He nodded. “It leaves me more and more every day.”
Ilys regarded him carefully, her gaze trailing over the way the candlelight flickered against the sharp angles of his face and how the hollows of his collarbones gleamed with beads of water.
“Have you named a successor?”
Death stilled, his fingers swirling the water once more, slower this time, thoughtful. One hand remained at her ankle, where it rested lightly on his shoulder. His thumb swept gentle arcs just above the bone.
“I think you would make an excellent Death,” he said, voice low and sure, like he wasn’t trying to convince her, only telling the truth.
Ilys scoffed, narrowing her eyes as she scooped a handful of warm water and flicked it at his face. Droplets scattered in the candlelight like tiny stars, landing soft and shining across his skin.
“Absolutely not.”
He blinked through the splash, unbothered, a smile beginning to play at his lips.
She shifted, her leg brushing against his chest, the movement casual, but intimate.
And then, quietly, without drama, he dipped his head and pressed a kiss to her ankle. Her breath caught. Another kiss, a little higher, his lips brushing the delicate curve of her shin. Then another. A trail of warmth in his wake.
She splashed him harder this time, laughing through the heat rising in her throat. “Do not distract me.”
Death sputtered, shaking the water from his hair as a rare, unguarded laugh slipped free. But it faded as quickly as it had come. He leaned back against the tub, his fingers trailing idly through the water.
"There is a successor." He pared his voice down to its edge. "I understand the woman better now. It is not a choice I make. Rather, it happens. It is taken care of."
Ilys stilled, watching him, searching his face for an answer he did not give her. His gaze lost in the flickering glow of the dimly lit room. She wanted to pry, to dig into the cryptic way he spoke, to make him say the things he always left buried beneath half-answers. But the way his mouth pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers moved slower through the water, told her to leave it be.
Instead, she shifted, pushing off the edges of the tub, sliding toward him. The water rippled, sloshing against the worn wooden frame as she came to settle in his lap, her knees bracketing his hips. Her fingers found the charcoal curls at the nape of his neck, twisting idly as she tilted her head.
His hands hovered, hesitant, uncertain, before settling at the curve of her waist, his fingers pressing against slick skin. She leaned in, pressing her lips to his shoulder. Her teeth grazed the skin before biting down, not enough to bruise, but enough to mark in a sharp, quiet claim.
"Vicious thing,” he remarked against the shell of her ear, his voice dipping low, dark amusement curling at the edges.
Ilys only hummed, pressing another bite lower, her lips trailing lazily along his shoulder.
Chapter 36
Morning light pooled through the frost-laced windows, casting the room in soft gold. Dust floated lazily in the air, hanging on the stillness, the quiet warmth of waking. Ilys rolled over, stretching like a cat, her limbs sliding over the sheets until she found him. Her palm rested against his stomach, fingers brushing absently over the faint ridges of muscle there, her breath warm against his skin. She pressed her face against his back, her eyelashes feathering against the sharp planes of his shoulder blades.
He stirred, breath hitching, as warmth creeped up his throat and across his cheeks.
She could feel the way he tensed, how awareness crept into his form before he settled into it, into her. She let her hand drift upward to skim the path between his ribs, following the line of his sternum. A reticent invitation.
He turned beneath her touch, without hesitation, without words, until they faced each other, the sheets shifting gently around them.
She leaned against him while he traced absent circles over her collarbones like he had nowhere else to be.
“We will live in a castle on the coast and have seven children, all named Morrigan,” he narrated. “Rowenna and her children will join us, and they will run away from the fat old sod.”
She huffed a quiet laugh against his skin. “I’ve heard he’s quite nice, actually.”
“Unfortunate,” he said, with mock disappointment. Then, more assuredly, “We will live long lives drinking awful mead and eating wonderful meals. You will draw, and I will…” he broke off.
“Find something to do?” she finished for him. She smiled at the game he’d cobbled.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I will find a pastime worthy of our life.”
“We will be happy and together,” Death continued, extending the dream, painting the future in broad invisible strokes.
