No servants came here. No courtiers sought audience. Even his shadows behaved differently in this space, settling around him like a cloak rather than reaching restlessly for something they couldn't have.
He lowered himself onto the worn stone bench and let the quiet wrap around him.
Here, he didn't have to be the Reaper. Didn't have to calculate the danger he posed or maintain the iron control that kept everyone safe from his nature.
Here, he could just exist.
But even the roses couldn't quiet his mind tonight.
Goodnight, Reaper.
The words echoed through him. She'd wielded his title like a weapon, and the worst part was that he understood. She was angry. She wanted distance. She wanted to remind herself, and him, that whatever had been building between them wasn't safe.
Thathewasn't safe.
His hands curled into fists against his thighs.
He'd been alone so long he'd made peace with it. The distance kept people safe. He hadn't minded.
Until her.
The roses bloomed in their quiet defiance. And Dante sat in his sanctuary and ached for something he'd never thought to want.
XXXIX.
BRYNN
Her chambers felt smaller than usual, the walls pressing in. Brynn paced from the windows to the wardrobe, her mind churning with Seraphina's words.
She'd claimed exhaustion to escape Dante's questions, but sleep was impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Seraphina's knowing smile, heard that sympathetic voice:You're not the first mortal to catch his attention. You're just the latest.
Just the latest.
The words burned through her like acid, eating away at every moment she'd thought was meaningful. Every glance. Every time his shadows had reached for her, and she'd felt chosen.
Hells, she was an idiot.
She'd seen him lose control when he was worried about her. Watched his expression tighten when she was in danger. Felt his shadows wrap around her wrists during training, gentle despite everything he was, adjusting her grip with touches that lingered longer than necessary. She'd replayed those touches at night. Pressed her fingers to her wrists where his shadows had been and let herself imagine.
Now she wondered how many women had done the same thing.Treasured the same almost-touches. Mistaken his loneliness for something meant specifically for them.
She rubbed at her wrists, like she could scrub away her own stupidity.
She read people for a living. She'd survived by never being fooled. And she'd fallen for the oldest trick in existence: a powerful man making her feel like she mattered.
For the first time since her parents' deaths, since she'd learned that everyone could be bought or manipulated or simply taken away, she'd stopped calculating exit strategies. She'd actually let herself think she'd found somewhere she belonged.
And the woman before her had probably thought the same thing. And that woman was probably dead.
The laugh that escaped her was ugly and broken.
She needed answers. If Dante wouldn't volunteer them, she'd demand them.
The study was empty, maps spread across his desk like he'd left in a hurry. The receiving rooms deserted. She thought back to their conversations, the way he'd spoken about preferring solitude, retreating from court demands.
The gardens.
She'd glimpsed them from her windows. Beauty growing in perpetual twilight, places where death magic created instead of destroyed. If he had anywhere truly his own, it would be there.
