Page 23 of The Deathless One (The Gravesinger #1)

And yet, here she was. With freckles and a scar.

“Need help?” he asked through the mirror, his voice perhaps a little too hoarse.

“I can’t get the damn thing off,” she whispered. “Keep your voice down. Someone might wake.”

“They’ll definitely wake up if you don’t stop stomping around in their dress shop.” He peered around her, trying to see more details of the room. “If that’s what you’re standing in.”

“ Can you even help? It’s not like I summoned you.” She looked around and then growled in frustration. “There’s not even a black candle in here.”

Flexing his hands, he tested the boundaries of his own magic.

Stepping forward, he found he could reach through the glass.

He could almost feel the warmth of the store.

Someone had recently left. Surely the heat would have already leaked out the drafty windows if they hadn’t.

A fire might still be in the hearth, if the shopkeeper was a risk-taker.

“Oh,” she said, then turned away from him and backed into his hand.

He could feel the ties. The silken threads that even now were still so soft to the touch. Letting his eyes drift shut, he traced his fingers along the boning of the corset. When was the last time he’d felt texture? Anything other than damp and cold?

The cloth was warm from her skin, and he wanted to linger there. The scars on the tips of his fingers caught on the delicate fabric, and he could hear the scrape of his rough flesh against the thin weaving.

She shivered. He knew he was playing with fire, because eventually she’d tell him to stop.

She’d take away the sensation that he hadn’t felt in hundreds of years.

He told himself to rush, but then the soft tail of her straight, dark hair brushed the back of his hand.

Danced over the scars there, too, and oh… It was lovely.

Curling his fingers into claws, he used a surge of magic to slice through every single thread that held her corset onto her body in one clean swipe.

He heard her sharp gasp, and then there it was. Against his scarred, swollen fingertips, the warmth of her back. Like velvet. He could feel the delicate ridges of her spine. Then, as she bent, his fingers trailed down the piano keys of her ribs.

Her body sang a symphony of texture and warmth and sensation in just the briefest touch.

He blinked, opening his eyes to admire the delicate sway of her back before him.

So pale he could see the spiderweb network of veins underneath it.

If he looked hard enough, he swore he could see the beat of her heart through her ribs.

A fragile little bird in front of him, all painted in ivory and silk.

“Thanks,” she muttered, her voice a little wobbly. “Can you not look for a second?”

The Deathless One tried to swallow and found it almost impossible to speak yet again. Clearing his throat, he took a step away and turned his gaze from the mirror. “Of course.”

She slipped out of view, and he berated himself again.

He had told her that he did not miss the touch of a woman, and he didn’t.

He knew where that touch led, no matter how tempting or lovely it was.

Yes, she was so delicate, and of course, it made his entire body clench with need.

But if he gave in, she would use him and take whatever she wanted from him.

He refused to fall to a witch ever again.

Pulling his mantle of darkness around him like a well-worn cloak, he returned to the mirror after he heard the rustle of fabric. This time, he wore the same face she must have come to expect. A god who had nothing in this world. A creature who was made to tease and test and perhaps even annoy.

She stepped in front of the mirror in a woolen white shirt that was far too big for her, draped over worn leather pants that actually fit.

Fiddling with the sleeves, she looked up at him, and a wave of her dark hair fell in front of her eyes.

Staring into that obscured, he reminded himself yet again that he was not here for her.

He was here for himself.

“Would you move?” she asked, clearly annoyed.

“No.”

“I can’t see past you.”

“Then allow me to be your mirror.” He looked her up and down, then tsked. “The shirt is terrible. It doesn’t even remotely fit. The pants, however, are good enough.”

“The pants are too tight, but the shirt is comfortable and practical.”

“Try on something else.” He enjoyed nothing more than watching her bare her teeth in a fake smile. “Something a little more feminine, if I might suggest such a thing.”

“A man who hasn’t changed his appearance in centuries is not one I would trust for fashion advice.

Besides, shouldn’t you want me to be in clothing that’s a little easier to move in?

Taking advice from a man with scarred hands and only historical knowledge about fashion seems like a bad idea.

” She disappeared from sight again, though, returning in a much nicer shirt that was better fitted for her shape.

This one even had the barest hint of blue color to it.

Forcing his eyes not to linger on the gentle swells of her breasts or the way her waist nipped in over her hips, he shook his head. “Magic always has a price. Didn’t you learn that the last time we saw each other?”

“What are you talking about?”

“My hands.”

She froze, her fingers still pressing down on the fabric over her belly. “Your hands? You mean your scars?”

“I pay my price all the time. I don’t even notice the scars anymore, and so I forget that my hands are rather grisly to look at.” His shoulders stiffened so tight they ached. “And I’m sure it is not a pleasant sensation to be touched by them.”

“Oh, I… No,” she stammered before finding her words. “I didn’t mind it. They aren’t that bad.”

He shouldn’t be so pleased with those words. Trying to control the situation, and his reaction to her, his eyes darted around the room before he focused on the situation in front of them. “Turn around, then. Let’s see what other clothes we can find.”

“Why are you helping?”

“Because I want you powerful, and to do that you must feel like yourself. We have a lot of work to do, and I won’t have you out there looking and feeling like a street rat.”

Her eyes widened. She bit her lip, clearly trying to hold the words in before she blurted out, “Someone’s always picked my clothes for me. I was dressed by someone else my entire life.”

The Deathless One conjured a chair behind him, then sat down and crossed his ankle over his knee.

With an imperious wave and a long-suffering sigh, he said, “There’s a first time for everything, nightmare.

Try the whole store on. We’ve got all night.

Let’s see what you like and I will hold my tongue. ”

The flash of her grin shouldn’t have eased something in his tormented soul, but it did.