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CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHARLOTTE

T he next day, after we’ve cleaned up the mess in the bedroom, Jaxon and I discuss the details of my death.

I feel oddly calm about the entire proposition, secure in the knowledge that it’s not permanent. It’s a certainty I feel in the deepest part of my bones—the same as the certainty, growing stronger and stronger each day, that death is the final piece of the puzzle. The final proof to myself that I’m not the human woman I thought I was.

We talk through everything at the dining room table. Jaxon has one of those bright yellow legal notepads, and he takes notes through the entire conversation, which is both weirdly administrative and weirdly sweet.

“Fast or slow?” he asks.

“Fast.”

Jaxon breathes out like he’s relieved. “Thank the gods,” he says. “I really didn’t want to torture you.” Then his eyes take on a kind of wicked gleam and he adds, “I’m more interested in what comes after anyway.”

I throw a wadded-up piece of legal paper at him, which he deflects without even trying.

“How do you want to do it?” I ask.

He taps his pen against the notepad like he’s thinking. “Probably cut a couple of arteries,” he says. “You’d bleed out in about five minutes, which isn’t bad. Most people pass out before then anyway, although Hunters don’t always.”

He watches me, gauging my reaction. I know he can feel the heat in my core at the thought of the blood.

“Severing your brain stem would be faster,” he adds, “but that’ll take longer for you to revive.”

“That matters?” I ask. “How you do it?”

“Yeah. The less damage I do to your body, the faster it will take. I’ll also need to keep you covered. Buried, you know That speeds things up, too.” He writes something down on the notepad. I try to peek, but he covers it with his hand. “I’ve already got that part covered,” he says. “But it’s a surprise.”

I roll my eyes. “Will my body rot?”

“Nope.” Jaxon scribbles something else on the notepad and looks up at me, and there’s that shyness I love so much. “Which means I get to play with you the entire time you’re dead.”

My pussy clenches at the thought. “I thought I wasn’t really dead.”

“You know what I mean.” He tilts his head, studying me. “How do you want me to do it?”

I think about it for a moment, considering the possibilities, watching them play out in my mind and getting more and more turned on with each image. A split throat. A severed brain stem. Drowning in the muddy swamp water. A chain around my neck?—

“The way I killed you,” I whisper, and Jaxon grins so wickedly I almost want him to do it right here and now.

But no. We have to make our preparations. We have to do this right.

“You’re fucking incredible,” Jaxon says, and then we get to work.

The day of my death is cold and bright. I get ready in a dusty old bedroom Jaxon told me was his grandmother’s. I can see it, too; there’s a softness to the decor, lots of vintage lace and gauzy curtains. A big full-length mirror in the corner. A vanity where I’m sitting now, braiding up my hair so it won’t get in the way.

I keep expecting to change my mind. I keep expecting this decision to feel wrong, for dread and fear to coil like twin snakes in my belly. Death is supposed to be the ultimate fear, but the thing inside me that broke open when I killed Oliver Raffia also killed any fear I had of death.

Because my death will only ever be temporary.

I’m certain of it, as certain as I’ve been of anything. And so here I am, ready to be initiated.

I slide the last hairpin into place and blink at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing a pretty white dress that Jaxon gave me, the fabric soft and thin and tight around the bodice, with a long, billowing skirt that just barely skims along the top of the floor. It’s not really warm enough for the weather, but I don’t mind the cold.

I double-check my makeup—smokey eyes, thick lashes, pale lips. Maybe there’s no point in doing my makeup, but just like Jaxon said—I want my first death to be special.

I take one last deep breath and stand, smoothing the skirt down over my belly and hips. Check everything one last time.

And then I go downstairs to meet Jaxon.

He’s waiting for me in his creepy living room, standing in front of the empty fireplace. The mummies on the couch stare at me with their empty eyes.

Jaxon turns as I step into the doorway. He’s dressed up, too, in a dark if somewhat ill-fitting suit, like it was tailored for someone else. He pulled his hair back in a low ponytail, and he shaved off his stubble while I was getting ready.

For a minute, we just stare at each other. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say. But then Jaxon breaks the silence.

“You look so beautiful,” he says softly.

His words catch me off guard, and I fumble around for a response. “Thank you,” I say, then add, “It’s the dress, mostly. Thanks for letting me?—”

“It’s not the dress.” He walks toward me with slow, heavy steps, his gaze burning blue. “Well, not just the dress.”

His grazes the back of my hand with his knuckle, his touch soft, and that hot gaze settles on my lips. I suck in my breath, still not sure what to say. What to do.

“Are you nervous?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I smile at him. “I feel like I should be, but I’m not.”

He returns the smile, and for a moment, things feel easy between us, like they have the last few days as we got everything ready. “It’s because you know what you are.” He brushes my cheek. “I wasn’t nervous, either. I was excited.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t say I’m excited. I just feel—” I don’t think there’s a word for what I feel. “Inevitable.”

I don’t think it makes sense, but Jaxon nods like he understands.

