Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(106)

“There will be,” he agreed. “But when everyone you know is gone, I will still be here, Signa. This is not easy for me, either; I’ve wanted nothing more than to be with you. For you to want me. But I don’t want you so focused on the world of the dead that you forget to enjoy that of the living. Do you understand?”

She did, perfectly well. But Signa had no intention of giving up another person she’d grown to love. “I will live my life,” she told him, “and I will find you in those stolen moments. My decisions are mine to make, and what I’m deciding is that we’ll figure it out. We will try. And in the meantime, I’d like to make use of the time we have left.”

Death swallowed as Signa shifted upon the bed. It was fortunate she was still in a tea dress—one without a corset, which she could easily undo herself. Her eyes flicked to his with a silent question, and Death responded by twisting to pull her onto him so that she straddled his lap. “Are you certain?” he asked. “Even knowing that it may be some time before we see each other again?”

“You are the one thing I am certain of.” She brought his hands up to the laces of her gown, guiding his fingers between them. “We’ll find a way.” Only when his fingers slid through the silk laces, undoing them, did she shut her eyes and let the gown glide off her, trying to memorize the feeling of those fingers against her skin, trailing from her neck to her hips. The feeling, a moment later, of his chest pressed against hers. His thumb as it traced gentle circles against her inner thigh.

No matter how long it took, she would wait for him, and whenever she doubted, or whenever she missed him, she would remember this moment when he laid her down upon the sheets, and how the night itself had consumed her.





EPILOGUE





SIGNA SEARCHED FOR DEATH EVERYWHERE THESE DAYS.

He no longer came to her in the night. Nor did he come to her when she visited Mitra in the stables, where another stable boy had taken his place, as though Sylas had never existed. Death did not come to her even when her thoughts strayed to the press of his body against hers, or when she craved the power that thrummed through her blood along with it. Nor was he there now, among the dancers and gossipers at Thorn Grove. She looked for his black suit against the gilded walls. His devilish horned mask weaving between the guests. As she had at every party since her debut, she searched for him over the rim of her champagne flute, unsettled when the hair along the back of her neck remained flat and her spine was warm rather than chilled.

I want to see you. She was glad, at least, that she could still communicate with him. As frustrating as it all was, he was still a reaper, and wherever he ventured, death was sure to follow. And Signa had to admit that she’d grown quite comfortable with her life at Thorn Grove and those who were part of it. It was about time her world settled.

His answer came in a honeyed voice. Shall I bring about a plague? We would get to see each other quite often, then.

Signa snorted and took another sip of champagne, about to warn him not to threaten her with a good time, when a deep voice came from behind her.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Farrow.” She’d not heard from Lord Wakefield since the Christmas ball four months prior, when she’d missed their promised last waltz. It was her hope that he’d lost interest, though the glint in his eyes signaled she’d been mistaken. Like all suitors, though, the sooner she could scare him away, the sooner she could begin her life as a proper spinster whose only companion was the night itself.

On that night, however, she and Everett had no choice but to reacquaint themselves. “Allow me to introduce my father,” he said, “His Grace the Duke of Berness, Julius Wakefield.” Beside Everett stood a man who looked every bit his blood. He was a full head taller than Signa, with deep-set eyes and broad shoulders. He had an air about him that made her skin prickle, for the way he looked at her reminded her of how one might inspect a show horse prior to placing their bets.

The idea of curtsying to anyone who looked at her like that was enough to make her skin crawl in protest. And yet she did curtsy, for this man was the new owner of Grey’s, set to take control the next month in a deal that would have him splitting the profits with the Hawthornes. Elijah had been dancing through the halls since the deal was made. Even Byron wasn’t quite so cranky about the decision as one might have expected. He’d still be getting paid, and his family would be forever taken care of and remain in its bolstered status. A family that he now planned to have, if him courting his way through the ballroom was any indicator.

As this occasion with Everett and his father was a celebration of the transfer, Signa bit her tongue and lowered her head to Lord Julius for Elijah’s sake. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” she said, making her voice buttery. It took everything in her power to maintain her smile when he continued to inspect her for too long a moment before clasping Everett upon one shoulder.

Only then, apparently having deemed Signa worthy enough, did the duke grin. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Farrow. My son has told me much about you. You look so very much like your mother, you know.” There was a hardened edge to his words. “Though your eyes are most unusual.”

Signa sipped from her champagne flute. “They’re most unusual indeed, Your Grace. For with them, I am able to see spirits.” When she allowed her lips to stretch into a coy grin, Julius exhaled a rumble of laughter from somewhere deep in his belly.