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Intimate magic broken, she sighs and covers herself with the blanket.
Grunting, I blow the bone powder upon the fresh hurt in her neck, then chant a common Ithydeir healing rite. Isla grits her teeth. She gasps from the flesh and skin sealing until any trace of my teeth has vanished. Only the first mark.
And Kryach’s. I glower.
Rising, I jab a gloved finger to the silver tray on the table, discarding the fallen bowl. “Eat and drink. You must recover your strength following my feedings.”
“But the mark?”
From behind the mask, I wince, posture tightening. “See for yourself.” I offer a gloved hand to her and draw her to the mirror. She will be too weak to stand on her own feet.
Isla accepts, but I furrow my brow, puzzled by the strength in her limbs. I’m baffled by her steadfastness when she abandons my hand and crosses the steps to the mirror.
Impossible.
After the Bite Offering, multiple menders had tended to her, replenished her blood force, but her knees were still weak. Now, she’s stronger following asecondbite. Bone powder only restores the skin and flesh?not the blood. With a single pomegranate as her only food today, Isla should not be standing. I expect her to pass out at any moment.
Straying to the mirror, I appear in the reflection, my chest at her back where her heat ravages me apart from the blanket shrouding her lower spine. My breath catches when she rubs one side of her neck and tosses her silvery hair from her flushed cheeks and neck to examine the shadow ink imprinted in the center of my first bite mark. Upon the side of her lovely throat. Inside the hollow eyes of theskull, blood-fire wreathes?ever-shifting with its power scarring her soul?now coupled to mine.
“I didn’t even feel it!” she gushes.
“You wouldn’t. Death is silent. He offers no warnings. Nor does he cause pain.”On the contrary, he ends it,I don’t add.
She traipses one finger across the mark, traces its outline, and flinches?startled when the skull opens its mouth as if to nip her finger, playful. “Now, now,Ary,” she scolds and flicks the mark’s caved-in indent where its nose should be.
“Did you just give the God of Death a nickname?” I ask, stupefied as she traces the live skull, too fascinated.
“A skull?”
“What?” I snort. “Did you expect a sickle?”
“No, it’s...” she trails off, smirks, blushing more until I swear her cheeks house wineskins. “With your bite mark around it, it reminds me of a corpus rose. See?” She traces her lithe finger around the outline. “Your teeth prints are the petals.”
Fuck!
Emotion?a chaotic whirlwind of raw torment and unchecked pride?clogs my throat. I swallow hard. It will take all my resolve, strength, and power to keep myself from her on our wedding night. To force her hatred until she learns to fear me, to fear him within me. Until then, I’ll exult in every damned second!
Dumbfounded by this whole morning, I turn and walk away, unsurprised when she follows. Isla flits to my side as I embark toward her chamber door and inquires, “Where’s your mark?”
I freeze in my tracks, turn my mask to her. Equal parts incredulous and amused by her adorable naivete. “Seriously?”
“Oh, right.” She bites her lower lip, flustered. Then flutters those long lashes at me. “Where are you going?”
“Business.”
“Death business?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come?” She squeezes her shoulders together in a more adorable beseech.
I pause. Cock my head. Gape at her behind my mask. No brides were ever interested in my Death business. Isla bewilders me. In one morning, in one fucking hour, she’s accepted Death’s shadow mark, given him a nickname, and now she wants to accompany me to the Hollows. I remember how Aydon informed me of how she’d plunged into the Cryth River, struggled through the souls until they’d deposited her on the dais itself. I reflect. Conclude: Betha’s doing.
Yes, Isla deserves a proper introduction to my Ban-Sythe guardian.
Shoulders slumping, I unclench my hands I hadn’t realized turned to fists, then heave a sigh. “How soon can you ready yourself?”
Isla beams.
