his breath catching. “Then stay,” he repeated, this time sure and greedy.
The air between them pulsed, thick with want, sacred and trembling.
And when she kissed him again, deeper this time, slower still, not to stake a claim but to bear witness, to worship.
Her mouth moved and savored each second as though it might be the last. Death's hands slid up her back, certain in their purpose.
They curved over her shoulder blades, thumbs brushing beneath the straps of her gown.
He drew back just enough to look at her, to ask permission with the question in his eyes, though no words left his mouth.
She answered without speaking, lifting her arms , inviting him to pull the fabric from her shoulders.
He moved like a tide, inevitable, unhurried, undeniable.
His fingers trailed along the bare lines of her shoulders, following the slip of her gown as it fell from her collarbone.
His hands trembled faintly as they cupped her sides with reverence, like a priest handling relics too holy to touch.
And then, his palm passed over her breast.
She stilled beneath his hand, breath faltering as her nipple peaked against the callused pad of his thumb.
It sent a shock through her like lightning in water.
Her body arched toward him, unthinking, a silent plea.
He felt it, the shiver that ran through her, the way her breath caught, and he stilled, absorbing it like a man newly fluent in sensation.
He looked at her with awe in his eyes, not quite believing she had been given to him, even for a moment.
Her fingers slid beneath his shirt, brushing over the planes of his stomach, the ridges of his ribs.
Lean muscle met her touch, heat radiating from him, divinity still humming just beneath the surface of his mortal skin.
She pushed the fabric up, baring him inch by inch, and he let her.
Her palms skimmed his chest, mapping the muscles there, pausing over the thunderous beat of his heart.
She looked up into his face again, saw how undone he was by the sight of her bare before him.
His hand moved again, this time bolder, fingers brushing the curve of her breast, thumb teasing her nipple in a supple, exploratory circle.
She gasped, her hips shifting instinctively, brushing against the heat that had begun to pulse between them.
He groaned then, low and helpless, forehead dropping to hers. “Is this what it is to want?” he whispered, voice rough with wonder.
“Yes,” she whispered, teeth catching on her lower lip as she leaned into his hand, needing more. “And worse. And better.”
His other hand found her hip, pulling her forward, settling her against the rigid line of his desire. Her breath hitched, pleasure rising, curling through her spine. She wanted—gods, she wanted—to lose herself in this, to be unmade and remade by his hands.
His mouth found her throat, and his lips brushed over the hollow beneath her jaw, the slope of her shoulder, the quick flutter of her pulse.
Patience lived in every motion, his hands careful, searching, as though he could memorize her body by touch alone.
She could feel him trembling now, not with hesitation, but restraint.
His chest rose and fell with the effort of holding himself together, of not simply devouring her.
His body wavered, then lowered, until he knelt before her, akin to a worshiper.
Her gaze dropped to where her hand rested against his chest. Faint smudges of charcoal marked his skin where she’d traced him before, streaked now by sweat and her own fingerprints. It felt wrong to wipe them away.
His palms moved down the length of her thighs, rough and warm.
He caught her calves, thumbs brushing the backs of her knees, then traced to her ankles, anchoring himself in the shape of her.
His hands returned, gliding up again over the curves of her—his touch both pious and searching, molding to every line.
He cupped the backs of her legs, thumbs working into the knots of tension he found, drawing them loose in quiet, circling strokes.
She watched him, breath caught, heart in her throat. His head bowed, dark curls falling forward as he pressed a kiss to the inside of one knee, then the other. Steadfast and attentive. Her skin prickled in his wake.
He worked higher, his mouth trailing a series of unhurried kisses up the insides of her thighs. Every inch lavished, each kiss a vow. Her legs trembled beneath him. Her breath caught again and again as he mapped her with a devotion bordering on torment.
When he reached the place where her thighs met, his hands curled around them, thumbs circling the tender skin there. He didn’t rush. He didn’t claim. He learned. He memorized.
His thumbs swept to the apex of her, rapacious and indolent. She gasped, her hips jolting forward before she could stop them, knees giving just. His hands steadied her, a grounding pressure on her thighs as his thumbs circled again, feeling her. Savoring her.
Her hands found his shoulders, gripping tight as she bit her lip to hold in the sound rising in her throat. But he looked up at her, eyes gleaming with venal candor.
Give me that sound, his eyes conveyed. Give me that sweet noise and I will make the trade worthwhile.
“You’re shaking,” he observed, the barest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth, though his voice roughened with want.
He pressed another kiss, higher now, his breath feathering against her most sensitive skin.
One hand remained, clutching her thigh, the other brushing along the outside of her hip, anchoring her, worshiping her.
His mouth followed his hand, tasting, until she thought she might fly apart from the sweetness of it.
He pressed a palm to her stomach, forcing her to lean back against the bed.
She had never been touched like this. Not just for pleasure, not just for possession, but a touch to show she was seen. Tended to. Known.
And when he looked up again, lips parted, face flushed with the sheer act of devotion, she sank her fingers into his hair, grasping it in surprised ecstasy.
She closed her eyes, and for the first time in her life, allowed herself to be held.
And with relentless strokes of his tongue against her, she rode a wave of sensation so unfamiliar, so addictive, that she knew even in the midst, as her vision swam, that the feeling had only begun.