Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(71)

Her body was screaming yes, ignoring the warning that rang deep within her mind. A tiny voice telling her to come to her senses and remember whom she was dealing with. Yet she stifled that voice and buried it six feet under. Listening to the most primal part of herself, Signa nodded.

Death unbound himself. His shadows wound around her, easing her down and onto the chaise as his hands lifted her hair, lips brushing so close that Signa arched toward him. He laughed, a raw and throaty sound as he lowered himself to her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut when she felt him there, trailing kisses from her ear to her collarbones—soft, peppered kisses, and every now and then a gentle suck on her skin that had Signa writhing, pulling him close. The shadows were enveloping her, brushing up her thigh in cold, smooth strokes that caused her to tilt her head back, offering herself to him.

She leaned into the feeling as Death’s shadows brushed closer to where she wanted him. Where she ached for him. His lips were at her jaw, inching up as his shadows followed suit. Her heart was hammering, her breaths coming in soft rasps as she waited for his lips. For his touch.

But the warning rang again in her head, louder this time: If she let this happen with him, what did that mean? Did it mean she was ready to accept what she was? To embrace it?

Death stilled as Signa pressed her hands upon his chest to ease him away.

She wasn’t ready yet. Wasn’t sure what sort of life she wanted for herself.

And so she scooted herself back and said, “Tell me something you like,” before she could change her mind.

“Something… I like?” He peeled himself from her. “I suppose I like you.”

She nearly choked on her own breath. “What about hobbies? Or food—do you like food?”

“I don’t eat much, though I’ve enjoyed what I’ve tried.” He sat upon the edge of the chaise with a laugh, and as he’d done the night they’d met in the woods, Death made himself smaller. He did so for her, Signa realized. He was trying to be more presentable for her sake.

“You don’t have to do that.” She bit her lip as soon as she said it, wishing that she could just shut up for a minute and think about what she was doing. “You don’t have to make yourself smaller. I’d rather see the true you, and not have any surprises.”

She felt his eyes upon her. “Does this mean you no longer fear me?”

“It means I’m not sure.” It felt wrong to say she was no longer hesitant around Death, or cautious of his power. But to say she feared him as she once had? After what he’d done for her—after he’d warned her about Blythe? That, too, would be a lie. She wrapped her robe around herself, avoiding his stare. The spell was broken now, and that tiny voice had freed itself and was screaming of virtue in her head. “I should get to sleep. Shall we continue our lessons tomorrow?”

Death nodded. “I want you to practice trying to speak with me. With your thoughts, not your words. You shouldn’t need the belladonna berries to get in touch with me.”

Halfway to her bed, Signa paused when he said, “I like animals more than most things.” She turned, watching the last wisps of his shadows slinking out the window. “I like that they can see me.”

And then he was gone, and Signa felt light enough to float.





THIRTY





ONLY A SINGLE NIGHT HAD PASSED SINCE BLYTHE HAD TAKEN THE Calabar bean, and already she was making miraculous improvement.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the doctor said as Blythe spooned porridge into her mouth. “What miracle is this?”

Percy stood with his arms crossed and eyes perplexed. “A miracle, indeed.”

Blythe wouldn’t be joining them for the Christmas ball or even a stroll around the manor anytime soon, but the antidote was working. And Signa knew that any day now, she’d find the one responsible for hurting her. She replayed Percy’s words over and over again in her mind, relaxing into them. A miracle, indeed.

Signa slipped away from the sickroom to ready herself for breakfast, hoping to eat quickly and find a few moments to continue her search for the source of Blythe’s poison and her research over the logs that Sylas had delivered. They hadn’t proven helpful thus far, though she certainly knew more than she ever cared to about the staff and their behavior. Except for Sylas, of course. It hadn’t slipped her notice that he’d purposefully left his logs from the stack.

Signa was seated at her vanity, not yet finished with her hair, when Marjorie arrived with a letter in hand.

“It’s from Lord Everett Wakefield.” She handed Signa a small white envelope. Signa’s name was written on the front in careful, elegant script. Though Signa had anticipated excitement from her governess, Marjorie took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “Be careful” was all Marjorie said before she picked up a brush and combed through Signa’s hair.

“With Lord Wakefield?” Signa asked, incredulous.

“With all of them.”

Understanding the firmness in the woman’s voice, Signa kept herself stoic as she drew the letter close to her chest and opened it without flourish.

Dear Miss Farrow,

I could not convince myself to wait even a moment longer to speak with you again. I would very much like to see you—today, if you’ll have me? It’s a lovely day for a ride upon the moors.