"Because that's exactly what you are, Dante. That's exactly what you've proven yourself to be."
His name. His actual name, not his title. But spoken with such contempt, he flinched. She'd whispered that name against his skin when they'd touched. Had said it with wonder when she'd realized she could survive his power. Had breathed it like a prayer in his chambers when everything had been different.
Now she wielded it like a weapon.
And it cut deeper than any blade.
Before he could respond, before he could find words that wouldn't make this worse, Caelum appeared at her elbow.
"Is everything alright?" he asked, his voice all concern and warmth. His hand settled gently on her arm in a protective gesture. "You seem distressed, my dear. Should we perhaps find somewhere quieter to?—"
The casual endearment. The protective touch. The way he wasstanding close to her, positioning himself between her and Dante—the flash of cold satisfaction beneath his mask of concern.
It was the final spark in a powder keg.
Dante's control didn't crack. It detonated.
Shadows exploded outward like a supernova of darkness, claiming the entire terrace. They spread across the marble in waves, swallowing the light. The temperature plummeted so fast that frost formed instantly on every surface. Every piece of glass within fifty feet—goblets, windows, decorative crystals—developed stress fractures with sharp cracking sounds.
Several courtiers fled outright. Others froze in place, afraid that movement would draw the Reaper's attention.
"Get your fucking hands off her," Dante snarled, his voice carrying the authority of death. "Now."
Caelum’s hand fell away immediately, and he stepped back, raising his hands. His expression was pure wounded innocence, but Dante caught it again—satisfaction flickering in his honey-brown eyes. The slight curl at the corner of his mouth before he smoothed it away.
He'd wanted this reaction. Had been pushing for it all night.
But Dante couldn't think about that now. Couldn't think about anything except her.
In the sudden, ringing silence that followed, Brynn stared at Dante. Her expression was a complex mix of emotions. Shock at his public loss of control, satisfaction at finally breaking through his composure, and fury that he'd done it here, now, in front of everyone.
"There," she said quietly, but her voice carried in the silence. "Was that so hard? Actually showing what you feel instead of hiding behind control and political distance?"
He understood then. She'd been waiting for this. Testing him. Pushing him to finally show what he felt instead of maintaining that facade and proving that he cared enough to break his own rules.
"We're going home," he said, his voice rough. "Now."
For a moment, she just looked at him. Taking in his loss of control, the shadows still writhing around them both, the desperate need he could no longer hide.
Her expression was unreadable.
"Fine," she said finally, her voice deceptively calm. The kind of calm that preceded storms. "Let's go home and discuss how you just humiliated me in front of every Death Lord in existence."
The promise of the reckoning to come was clear in her tone. This wasn't surrender. This was her choosing the battleground.
Without waiting for his response, she turned and walked toward the edge of the terrace where he could open a transport portal. Her spine was rigid with anger, her movements sharp.
The twilight dress flowed behind her.
Every eye in the gathering followed her progress.
He followed, shadows billowing around them both as the entire gathering watched in fascinated silence.
This was far from over.
LVII.
DANTE
