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“If it comes to that, I will stitch the earth back together,” he says, shifting forward. His expression is entirely serious, every word enunciated. “I will hold up every piece of the sky. And if the Heavens want you dead, then I will tear down the Heavens myself.”

“It’s not worth it—”

“Nothing in the world is worth more,” he insists. He seizes my wrist, tugging me toward him until I am only one breath away from his lips, until I can make out the individual flecks of light in his eyes, the upward flick of his lashes. When I’d first met him, I had the impression of a god dressed in pure black, drawn from shadow and marble. But looking at him now, all I notice is color, vivid as a bruise: the red tint of his mouth, the bluish hollows beneath his neck, the violet of his despair. “Please,” he says, quieter, closer to begging than I’d ever thought possible. “Please, Rujia. Trust me, I will do anything. This is all right. This doesn’t—” He swallows. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

And I want so desperately to believe him. I want it so much I think my bones will break from it. But I know the truth. I can feel it, with each breath he takes, the fire creeping through his veins. He had been unharmed when I’d fed him the strongest poison I could make; his body had healed from the crown prince’s countless, horrific attempts to kill him. If something can affect him so deeply, chisel away at his divinity and leave behind such visible, irreversible marks—it must be a power worse than death itself. Perhaps my heart already knew, and that is why it hasn’t ceased its violent thudding since I lost my footing on the stairs: I have the terrible feeling of hurtling down, down, down into a black chasm, helpless to prevent the fall.

“It’s hurting you,” I whisper.

“So what if it does? I’m good at handling pain. I’ve been in pain my whole life,” Keran says. “I can bear it. I can survive.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” I argue, speaking through the lump in my throat. “It’s not fair. I—I don’t want you to be in any pain at all—”

“I thought you wanted to live,” he cuts in. “That was the only thing you wanted. Why give up now?”

“Yes, well, that was before I knew it would mean ruining you,” I snap.

“It is an honor,” he says, eyes blazing, “to be ruined by you.” Then he lifts his hand to the back of my head, snaking his fingers through my hair, and erases the distance between us.

His lips are achingly tender on mine. Careful. Reverent. Like he’s afraid he could destroy this; like I’m a dream he might wake up from. He holds me like I’m sacred, like between the two of us, I am the only god here, and he is another worshipper, kneeling before me, praying that I hear him. And I’m falling faster, deeper, my heart beating louder than ever, but I don’t know if I want to stop this, if I’m able to. I find myself kissing him back, my fingers gripping the edge of his collar, then the fabric around his shoulders. His clothes are still cold from the rain, his long strands of hair curling from the damp. His hands are so light against my scalp that it could be an imagined touch, a brush of wind. If he means to prove a point, then he is succeeding. The gloom of the city fades away like an old curse, and it’s difficult to imagine pain, to entertain reason, to even picture the destruction laid outside the window. How could this be an act against the universe? I muse as he cups my face. Nothing has ever felt so natural, so right.

But something changes.

He deepens the kiss with a sudden hunger, a kind of desperation that makes my breath catch in my throat—then he jerks back quickly, his breathing erratic. His eyes fly open, and I freeze. His irises are crimson.

The Killing Plague.

I thought I had managed to contain it, but it must have infected the Death God too. Must have been lying dormant within him this entire time, and now that his body has weakened, his energy destabilized—

He seems to realize this the same moment I do, because he twists his head away from me, his jaw strained white. “You—should go,” he says hoarsely. Even those three words seem to require all his concentrated effort.

I don’t move.

“Rujia,” Keran presses, glancing back at me. The red in his eyes deepens to the color of fresh blood. His gaze is feverish, heavy-lidded, almost drunk. “Listen to me. If you stay—I cannot be sure—what I’ll do.”

But that’s exactly why I can’t leave him in his current state. Without anybody to help him, he would be a threat to the mortals, as much as to himself.

“You think I’m scared of you?” I lift both my brows, keeping my tone mild, even as my muscles tense with apprehension. He would not wound me, I don’t think. But he is too unpredictable right now. Too dangerous. Like throwing a sword into the air without knowing where it will land.

“This is not the time—to be stubborn,” Keran says on another ragged breath. Those crimson eyes lock on mine, his pupils contracted into sharp points. He appears to be at war with himself. His hand grips the edge of the headboard, anchoring himself back, using so much force that the tendons in his fingers stand out. “Leave,” he says again, shorter, strained.

“No.”

His mouth curls, and I see the exact moment his control slips. He cuts forward through the thin space, a blur of dark fabric and dark hair. In one firm movement, he pushes me back with such speed that we both crash against the wall, my body pressed to the wood, his body pressed to mine. He grips my chin, forcing my head up. I can feel the points where his nails dig into my cheek, just as I can feel him trembling, struggling to hold himself still.

His eyes are solid fire.

I swallow, my mind spinning. I could kick him, shove him, summon a blade of light and force him to the ground. But I don’t want to injure him unless I truly need to—

Then he leans in, and the startling warmth of his mouth against my neck gives way to cold pressure, the sharpness of teeth.

A gasp rises to my throat, less out of pain than surprise. Heat floods through my frozen limbs, beating through my veins in the exact places I can feel his lips. I do not resist. “Keran,” I whisper. A question and an answer, all at once. How could you let him do this? Because it is him.

He bites down harder, hard enough to hurt this time, but not enough to draw blood. It hurts in the way a nearly healed bruise would hurt, where the impulse is not to flinch away but to press deeper, to test along the edges of the ache. I squeeze my eyes shut against the sensation, so overwhelmed I feel dizzy, my hands flattening over the wall for support. The silence in the room is magnified by the sound of his breathing, the air roaring in my ears.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says hoarsely, his words tripping over each other. “I don’t want anything else.”

My head is pounding, a riot of emotion bursting past my rib cage, humming through my bones. The muscles stretching from my calves down to my toes are so taut they feel numb.