Death was pressed hard up against her, one arm slung heavily over her waist, his breath warm against the curve of her neck. His body, solid and unfamiliar in its closeness, caged her in, his grip asleep but firm.
Her mind raced through the events of the night before. The drink. The stumble up the stairs. The way he had pulled her down with him, drunk and unaware of what he was doing.
And now here they were.
She eased herself back, inch by inch, hoping to slip free without stirring him. But the moment she moved, his hand found her again, tightening by instinct.
She froze. For a brief, terrible moment, she thought he was awake. But when she tilted her head, peering at his face, his expression remained pliant, peaceful in a way she had never seen before.
A god, undone.
Her heartbeat pressed hard against her ribs. Then, with calculated precision, she eased herself from his grasp, rolling off the bed and onto her feet. Her body ached from the awkward way she had been lying, but she ignored it. She needed to move, to put space between herself and whatever that had been.
From behind her, Death stirred. She turned just in time to see his eyes open, dark and heavy-lidded with sleep. For a second, he simply stared at her, trying to piece together where he was, what had happened. Then his brows furrowed, and he rolled onto his back, pressing a hand to his face.
“By the Unbound,” he groaned, voice hoarse.
Ilys crossed her arms. “Feeling mortal?”
He let out a long exhale, dragging his hand down his face. “It is unpleasant.” Then the shuffle of fabric as he stood, the groan of protest from his body barely concealed.
“You’re slow this morning,” she observed.
“You poisoned me,” he countered.
She smirked. “The innkeeper poisoned you.”
Death surrendered a reply, only straightening his coat and smoothing the fabric as though willing his appearance to resemble order.
Ilys, watching from where she adjusted the strap of her pack, couldn’t help but smirk. “Come,” she said, nodding toward the door. “You can lament your poor choices on the road.”
Death shot her a look but didn’t dignify her with a response.
They descended the stairs, the inn still quiet in the early morning. The scent of wood and faintly stale ale lingered from the night before, mixing with the aroma of breakfast. Ilys strodetoward the meager offerings laid out on the table: rough bread, soft cheese, and a thin porridge. Little worth savoring, but warm enough to be welcome. She grabbed a hunk of bread, tearing a piece free as she turned to Death. He had stopped at the bottom of the stairs, composure fixed in place, but the way his jaw tensed was telling.
Ilys lifted a brow, gesturing toward the table with her bread. “You should eat.”
Death flicked a glance at the food once, then dismissed it with a quiet shake of his head. “I’ll see to the horses.”
The morning outside was crisp, the sky painted with thin streaks of pale blue. She inhaled deeply, adjusting her cloak, pulling it closer against the cool air as she made her way toward the stables.
Then she saw him.
Death stood beside the horses, tall and composed, his godhood restored. No longer the man from the night before. No longer the one who had laughed with her over ale and stumbled up the stairs, who had pulled her close as he mumbled drunken confessions.
He was himself again. Dark, seamless, untouched by mortal things. His face smoothed into that careful neutrality she’d learned to dread, the faint stir of shadow curling around him.
Ilys halted, watching him. “I thought we were trying to move discreetly.”
Those divine eyes bore into her bare face, carving meaning.
She rolled her eyes, pulling her veil from her bag, donning it once more.
Arsehole,she thought, staring at his back.Murderer.Her mind hurled the words like a stone.I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.A song of violence thrummed in her skull, a litany reminding her of his trespass, his unworthiness, his disregard for law.
Her distaste only grew as she followed the god.Next time I will not be so weak,she vowed. Rage burned through her veins, carrying her forward for hours, until Death finally raised a smoky hand to halt the horses.
Tucked back behind a cluster of trees, smoke curled from the chimney of a lone stead. Without a word, Death turned his horse off the road, angling toward it.
