Page 23 of Fearful (Powerless Trilogy #3.5)

“Right.” The king runs a hand through his hair, raking fingers through that paved path.

“Yes, I’m supposed to be reminding you how to live.

You’ll have to wait your turn to further educate me on dying.

” He forces a smile onto his features. Mara quite enjoys the warmth he exudes, though opposite from her in every way.

“Now, I was hoping to make a batch of Ilya’s favorite treat—”

“Sticky buns,” Death finishes. “I’ve heard.”

His brows lifts. “Have you ever had one?”

“I don’t eat.”

The king’s face falls. “Oh. Oh. I really did not think this through, did I?” He chuckles uncomfortably. “My mind has been a bit jumbled lately—”

“But I can,” Mara cuts in. She does not want to disappoint him. And she certainly does not ponder why that is.

“Oh, good.” Kitt sighs in relief. “Well, then, you will need one of these.” He lifts an apron from a nearby hook. “You might want to take off your cloak.”

Death, who has never done such a thing in all her years as a resident of the Mors, unclasps the thick wool from around her shoulders to reveal a fitted ensemble of black beneath.

Stepping closer, the king takes her weathered cloak, hangs it from the free hook, and looks down at a watchful Mara.

He then loops the apron’s strap around Death’s neck to crown her with the stained fabric.

If she had any breath to hold, she might have done just that when he reaches around her waist (his arms brush her hips, which Mara barely notices, of course) to tie a knot behind her back.

“There,” he murmurs, rather close to her ear. “Now you shouldn’t get covered in flour. No promises, though.”

Death watches him return to the counter. She then finds her composure and follows.

Kitt tips the bowl over, shaking it slightly to free the thick dough from within. It plops onto the counter, its consistency less than promising. The king and his shadow of Death stare at what they have made.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” Mara asks earnestly.

Kitt almost laughs. “I have no idea.”

He attempts to knead the dough into something more appealing. But it is lumpy and dry and peppered with eggshells. Finally, the king steps back to stare at the mutilated creation.

“You know what…” He shakes his head. “Living is a mess. It’s complicated and chaotic most of the time. So”—he reaches around Mara once again, tugging the laces there free with a single pull—“forget the apron. This is all the lesson on life you need.”

Death slips out of the thin cloth. “I don’t understand.”

Smiling, Kitt dips a hand into the bag of flour. Then a powdered finger is dragging down Mara’s nose. “What do you feel?” he asks, his eyes brighter than they have been in days.

Death blinks at the grinning king. “I feel flour on my nose.”

Now both of Kitt’s palms are completely white. He cups Mara’s face with them. “And now?”

She stares up at him. No one can touch Death like this, and if they could, they certainly wouldn’t dare.

She had forgotten what it felt like to be held.

And in this moment, Mara is suddenly afraid of what she would do to feel this way again.

“I feel… an exhilarating lack of control,” Death realizes.

The king’s smile only widens.

His gritty hands are still on Mara’s face.

Yes, Death made a grave mistake coming here.

“ That ,” he breathes, “that is what it feels like to live.”

Mara remembers now. She remembers this feeling. It was once associated with a ghost.

The sound of approaching footsteps has Kitt pulling away. Another feeling Death knows all too well.

“Blair, don’t—”

The warning whisper is lost within the sound of squealing door hinges. The unbothered Tele strides into the kitchen, her boots sinking into the puddle of light.

“Oh,” she says dully. “It’s you.”

This is addressed to Kitt, of course, though Mara stands unseen beside him, covered in flour.

Lenny skids to a stop behind his assignment. Then swallows at the sight of his king. “Your Majesty. I apologize for the intrusion.”

And Death thought this night couldn’t get any more interesting.

“Blair.” Kitt clears his throat. He fights to keep his gaze from straying toward Mara. “This is the last place I expected to find you.”

Her gaze flicks to the poor excuse for dough. “The feeling is mutual.”

The Imperial clears his throat. “Your Majesty, I figured since Paedyn is off on her second Trial, Blair could stretch her legs a bit. But we will leave you to your”—he too glances at the creation atop the counter—“baking.”

“No, it’s fine.” The king drags floured palms down his tunic. “We—I am done for the night.”

His gaze shifts to Death, unbidden. She nods.

Yes, it is rather nice to be noticed.

Lenny’s gaze drifts around what he believes to be an empty room. “Uh, thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Enjoy your free time, Blair,” Kitt offers, making his way to the door. “But if Paedyn makes it back, you will have to return to your room for a little while longer.”

The Imperial stiffens slightly at the king’s lack of confidence in his betrothed. Mara, who cannot help but wonder, thinks that perhaps Kitt does not intend for Paedyn to return. This is hardly an unreasonable accusation, considering the deadly incident that drew Death to her side.

She was suspended in the air above a raging sea.

Mara now finds these situations Paedyn Gray gets herself into unsurprising.

But she watched from afar, waiting to see if her services were actually needed.

Of course, they were not. The Enforcer pulled her back aboard the ship, evading yet another run-in with Death herself.

Yes, Mara would have to inquire about this.

“You haven’t hydrated your flour,” Blair points out with more than a little contempt. “That is why your dough looks like shit.”

Lenny winces at her words. But the king only gives her a look that speaks to their rocky relationship. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

“You do that,” the Tele calls after him.

Kitt strides from the kitchen as Death plucks her cloak from the hook, slinging it over floury shoulders before following.

Blair’s ire grows distant behind the closing doors. “What a waste of perfectly good ingredients. I’ll salvage it. Now, listen closely, gingersnap—you of all people should be able to do that. I need a lemon, warm water, cinnamon sticks…”

The king rounds a corner, shaking his head. “I see why you watch them.”

Mara stares longingly down the hall.

“You want to go watch them now, don’t you?” Kitt sighs.

“Something is happening between their souls,” Death says. “I thought they were doomed, but now I’m not so sure.”

The king shakes his head. “Their souls?”

“Something you will learn when I teach you how to die.”

“Deal.” Kitt smiles sadly then. “And… thank you. It’s easy to feel like myself when I’m with you.”

Mara does not tell him that the feeling is likely due to his soul drifting toward her—toward Death. He feels better in her presence due to this morbid connection drawing them together. Nothing more.

(But maybe, just maybe, something more.)

“Good night,” this Azer says softly. He looks like so many before him. Kitt turns to leave before glancing over a shoulder. “That night in the hall… You were serious about not sleeping, weren’t you?”

“Deathly so,” Mara says evenly. “I’m afraid I always am.”

He nods, his slight smile warming something within Death’s cold chest. “I’m beginning to learn that. Oh, and”—he gestures vaguely to Mara’s complexion—“you have a little something on your face.”

She might have let a small smile slip onto her stoic features. “It’s a good thing only you can see me.”

“Yes.” Kitt turns away. “I have Death all to myself.”

The king does, indeed.

And if he weren’t already doomed to die, Death’s newfound infatuation would certainly be fatal.