Death didn’t rise to meet her fury. He didn’t argue. He didn’t even blink. Instead, he reached across the table with that same calm precision that infuriated her and pulled both their bowls toward him, stacking them placidly. Then he stood, lifting the dishes in one hand.
“Let’s take this to our room,” he said evenly, but his eyes were molten with meaning.
Her heart stuttered. “Our—”
“Now,” he cut in, low, leaving no room for her protest.
The nearby patrons quickly returned to their own meals pretending all events regular and normal. Ilys pushed back from the bench, her legs shaky, heat coiling beneath her skin. She followed him, furious with herself for obeying, furious with the rush of want tangled with dread in her blood.
They climbed the stairs and the din of the common room faded behind them. The boards creaked under their weight. Death’s hand curled tighter around the bowls as he led her downthe narrow corridor. He didn’t look back, but she could feel his awareness on her as surely as if he had.
She followed, breathing hard, every step an argument she hadn’t yet spoken. Her pulse thrummed in her throat like a bird trying to beat its way out of a snare.
He reached her door, nudged it open with his shoulder, and stepped inside, setting the bowls on the little table by the window.
Ilys lingered in the doorway, fists curled at her sides, her breath uneven. She hated that he could still look at her like that, with a mere stare, communicating that she was wholly known.
“Well?” she demanded, voice hoarse.
He closed the door with one lazy push. The latch caught.
“I think it’s best you start, Ilys. What was that?”
The words broke out of her raw and bright, as much to herself as to him. She felt like she was building her own case, sentencing herself in real time.
“I cannot do this,” she said, her voice cracking. “I only want to be with you because I dislike myself so much I cannot imagine any relationship more fitting.” She wanted to wound, so she did. Her eyes found his and she spat the final blade.
“I hate you.”
“I do not think that is true,” he said, calm as a tide.
“I tried to kill you. You hate me.” She took two steps and struck her fists against his chest, sharp and human. “We are enemies.”
He caught her wrists, firm but not cruel, fingers closing until her bones remembered they were bones. “No,” he said, a denial that did not blink. “I love you.”
She stared at him, stunned into anger. “How can you say that?” She gestured at the two of them. “This is fucked.”
“This,” he gritted, pulling her closer even as he held her wrists wide, “is the only thing I have glimpsed that is the farthestthing from that. You are scared, and I understand. I am a blip in your long life.” His breath shook once, then steadied. “I do not have the privilege of being afraid of this. I am dying.”
Her chin tipped up, defiant. “And you think I’m afraid?”
His eyes caught hers. “Yes. You are terrified. You chase the fire and call it choice. You throw yourself into storms so no one else can cast you there first. You would rather drown on your own terms than admit you want saving. And while this body weakens and my hold on the world thins, I watch you and I learn the shape of purpose. I love you.” He pounded emotion into every syllable.
Her mouth twisted, the words tumbling sharp and fast. “You are a lonely, fading god. You are desperate and you are friendless. You do not know what love is.”
“You seek to maim, and that is fine by me, Ilys.” His mouth curved, not in humor, in truth. “I love you. It is selfish. It is macabre. It is ironic, but I do. And yes, I have been lonely. We are both lonely, and we understand each other in a way no one else could. All of that is true. So is this: I love how age hardens you and softens you in the same breath. I love your appetite for whimsy and your refusal to stomach injustice. I love your laugh when you forget to guard it and your smile when you choose to be merciful with it. I love you, Ilys.”
“Stop,” she begged, voice breaking.
“I will not,” he said, and he laughed once, rough, almost tender.
“I hate you,” she promised, but the words shook.
“I know,” he answered, as if he were telling her a bedtime fact, full of understanding and no surprise.
She kissed him like a strike. He met her like a wall. The room jolted with the impact of their bodies, the back of her thighs hitting the bedframe, the cup on the table skittering to the floor. Her wrists were still pinned in his hands until she yanked freeand caught his collar instead. He pressed her into the post and she arched into the pressure, not to flee it, to feed it.
“I hate you,” she whispered into his mouth.
