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I scrubbed—
“Oh god,” I sobbed, throwing aside the pristine wipe and reaching for another, violently dragging it over the skull makeup on my face. Again and again I tried to scrape the paint off my face, but it didn’t budge, not even a smear left on each wipe.
It was—I—I couldn’t breathe.
I backed away, shaking, and curled up on my bed, gasping helplessly. My head spun violently. Pain and pressure pounded through my chest like a wrecking ball. I ripped at the dress clinging to my body and cried in relief when the zip tugged down, when I managed to crawl out of it. But a single glance in the mirror showed the makeup was still there. As if whatever Nightmare had done tonight, with the fire and blood and glowing crimson light… had made it permanent.
And staring at myself, I couldn’t deny it.
Magic was real.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MISERY
Ifelt it like a thousand wounds, a thousand miniature blades stabbing my skin over and over. I expected blood to bloom over the ice-white skin of my arms, to cut apart the stories I painstakingly inked on my body—each mark spinning tales of failures. So I would never repeat the mistakes again.
But the ink remained, my skin was whole and pale and unbloodied. And yet… the prickling, the warning, the awareness deep in my bones that my worst dreams had finally come true.
I burst into Death’s office, relieved to find Tor here too, although slightly irritated that his mouth was wrapped around Death’s cock and I hadn’t been invited.
“She’s back,” I blurted, my voice guttural and low, nothing like the silken poetry it had been compared to for the centuries I’d been alive. As if having a pretty voice made the misery I inflicted any less ugly.
“Come here,” Death said calmly, his eyes the colour of storm clouds—grey and full of depth—but lacking the churning violence of a storm. They were striking eyes when put in a face like his: excessively handsome, all stern planes and smooth brown skin, his mouth wide and full and always graced with a suggestive smirk or a gentle smile.
“She’s back!” I gnashed my teeth, storming across the fine rug of his office to the desk he sat behind, splayed luxuriously in his chair while Torment knelt at his feet. “Did you not hear me?”
“I heard,” Death replied, those calm-storm eyes unwavering from my face.
“You knew,” I accused, my body tightening, tension in every line and limb. My hands curled into fists. I wanted to swing them at the gilded globes in six alcoves around the room, each the map of a domain. I wanted to shatter them, then rip every leather-spined book off his shelves, and unleash my anger on the windows until glass shattered and his precious office screamed as loudly as I screamed on the inside. “You knew Nightmare was back and you’re here getting your dick sucked? We should be out there, killing her! Or fucking running or—”
Death stroked a hand over Torment’s shaved head, pushing him away with a gentleness that made my heart ache, and then he stood. Before I could blink, Death was across the room, grabbing a fistful of my hair, long white strands balled up in his fist.
“Take a breath,” he ordered, steely but with unwavering patience.
I bared my teeth. Forced a breath. “Your dick’s out.”
“I’m mortified,” he drawled. “Breathe, Miz.”
I shook my head, not caring that some strands of hair ripped out. I dragged down another breath. I was distantly aware of Torment shoving to his feet, pulling his trademark worn leather jacket over a black vest that bared his heavily inked arms. Unlike my self-inflicted tattoos, his were sentient and appeared of their own will with every major torment in his life.
“We killed her once,” Tor reminded me in a gravelly, low voice I’d always envied. Mine was honeyed and feminine, nothing like the rough masculine voice Tor possessed. “We’ll do it again.”
“We need to find out how she came back in the first place,” Death said, his lush mouth pressing thin. He held my stare, not breaking eye contact until I felt the first trickle of calm hit my panic, disrupting the automatic response.
“She’ll come back,” I said, curling my hands into tighter fists. “Even if we kill her again, she’ll come back.”
Tor shrugged. “So we keep killing her over and over.” He snorted. “Actually, that sounds fun.”
Yeah, it would. For him. For me it sounded like hell, and for a death god to experience hell that was saying something.
Death let go of me long enough to tuck his cock away, then took my face between both hands, his skin warm against my panic-iced cheeks. “There’s a complication, but I need you to remain calm, Miz.”
Even the word complication made my blood boil, my breathing escalating.
“Do you need me to get your therapy rat?” Tor asked, so dryly I wasn’t sure if he was serious or joking.
“She’s a prairie dog. And yes,” I bit out.
