Her hatred seethed, a tide she could not turn back. She hated the way his shadow still clung to her, the way his mortal form seemed to make him more insufferable, not less.
His mortal form, she realized.His mortal form.
Her pulse surged. Not tomorrow. Not later tonight. Now.
The dagger was already in reach. She snatched it up, the feel of it grounding her as her breath came quick and sharp. Every excuse she had fed herself before—hesitation, timing, fear—burned away. He was right there, flesh and blood. This was her chance.
She rose from the bed, her bare feet meeting the wooden floor. Her gaze stayed fixed on the door and the sliver of hallway that led to him. She would not wait for the inn to sleep, would not give herself time to falter. She would do it now while her resolve still burned hot and merciless.
Her mind ran through the act in crisp, merciless detail. Slip inside and press the dagger to his throat before he stirred, then one quick slice, and the blood would come. Or, she would drive the blade between his ribs, pinning him to the mattress before his godhood could claw its way back.
She could almost see it already; the shock in his eyes, the stillness that would follow, the vacuity of a god brought low.
Her hand tightened on the hilt. She stepped toward the door.
Now.
The door creaked as she slipped inside. His mortal form lay sprawled on the narrow bed, chest rising in the sluggish rhythm of sleep. The dagger was slick in her grip, her palm greased with sweat.
She crept closer, one breath, then another, until she and the weight of Baron’s death hovered over him.
She drove the blade down.
But his hand shot up like lightning, catching her wrist before it could plunge. The dagger wavered, caught between them. He pushed, she pressed, the silent struggle dragging her down onto him, the bedframe groaning.
His dark eyes snapped open, human and startled. She clamped her free hand over his mouth, stifling his sound. He wrenched at her wrist, trying to keep the blade from his chest. She pressed harder, teeth bared, the dagger trembling inches above his heart.
She wanted himdead. Every nerve in her body screamed it.
He rolled, twisting, forcing her to the side. The mattress shifted, the wooden frame shrieked. She tightened her hold—trying to stab, slash, anything—but he was stronger, faster, even in flesh. He kept shoving the dagger away from his vital places, his grip bruising her wrist, his knee pinning her thigh.
They muffled their grappling, both desperate to keep the inn oblivious. Her breath rasped through clenched teeth, his jaw set tight. She nearly got him once; the blade grazed his collarbone, shallow but hot. He hissed, clapping a hand over the wound to keep the blood from spilling against the sheets.
“I will kill you,” she breathed, venom sharp as steel.
“Ilys,” he warned, grounding out, “you need me.”
“I will kill you,” she promised, voice raised and will ironclad.
He met her eyes, holding her wrist still. And then, softly, laboriously, he said, “When I came for his soul…” His voice was a whisper, low and unrelenting, even as they struggled. “I felt you. I learned all of you. Every last thought of his… was you. Baron worried endlessly for you.”
The words gutted her. Her strength faltered, the dagger quivering. Memories clawed at her chest: Baron’s smile, Baron’shands, the way he looked at her. Her vision swam, fury and grief tangling until she couldn’t breathe.
Death twisted, using her hesitation. He pinned her wrist hard against the mattress, the knife finally wrenched from her hand. It clattered to the floor.
Thrashing beneath him, tears hot in her eyes, she snarled, “You lie.”
“I have no need to,” he whispered. “What does this solve, Ilys? Killing me? Then who will lead you to the ones who twist the dead? Who will sense the foul magic when it stirs again?” His eyes searched hers, dark and endless. “Would you condemn them, the women you freed, to the same fate? Bound, carved, reanimated, their souls dragged screaming back into flesh? Over and over for a mage’s sick pleasure?”
Her chest heaved, the image stabbing her mind. She could see them again, the trembling girls. The gray, vacant eyes of the corpse. Her throat closed, grief splitting her open once more.
“I hate you,” she spat, the words torn raw from her.
“I know.” His voice softened. “But now you must learn to use me.”
For a long moment, she lay beneath him, her heart pounding like a drum of war, fury and sorrow tangled until she could scarcely breathe. His grip was unrelenting, the heady press of his body inescapable. And worse, his words had struck true.
Chapter 21
