He inclines his head, and my eyes catch on the faint dimples that deepen his defined cheekbones, so unexpected against the hard lines of his face that for a second I wonder If I imagined they were there at all. I study his eyes, watching as the flames dance in them so beautifully he almost looks like magic. If monsters smiled, surely they weren’t supposed to look this good. Or maybe that had always been the most dangerous thing about him.
Do monsters look like monsters, or do they look like men?
“I asked first,” I remind him quietly.
“You did.” He glances toward the fireplace, before his eyes meet mine again. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” I reply, watching as he wordlessly gives a small contemplative nod.
“And you?”
“Twenty-five.”
Only three years. For some reason I’d imaginedhim older. Older than the trees surrounding this house and the bodies lying peacefully in the graves outside. Instead, he’s simply a man three years older than me, sitting before me drinking hot chocolate. Deciding that I like this game, I ponder questions that might not get me into trouble, and keep them light enough he might be willing to answer.
“What does your sister do?”
For the first time since we’d begun talking, something unmistakable shifts across his face. The careful reserve he had worn since the market earlier today eases ever so slightly. His gaze drifts briefly toward the hallway, toward the photographs lining the walls before returning to me.
“She’s a doctor.” The words come easily, followed by the faintest shake of his head, as though correcting himself. “Well…a surgeon. A doctor.Both.”
The correction makes something inside me tug. He’s unbelievably human at this moment. He doesn’t sound like a man trying to impress me with her accomplishments. If anything, he sounds quietly proud, and nervous to talk about her all at the same time. He meets my gaze with quiet expectation before raising a single brow, the unspoken reminder of our agreement hanging between us. My lips press together, the urge to roll my eyes at the childishness of the game catching me by surprise, and for a moment,I almost smile. It’s like he’s carefully choosing a question from a hundred different possibilities, dismissing each one before finally settling on something so ordinary I almost laugh out loud.
“What side of the bed do you sleep on?”
What sort of a question is that?
“Uh…” I hesitate, thrown completely by how mundane it is. “I sleep in a single bed.”
He nods, his expression remains the same as he considers my answer before gesturing for me to take my turn.
“Why do you live alone?”
His amber eyes linger on mine for a moment before settling somewhere beyond my shoulder, and I watch as a slow breath leaves his still shirtless chest.
“It’s always been easier for a man like me. Can’t give them leverage if there is no one to threaten.” His words aren’t spoken with bitterness or regret, only resignation of someone who made peace with that truth a long time ago. My eyes trace the strong line of his jaw, the stands of hair that are dry now, the broad shoulders that for some reason, seem to carry a weight I cannot see but somehow know has always been there.
He wears solitude the same way old churches wear ivy, so completely entwined with their foundations that it becomes impossible to remember what existedbefore it took hold. I wonder if loneliness can become like a person’s shadow, faithfully following them until they no longer notice it stretching at their feet. I had always imagined him surrounded by darkness because he welcomed it. He had always been the one thing standing between me and the grave. Perhaps that is why they call him Death. Not because he brings it with him, but because he walks comfortably beside it that the two have become impossible to separate. He’s always shown me kindness. While I am still not used to it, it’s not how I expected Death to be.
I don’t miss his use of the wordthem.
Not one person. Not one enemy.
Them.
The word belongs to my world.
My father used to tell me that power was never measured by the people willing to die for you, but by the people willing to make you suffer before they take your life. A bullet was merciful. A knife took its time. But men who understood leverage never reached for either first. They reached for the people waiting at home. The people you cared about.
That’s who suffered the most.
I can still hear my father’s lessons as though he’s sitting beside me, patient as ever, pouring tea while I rolled my eyes because I thought I’d never have to understand the weight of lessons like that. He’d smileanyway, tapping two fingers against the table before telling me that who you are in the moments before you die is who you are to your very core. That the person lingering beneath the skin you’ve carried around your whole life until that point was the person you’d have to eventually face. And how easily that power, who you really are, can be destroyed just because someone somewhere wants something from you or someone you care about. All in the name of Vendetta.
Revenge.
He tried to prepare me for it. But nothing could have prepared me for this. Nothing.
In my case, I don’t think I’ll ever truly know what brought me to this hell, or what my power is. Whether I was simply a punishment for another man’s sins. My father’s sins. But I find myself wondering if Death already knows the answers to those questions. If he isn’t trying to know me at all, but instead, trying to uncover my power. My truest self before finally deciding whether it’s time to claim what’s left of me.
