Page 15 of In Death’s Hands (The Threads of Fate #1)

I feel like I have the world’s weight on my shoulders as Nathan opens his front door.

He just opens it, no lock, no nothing. Either he doesn’t understand the concept of a key or he really trusts his building’s security.

Or maybe being Death’s assistant provides some innate security system.

Like hellhounds suddenly appear out of thin air to run off the fools who dared touch what belongs to Death.

“Is hell real?” The words are out of my mouth before I can process them, and frankly, Nathan looks as shocked by the question as I am. His shoulders tense up as he studies me intensely.

I almost don’t want him to answer. It’s been a long day, week… life.

After my shift ended at The Muddied Waters, I handed over my apron and emptied my locker while Jo spent half the time trying to convince me to change my mind and the other half making me promise that I’d be safe and have some fun.

It was only after a terse warning to Nathan that she finally let me go and focused on closing the place for the night.

Truth be told, I didn’t know she cared that much, and I’m really touched thinking that she may care about me at least half as much as I care about her.

She’ll talk to Isaiah on my behalf, and thinking about the old man’s worried face when he hears everything makes my gut twist further.

I just hope Jo can rein in her inclination for dramatics and manages to reassure him that I’ll be fine and won’t be gone long.

“In a manner of speaking,” Nathan answers, his eyes dancing away quickly. He points at one of the two closed doors at the back of the massive living space. “I’ll show you to your room.”

I guess that’s that, and indeed, he’s now moving towards the door. I absolutely do not observe his strides avidly, gaze jumping from his toned ass to his back to his arms. His hands suddenly tighten into fists, as if he somehow senses my eyes on him.

My feet move towards him of their own accord, and I find myself standing in the opened doorway to another jaw-dropping bedroom.

I stay rooted to the spot as I take in the elegant canopy bed with cloud-like linen and curtains.

The head is pushed against a black wall that offers a nice contrast against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the other two.

I could live in this room. Please, can I live in this room?

There’s a vicious pang in my heart, however, when I notice in the right corner a neat pile of cardboard boxes all labelled with “books”, “clothes”, “bathroom” in an elegant script.

Even my guitar case is carefully set against the wall.

The work of Turan, I’m sure. She’s fast. And missing in action.

Maybe she decided that her part was done and returned to her life. I wouldn’t blame her.

Do I wish the same? I should say yes, I know, but I’d be lying. I’d also be lying by answering no. That leaves me approximately knee-deep in shit.

Looking at my whole life, packed up and pushed into the corner of a stranger’s house, I just feel empty. I guess I should stop calling him a stranger when I basically just moved in with him.

Nathan switches his footing next to me and says quietly, “If you prefer the other one, you can stay there.”

“Huh?” Oh, the dignified words coming out of my mouth… “Oh, no. This is fine. More than fine. And I’ve stolen your bed too many times already since I met you.”

“We’ve met before.”

His eyes are so intense on my face, I have to avert my own and look for any interesting detail I can find in the bedroom.

Like the lamp on the bedside table. What a lovely wooden lamp.

I swallow the lump in my throat and answer him, still observing that damn lamp.

“Well, yes. But asking what your order was for a few months doesn’t really count as meeting someone.

” Though it had been enough for me to develop a crush. Go figure.

“Right.” His jaw tenses and makes me realise that I’ve stopped my careful observation of the furniture. “Next door is your bathroom,” he adds with a jerk of his head towards the second door I noticed.

“I can’t do this.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

“You can take the other bedroom. We can move the boxes in no time.” His voice is way too gentle for someone literally offering me his own bed.

“No. Not this.” I gesture to the space before me. “This,” I repeat, this time with my arms encompassing everything. Him, me, this place. Perhaps the entire world. “I can’t do this. I can’t move in with you. I barely know you. I’m taking over your life. You—”

“What life?” He slips his hands into the pockets of his black jeans and lets his eyes roam all over my face. I feel entirely too exposed.

What does he mean, what life? This life. His life. I’m a wrecking ball.

