"Nothing," he confirmed, and his tone was so flat, so final, that she almost believed him.
Almost.
But his darkness was writhing around his feet. His hands were clenched so tight the leather of his gloves creaked. And there, just for a second, something flickered in his dark eyes that looked like agony before he buried it.
"You're lying," she said quietly.
"I'm keeping you alive."
"From what? From caring about someone? From letting someone care about you?" She held her ground. "Or are you just keeping yourself safe?"
His shoulders went rigid. "You don't understand?—"
"Then make me understand!" Her voice broke on the words. "Make me understand why you looked at me in that garden like I mattered, then spent a week pretending I don't exist. Why did you just hold me together through the worst news of my life, then immediately shut me out?”
"Because this—" He gestured sharply between them. "—can't happen. Won't happen."
"Why not?"
"Because I could kill you!"
The words exploded out of him. His control shattered, his whole body rigid, shadows erupting in violent tendrils.
"Because my nature is death.” His voice broke into a near-shout. "And no matter how careful I am, no matter how much I want?—"
He stopped abruptly, jaw working.
There it was. The truth he'd been hiding behind formality and a week of silence.
Her heart was slamming against her ribs. "How much you want what?"
She watched him fight with himself. Watched the war play out across his features, in the way his body strained toward her even as he held himself back.
For one breathless moment, she thought he might actually answer.
He exhaled. Straightened. When he spoke again, he was the Reaper once more.
"It doesn't matter what I want. All that matters is keeping you alive long enough to fix the wards. After that, you can return to the living world."
The dismissal broke something in her.
"That's it?" Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "That's all I am to you? A tool for fixing your ward problem?"
"Yes."
But his shadows strained toward her.
"We'll continue tomorrow," Dante said finally, his voice hollow. "The Mourned Court. Dawn."
"Fine. Tomorrow."
XLV.
DANTE
Dante didn't go to his chambers.
Instead, he found himself in his study again, standing before maps and reports that suddenly meant nothing. His hands were braced against the desk, head bowed, as he breathed through the wreckage of the last hour.
