But she was aware of him in a way she had never been before. The small sounds. The soft exhale of breath as he worked his wet sleeves off his arms. The low sigh as he rolled the stiffness from his shoulders. The quiet friction of cloth against skin.
The room shrunk too small, the firelight too dim, the air too leaden with the remnants of the storm.
She swallowed, willing her body to stay still, willing her mind to remain blank. She needed a good fuck, was all, she assured herself.
When sup arrived, they ate sprawled on the floor near the fire, both too stubborn to relinquish the warmth even if it meant dining in the least dignified manner possible. The room had dried around them, the once-damp wooden walls now glowing with firelight, the scent of charred wood mixing with the heavy aroma of stew and buttered bread. Their clothes, hung over the backs of chairs, steamed in the heat, their boots left near the hearth to dry.
Death, still clothed in a loose linen shirt, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tilted his head as he chewed. His dark hair, curled at the edges from the rain, a few errant strands falling into his eyes. He made no effort to push them away.
“It’s quite good,” he admitted through a mouthful, gesturing vaguely at the plate in his lap.
“The best of food in our travels,” Ilys agreed, tearing off another piece of bread and dipping it into the stalwart stew. The savory broth clung to her fingers as she brought it to her lips.
Ilys leaned her head against the wall, letting the heat soak into her bones, relishing the simple pleasure of feeling dry. Across from her, Death set his empty plate aside, watching her with an inarticulate expression.
“Shall we play a game?” He nodded toward the small wooden table, with a board set out between the two narrow beds.
She hesitated, glancing over only to find Fox and Geese.
Her heart pulled. Grim’s face flashed in her mind, the memory of long evenings spent on cold castle floors, his grumbling every time she bested him. The thought brought endless comfort.
“Let’s,” she encouraged, standing and moving toward the bed. She perched on the edge, pulling the game board toward her, her fingers brushing the carved surface with reverent homage.
Death sat opposite her, settling onto the other bed with the same lazy grace he always carried. He stretched out, leaning one elbow against the mattress, his fingers tapping idly against his knee as he studied the board.
“Have you played this?” she asked, watching him carefully.
He made a low, thoughtful noise, staring down at the small, worn game pieces. “The exact gameplay evades me,” he admitted.
Ilys smirked, adjusting the board, feeling the old habit settle over her. She walked him through the rules: one fox, seventeen geese. The fox’s goal is to outmaneuver the geese, capturing them by leaping over them. The geese, slower but greater in number, must trap the fox in a corner.
She placed the pieces with practiced ease, rolling her shoulders before glancing up.
"Are you about to flounce me?" Death asked, narrowing his gaze as he picked up the fox piece between his long fingers, rolling it absently.
She watched his hands, the way his fingers moved, deft and careful, unhurried. Mortal hands now lined with a body’s adjustment to time. They were warm hands, she knew, though she had never given herself the space to think of them as such before.
"I am but an amateur,” she confessed, her voice sweet and demure, but the glint in her eyes betrayed her.
He arched a brow, unimpressed. "You lie terribly."
She laughed, arranging her geese into formation. "I am a seasoned player."
And seasoned she was. She made quick work of him, maneuvering her geese with merciless precision, cornering his fox in only a handful of moves.
His scowl deepened, fingers drumming against the edge of the board as he studied his loss. "Again,” he ground out.
She smiled, resetting the pieces, watching the way his brow furrowed, the way his teeth needled his lips in stern concentration. This time, he played more relaxed, his movements more calculated. His fox grew more elusive, slipping from her traps, learning her rhythm. She almost considered the possibility that he might win.
Almost.
But in the end, she still cornered him, forcing his fox into a cage of its own making. Ilys clapped her hands gleefully.
"Are you a sore winner?" he questioned, brow arched in disappointment.
She leaned in, her voice a whisper against the warm air between them. "I am an ecstatic, jubilant winner,” she corrected. "There is nothing sore about it."
His eyes flickered over her face, dark and searching, memorizing her. He reset the board, nodding his head for her to take her turn.
