His hand lingered, pressing lightly against her pulse. “Ah, there it is,” he whispered. “The fight. The little flame you’ve hidden under all that obedience.”
Her breath shuddered in her chest. She tried to jerk back, but his weight leaned into her, pinning her against the wall. His thumb pressed beneath her chin, tilting her face upward.
“Look at you,” he breathed. “A blade turned inward, cutting yourself long before you cut anyone else.”
She twisted violently, slamming her shoulder against his chest. He only laughed, catching her wrists even though they were already bound, holding her tighter.
“Keep fighting, Veilwalker,” he encouraged. “It makes no difference. Bound or free, you are mine to play with.”
Her teeth clenched, hatred burning her throat raw. “I will kill you.”
Veylen’s smile widened, predatory, dropping her wrists. “Oh, no. Killing is reserved for my arsenal alone. I’ll kill you in a thousand different ways before that day comes. Hurt you. Delight in you. Break you.”
Tears pricked her eyes, hot with fury, fear, and revulsion. But beneath it all, her wrists twisted again, scraping and fraying at the rope. Her only weapon left.
The door groaned.
At first, Ilys thought it was another guard, another tormentor bought with coin. The hinges creaked, the lantern flame guttered with the draft, and Lord Veylen turned his head just slightly, irritation flickering across his face.
That moment was all she needed.
Her wrists twisted sharply, harder than before, skin tearing against the frayed rope. The binding gave way with a sudden snap. She lunged, seizing the loose coil and whipping it around Veylen’s throat before he could react. His eyes widened in shock as she yanked him down, slamming the back of his skull against the stone wall with all her strength.
The impact rang out sickeningly, reverberating through her bones. His body bucked, his hands clawing at the rope as she held it tight, her knees digging into his chest to pin him.
Her breath came in ragged sobs, each one trembling with rage and panic.
And then—
A shadow leaned against the doorframe, half-hidden in the lantern light. A man, ordinary in form, but his presence twisted the air itself. Calm, composed, utterly out of place. His voice was low, measured, familiar as a dirge.
“Veilwalker,” he greeted. “What a strange reunion.”
Ilys’s head snapped up, hair plastered to her face, tears and sweat mingling. Her chest heaved as she choked Veylen tighter, her knuckles white on the rope.
“Dagger,” she panted out, desperation shredding her voice. “Give me your dagger!”
The man stepped into the light, mortal in shape, Death in every shadow at the edges of him. Without hurry, without judgment, he drew a blade from his belt and placed it in her trembling, blood-slick hand.
She nearly dropped it. Her arms were shaking, her grip raw and uneven, but she held the rope fast with one hand, her elbow braced against Veylen’s thrashing shoulder.
Veylen gagged, gasping, spit bubbling from his lips. His nails raked bloody lines across her forearms as he fought for breath, but she only pulled tighter, the rope cutting deeper into his flesh. His eyes rolled, whites stark against the lantern glow.
“Do you need help?” Death asked softly, as though offering assistance with a chore.
“No,” she rasped.
The hilt trembled in her grip as she found her aim. With a guttural cry, she plunged it into his side, the blade slicing through flesh with a wet sound that turned her stomach. Warmth gushed over her hand, keen and hot, while Veylen convulsed violently beneath her, his body arching as though to throw her off.
She wrenched the blade free and drove it in again. This time higher. His breath hitched, a broken wheeze, blood spilling from his lips. He gargled, choking on it as she twisted the dagger hard. The rope kept him against her, his throat crushed, his body pinned between her fury and the wall. His blood soaked her hands, sprayed across her chest, hot against her throat as it poured. She stabbed again, and again, her breath ragged, her eyes wild.
Finally, his body sagged, spasms weakening into twitches. The dagger slipped in her grip, her hands slick with red. She held the rope tight a moment longer, panting, hyperventilating, her vision tunneling until all she could see was his lifeless face. Then, slowly, she raised her head. Death stood a step away, watching, his mortal face composed. Ilys trembled, every breath a broken gasp, the dagger clutched in her bloody fist.
Death’s mortal hand reached down, fast and inexorable. She scowled, but let him pull her up. Her legs nearly gave, and for aheartbeat she leaned into him, her forehead brushing the edge of his shoulder. His body was solid, unnervingly warm in this form.
He felt her shaking, her breath breaking against him, and—awkwardly, as though the motion belonged more to memory than instinct—he rubbed her back. A stilted rhythm at first, then firmer, the feel of his palm drawing her closer.
“Shh,” he soothed, the sound rough and uncertain in his throat. “You are safe now. Shhh, shhh.”
