No more silver hair.
This is a new face and…
It doesn’t scare me or feed my darkness or make me wonder what he’s thinking behind the mask he’s wearing.
I bite my lip, peering at him, shimmying my right hand farther up between us to trace the line of his jaw and marvel at his new appearance.
His eyes are predominantly blue with flecks of gray, and his hair is the color of a wolf’s fur. A gray wolf. Similar to the one that raced across the snow back in the wintery landscape of the Underworld.
He makes me feel impossibly calm, recklessly at peace. As if there were nothing to worry about.
We are a beautiful darkness, and that’s all there is.
“What is this face?” I whisper, my breath catching. “Who are you now?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners and a hesitant smile touches his lips. “I think this is what I might have looked like.” He gives a small shake of his head. “But I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”
I press my fingertips once again to his jaw, not quite daring to close the gap between our lips, even though everything within me wants to kiss this face that is so undeniably open to me.
There are no lies in this face.
Even so, he was badly injured and a fearful part of me understands that he is still mortally wounded. Somehow, he woke up and came to me, but these moments might not last long.
I need to speak while I can.
“I understand your anger,” I say, refusing to look away. “I feel it, and I respect it.”
He gives a small nod. “As I understand yours.”
I hope he hears me as I continue. “You are entitled to your vengeance.”
Again, he nods. “As you are to yours.”
My other hand presses to his chest and I flex my fingers to his skin, registering the clothing he’s wearing. A simple, gray tunic and pants. No more opulent silk or dark cloaks.
Simple, humble clothing.
I press my forehead to the edge of his jaw before moving upward to nudge my cheek to his. “Why do I feel so safe with you right now?”
It might not be the most important question.
Or maybe it is.
His lips move against my ear, and there isn’t a hint of a threat in his voice, despite what he says. “You probably shouldn’t.”
Still, his arms stroke my lower back, easing the tense muscles, his fingers brushing up along my aching spine before stopping where the bulk of my wings prevent him from reaching further.
The way he presses my muscles on either side of my spine relieves some of my pain—the pain of releasing and carrying my wings—and I relax against him.
Finally, the clamped muscles ease enough that I can retract my wings.
The heinous, black feathers fold inward and disappear from view, and I slump against him with relief. His hands work their way up to my shoulder blades while I nestle my head in the crook of his neck and he rests his cheek against my forehead.
And now I need to face what I know is still true.
“You’re dying,” I whisper, hoping that, by some dark miracle, he will tell me he no longer is.
“I am.”
