When the letter came, as I stood in the doorway, fingers trembling over Arthur’s handwriting, reading that Leo had died—I felt it. A breeze, impossibly timed, lifting a strand of my hair. It carried the faint scent of oleander and salt. The burn of oud. It was Death, brushing past, if only to tell me he was near. I couldn’t explain it then, because what was I to think? But hadn’t he showed up when Beatrice died? Then Leo? Was he still my enemy?
“Do you have a name?” I asked, turning toward him.
Death leaned forward over the balcony, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the stone. A pained expression passed over him before he blew out a long breath and turned back toward me with a haunted look in his eyes. “Let’s take that walk, shall we?”
I took his hand, hooking my arm through his as he led me down the grand staircase into the mazed gardens below. Only the moonlight and flickering torches guided our way.
A midnight walk through a garden on the darkest night of the year—with the king of night himself. The thought made me smile.
Death towered beside me, resting his other hand atop mine in a gesture of quiet possession. He was nothing if not a gentleman, as I was beginning to learn. Moving at an unhurried pace, his steps were assured as he led me deeper into the labyrinth of hedges.
If I hadn’t believed he could find the way out, I wouldn’t have followed. But at the back of my mind, a flicker of worry remained, that he might vanish into thin air, leaving me stranded and alone.
He chuckled, low and velvety, then leaned down to whisper in my ear. “I won’t leave you stranded in the gardens, Star. You have my word.”
My cheeks flushed pink as heat blossomed beneath my skin.
With a weighted sigh, he squeezed my hand tighter. “I don’t have a name.”
I glanced up at him, my brows pulling together in quiet ache. Whatever he was—however he came to be—he deserved one. If my grandmother’s stories had taught me anything, it was this: everyone deserves a name. An identity. Spoken or secret, like mine.
“Grim…” I offered, scarcely louder than the wind.
It wasn’t kind. Or soft. It was honest. A name that could be uttered with reverence. Acceptance. A truth, plain and unadorned. And as soon as it left my lips, embarrassment clawed at my throat.
Who was I to name Death? Who was I to call him anything at all?
He stopped, halting us in place. His hands found my shoulders, and I was pinned beneath his gaze, glacial andglowing, impossibly intense beneath the curve of his feathered mask.
“Grim…” he echoed, testing the sound. It left him ragged, hardly held together. His fingers ran the length of my arms, trailing up again, and then he smiled. It cracked through his stillness illustrating sunlight through storm clouds. His cheeks lifted, shifting the edge of his mask, and then he pulled me tightly against his chest. A deep, unexpected laugh rumbled through him, curling into me with warmth. “Say it again,” he murmured, his breath stirring the curls at my temple.
I smiled against him. “Grim…”
When I leaned back to meet his eyes, I caught something in his expression. An emotion I didn’t recognize. Something I wasn’t sure he’d ever worn before.
It looked a lot like peace.
His hand came up, tentative, fingers grazing the edge of my jaw as a flicker of pain crossed his face. Then gone in the blink of an eye. Thumb brushing my lower lip, I closed my eyes, stilling beneath his touch.
“Astoria Tempest…” he choked out. "I’ve never known a curse quite as formidable… or as bewitching as you.”
My breath caught in my throat as he leaned in, lips barely brushing mine. Warmth, winter, and want suspended in a breathless moment—
Loud whooping shattered the stillness.
Grim stilled, the shape of his mouth turning downward, shadows flickering across his features. Drunken voices drifted from the patio in the form of raucous laughter and boots clattering on stone.
He pulled away, jaw tightening as the moment slipped through his fingers. Rolling his eyes, his expression hardened into something unreadable again. “I should get you back,” hesaid, voice clipped. He extended his hand, not cold, not warm, just... distant.
We walked in silence, his palm at the small of my back, steady and infuriatingly formal. One step through the hedged archway and we were on the opposite side of the gardens, before the grand staircase, the manor looming ahead like a final curtain call.
“You better get inside,” he said softly, not meeting my eyes. “It’s too cold out here.”
“Grim,” I breathed, the name cracking in my throat. I reached for him, my fingers held out into empty air. Pain curled behind my ribs, sharp and unexpected.
Something had happened beneath the snowflakes and the hush of candlelight.
“Go, Astoria. I’ll see you on the boat.”
