Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(82)

Oh, she could make a home in that voice of his, for it was sweeter than any nectar. Signa felt as though she’d been laid naked before him, exposed in a way she’d not known possible. “It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” Her breath was tight. She should have known such a dress would never have come from Marjorie. Only if she’d been able to claw her way into the depths of her own soul would Signa have been able to pick such a gown for herself.

He made a noise of agreement, a rasp of a sound that had Signa leaning in. “I could not be the first, so let me be your last of the night. Dance with me, Little Bird.”

Death was perhaps the most powerful being in existence—more powerful than any king. He was as fearsome as the night, as unstoppable as the wind or the rain. And yet, though subtle, there was a tremor in his request.

Every fiber of her being was screaming to run. But when he stretched a hand to her—not shadows, a true hand—her body burned. How was it that after she’d spent so many years of her life fighting him—fighting that part of her—she now craved his touch?

Death’s hand tightened on her hip and she bent to his touch, letting him lead. His movements were fluid and graceful, and the longer they danced, the more Signa felt the weight of her body disappearing. She was a feather and he was the breeze, gliding her upon the wind.

“You are more than just shadows.” It took effort for Signa to find her voice.

He faltered for a step but was quick to correct himself. “I can be, when the purpose serves me.”

“You have a form.” She leaned closer to try to peer beneath the shadows and golden mask that obscured him. He missed no steps but did well at keeping Signa at a distance. “What do you look like beneath your mask and your shadows?”

He clucked. “So forward a question at a masquerade. Perhaps I’ll show you one day.”

Something in his voice was softer then, the wall between them slipping away. It was the moment Signa needed to sink her nails into that wall and tear it down. “Do you not like the way you look?”

His laugh was a rustle of the leaves, the soft caw of a crow at dusk. “I’m confident you’ll find me incredibly handsome. I simply prefer not to use my true face often. I can alter my appearance to give people what they need in their final moments. But my image—my true image—I reserve. I don’t want my face to be the last one this entire world sees before they die.”

Signa yearned to see that face. Only a few hours earlier, she’d been in Everett’s arms, considering a life with him in high society. Now she was wondering how Death’s lips might feel against hers.

With him, Signa no longer wanted to wonder. She wanted to know.

Death dipped his head low, words brushing against her ear. “I have waited for you for a very long time, Signa Farrow.”

Breathless, she couldn’t find the words to respond. So instead, she lifted up onto her toes and pressed her lips to his.

The world disappeared as seconds spun into moments long enough for her hands to wind around his neck. For the cold to sink into her bones and Death’s surprise to give way to desire. He leaned her against a tree, kissing her back not with politeness or constraint but with a bone-deep hunger breaking free. His hands were in her hair, undoing it from its pins so that it tumbled over her shoulders. They were on the cut of her jaw, on the small of her back, on her neck.

The darkness enveloped them as he pushed himself against Signa, who made no move to stop him. The moment he’d kissed her, she’d become his, every part of her unwilling to turn away. Unwilling to stop herself. His shadows enveloped them, as though Death intended to consume her entirely, and she shut her eyes, ready and willing. Wanting to be consumed.

The shadows dissipated as Death tore away from her, and Signa’s entire body shuddered. He was, as far as she was concerned, the very embodiment of the devilish mask he wore. Her eyes were wild as they searched for him, not wanting this to be the end. If he laid her upon the ground right then, she’d continue what they’d started that night in her suite.

But he said, “It’s nearly midnight. You’re expected back at the ball,” and that was the end of it. Death trailed his fingers down her arm and to her hand, and as they spun once more, the world around them began to reappear. Stars disappeared, replaced by gilded walls, and where Signa had stood on moss, she now walked upon marble. The sound of the pond became the boisterous laughter of strangers, and Signa found herself longing for the quiet again.

“I could come to you later.” He didn’t look at her when he spoke. “You need only open your window, and I will come.” He swept his fingers through her unbound hair, then disappeared.

Within seconds the ballroom was exactly as it had been before. But the time was all wrong. It was nearly midnight.

“There you are!”

Signa spun to find Marjorie hurrying toward her with relief. “Lord Wakefield has been asking for you, and not one of us had any idea where you’d gone off to.” She looked Signa over. “What on earth are you wearing? And what did you do to your hair? Oh, never mind. There’s no time to fix it. Come.” Signa was too distracted by her swollen lips to care that Marjorie took hold of her arm and escorted her out of the ballroom. She didn’t pay attention to whatever the governess was prattling on about Everett, too busy trying to memorize the way Death’s lips had felt against hers.