“Ilys—”
“Yes.” Her voice rankled. This was not Ilys the Veilwalker speaking, not the obedient sanctum-born servant; this was Ilys the bird, untethered and broken. “I wish you would have.”
Ilys no longer yearned to kill this Death. She knew not when that changed, only that it had. She found no satisfaction in imagining his end. No joy in the thought of his undoing. What she felt instead was older, darker. The anger toward him that had once kept her alive, that malicious flame, now curled aroundherown heart. It burned, cutting her open from the inside.
“No,” Death said, shaking his head as though he could will her into compliance. “You will live, you foolish creature.”
“I will not.”
His hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You will, Ilys.”
She seized his forearm, her own words coming like a strike. “I. Will. Not.”
Her breath came fast and shallow. Only then did she notice how close they were, how close he had come to drag her from the water. His breath cooled her wet cheeks. His white shirt clung to him, soaked through, outlining every sharp line of him.
Her body was a storm, betraying her, and she welcomed it. The fire drowned out the gray, drowned out the dread. Finally—finally—she felt something.
She bit him, sharp and quick, her teeth sinking into the meaty heel of his hand. His eyes went wide, the shock giving way to desire hotter, darker. She dragged his thumb to her mouth,licking the droplets of water from it, tasting salt and skin. His gaze locked onto the motion, pupils blown wide, lust sparking there like struck flint.
“Ilys.” His voice warned, but the admonition frayed at the edges.
She bit down on his thumb again, slower this time, and he groaned. Grabbing his wrist, she guided his hand down, pressing it against the swanlike curve of her throat, making him hold her there. His breath hitched.
Lower still, she pressed his palm against the swell of her breast, molding his hand until his fingers curled around her. He squeezed, unthinking, and she felt him lean closer, his forehead nearly brushing hers.
She could feel him, hard against her stomach, the heat of him grounding her as much as it set her alight.
The contact must have shocked him as he pulled back.
“Gods, Ilys.” He reclaimed his hand and pressed his palms to his eyes hard. “Come. I will not stay, but I will not leave you here alone.”
She swallowed the small embarrassment. “Leave. I’ll be fine.” She pulled away, pushing back into the waters and concealing her naked body once more.
“I will wrench you from the waters and carry you if I have to,” he promised.
In answer, she ducked beneath the surface again, a willful act of defiance. Death waded toward her, jaw tight, refusing to play her game.
“Now,” he ordered, voice low and sharp.
Ilys broke the surface with a roll of her eyes and swept past him, striding for the edge of the pool. Every step felt like a provocation.
More than ever, she wished she did not have to sleep just across the room from this dying god.
Chapter 31
Blowing out the lantern, Ilys watched the room fall dark. She laid awake, hyper aware of him on the other side of the room. The energy between them taut as a bowstring until morning broke.
When the light finally crept in, she found a blue dress draped over the chair. New and plain, but finely made. The innkeeper must have brought it at his request. She found she liked the color against her skin, so unused to seeing herself in anything but ceremonial charcoal.
He had not spoken of it nor looked at her as she dressed. A silent offering. A peace he did not know how to speak aloud. Ilys offered him a silent nod as she mounted Spire, not knowing how to voice thanks for a gift given so quietly.
“How much further until the entrance?” she asked, her voice low.
“We will not reach the Veilmarch for days,” he replied without looking at her, his eyes drawn instead to the glow ahead.
Music carried on the night air as they rode into the next town, the square alive with fiddles, clapping, and the smell of fire and ale. The space illuminated, lit by lanterns strung from corner to corner while garlands of greenery mixed with preserved blood-red dahlias hung from the roofs.
It reminded her of her first march, of the night she had met Owin. The night he had smiled like a savior before finding her out and taking her prisoner. Her first dance and her first true betrayal.