But before I can sort my thoughts into sentences that make sense, he says, “There is no life for me, Liv. I am but a servant to my master.”

I gulp. “What do you mean?”

His sigh is heavy, bone-weary. “I mean that I exist to serve others. To serve Death in his unending task. This place”—he motions in much the same way I did to the space around us, only less frantically—“is only that. A place. It does not hold any meaning or emotional attachment. Consider it yours if it makes you feel better about staying here.”

I’m going to brush aside the part where he basically offered me his penthouse and focus on the fact that he completely believes what he said.

If I didn’t know better—which I don’t—I’d say he’s a slave to Death.

Stuck and forced to perform whatever task his master requires of him.

I don’t know how to feel about that. Is it even my place to feel anything regarding his heartbreaking admission?

I don’t know. Not that I know much of anything anymore. Which brings me to an essential question. “What’s next?”

He releases a breath and seems relieved to change the subject.

Was he afraid I would pry and force feelings and secrets out of his mouth?

Maybe, but I also know I’m not ready for whatever he’d be willing to say.

I can barely wrap my mind around him, so I am definitely not ready to delve into his… job? Duty? Task? Whatever.

“Next, you sleep. The entire night this time,” he says with a pointed glare, “without running to your death.” My eyes roll so far back I’m afraid they might get stuck up there, but I see the ghost of a smile on his lips and warmth spreads in my chest. “In the morning, we figure out a plan.”

The warmth disappears at once. Right. A plan to find the Fates. Because that’s not totally bonkers or anything. I shake my head, hoping the movement will eject the thoughts swirling inside it right out. No such luck.

I turn back to Nathan, realising that for all he’s done for me, I still haven’t thanked him. “Th—”

“Don’t.” His eyes shutter.

“But…”

He shakes his head and retreats towards the kitchen.

I could go to him, see if I can pry to learn more about him, his world and the insanity that is now trapping me, but I really want to shower. And I don’t think he’d say anything.

I head for my boxes, wishing my thoughts were as neatly sorted. I easily find the one marked “bathroom” and wonder once more where the colourful woman disappeared to. Where does she fit into all this? They said they were sort of related—whatever that meant—and then she called him “brother”.

Could anyone become Death’s assistant? Dread spreads through my limbs as my active imagination decides to create a whole explanation that is all too plausible.

Maybe Nathan died, and instead of doing whatever Death does to souls, he kept Nathan’s to work with.

As a punishment? It clearly doesn’t seem like a position he relishes, so it couldn’t have been a reward.

Despite the loud warnings in my head, I think back to the night I met him.

I remember looking at my broken body, I remember lights flashing around me from the ambulances and police cars.

A piece of my heart starts to break further at the memory, the crack quickly drawing me back to the here and now.

I know better than to linger in the past. Than to relieve that day in particular.

If Nathan was once human, then maybe it makes sense for him to still have a sort of family among us.

I don’t know. Honestly, with my current situation and my wild imagination, anything could seem to make sense.

After fishing for some clean knickers and pyjamas out of another well-labelled box, I head for the bathroom. It looks very similar to his except for the fact that this one has white walls instead of dark ones. But there is the same wooden counter beneath the fancy sink. It’s the light to his dark.

I make quick work of the shower that’s just as amazing as his, not needing to wash my hair this time. After brushing my teeth and applying some cream to my incredibly smooth and healed face, I head back to the—I still can’t think of it as mine—bedroom.

Climbing into bed, refusing to think of the man a few walls away probably doing the same, I relish the firm mattress and soft sheets.

I play with the buttons next to my head and find that one controls the light, another starts the air conditioning that is definitely not needed in autumnal London, and a third controls the windows.

Controls as in allows me to tint them and shut out the lights of the city.

Baffled, I play with it for a few minutes before chastising myself and turning everything off to sleep.

Or at least, try to. The moment I close my eyes, I am bombarded with images of angry faces with scars, cloaked bodies and shadow hands. I turn once, twice. Thirty times. I lie on my back, eyes wide open to get the images to stop coming, but they’re relentless.