Then he kisses me, and it’s like he’s kissing me for the first time, like we’re on a date and he wants to impress me. His mouth is warm and slow and hesitant, and he waits until I slide my tongue between his lips before he does the same. He lets me deepen the kiss even more, tilting my head, sliding my hand along the side of his neck, kissing him with the ferocity of all the darkness storming inside my heart.

When he breaks it, I gasp at the loss of contact.

“I’m going to do that again when you revive,” he murmurs into my ear.

It’s a surprisingly effective reassurance.

“Come on,” he whispers. “It’s time.”

His hand snakes down to grab mine, and I accept it. Then he leads me out of the living room, out of the house entirely. When we step onto the porch, I immediately shiver. A cold front came through last night, and the air’s sharp and snapping against my skin. Jaxon wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his heat.

“You won’t be out here long,” he says softly.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

He grins, then grabs my hand again and leads me out into the yard. The wind blusters out from the swamp, damp and cool, pushing my dress back up so I feel like a ghost already drifting through the marsh. Jaxon takes me behind his shed, and for the first time, I see the thing he’s been working on for the last few days. The little project he told me was a surprise.

It’s a tomb.

Not a permanent one, not one made of carved marble like the tombs in New Orleans. But it’s clear what it is: a little silent house built of bones and antlers and dried human skin—a thought that gives me a peculiar twist in my belly and nothing more. Swamp fronds on the roof. Thick, woody vines twining everything together.

And, painted above the entrance in blood, is the sigil that brought me to Jaxon in the first place.

“Once it’s warmer,” Jaxon says, his breath in my ear, “I’ll plant honeysuckle and jasmine, and they’ll grow around you and keep you safe.”

It’s beautiful, this place where I’m to die and be reborn.

“Will it stand up to the weather?” I ask.

“It should.” Jaxon looks at me. “The Unnamed is protecting it.”

“Okay,” I say. “But if a hurricane hits, you’re going to bring me inside, right?”

Jaxon’s eyes glitter. “Don’t worry, cher. Nothing’s going to happen to you while you’re dead.”

That’s not exactly true, and we both know it. But I don’t say anything.

Jaxon helps me inside the tomb, and it’s warmer in there, out of the wind, and there are soft, downy blankets for me to lie on instead of the cold grass. Jaxon helps me down, sliding himself between my parted legs, and runs his thumb over my lips. I can feel his heat against mine. I can hear his heart pounding and I can smell his excitement, his lust, his affection.

His love .

I reach down and lift my skirt. I’m not wearing anything underneath. A gift for him.

Jaxon doesn’t break eye contact. Not when he slides his hand along my wet slit, not when he unbuckles his suit pants and pulls out his cock and presses it against my clit, making me moan.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to use my knife?” he whispers, brushing a loose strand of hair out of my eyes.

I nod, never looking away from him. Pale winter sunlight filters through the cracks in the tomb’s roof, dappling us with shadows. He warned me strangulation wouldn’t be an easy death, not like cutting my throat. But it could be pleasurable.

He would make it pleasurable.

“Tell me when you’re ready.”

I breathe in, filling my lungs. His cock brushes against my clit, inflaming me, and I reach down and guide him into my pussy, making him gasp in surprise.

The darkness inside me pulses.

“I’m ready,” I whisper.

“I can tell.” He thrusts into me slowly, carefully, his lips trailing kisses along my jaw. “You’re drenched, cher.”

He kisses me before I can respond, so I roll my hips against him instead, wrapping my legs around his waist, drawing him inside me so he’ll feel my body quake as I stop breathing.

Jaxon kisses me for a long time, slow and sensual, his thrusts keeping pace. He trails his fingers around my neck, a tease of what’s coming next, and I moan into him, building up the pleasure for my orgasm.

“You’re getting close,” he breathes into my ear.

“Yes,” I gasp back.

“Good.” He raises himself up just enough to gaze down at me, his face flushed with exertion.

His fingers dig a little deeper into my neck.

“You’re going to come for me before you die.”

I nod as he brings his other hand up to join the first, his long fingers spreading across my throat. I cry out, bucking into him, grinding my clit against the base of his cock. Heat builds in my belly, sparking with an undercurrent of depravity, a sprinkle of fear.

More. I want more.

“Last chance to tell me to stop.” His thrusts are deep and rhythmic, his big cock sliding against some spot inside me that makes me spark and shiver.

And I don’t even have to think about it. Because I’ve done all my thinking already. This is what I want.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I rasp.

Jaxon’s grin splits his face open?—

And then he squeezes.

He squeezes hard, and tight, digging his thumbs against my trachea. I try to cry out, but my voice is trapped in my throat. Trapped by his hands. His cock slams in and out of me, body angled just right that he shoves it across my clit, giving me the sensation I need as my lungs burn and my head spins.

“It’s going to be so fun to fuck you when you’re dead,” he purrs, pressing his weight down on my throat. My body thrashes of its own accord, some primitive part of my brain telling it to fight for survival. It’s not conscious.

Because I want it.

I want it so bad.

“That’s it,” Jaxon whispers, his eyes wild with lust. White spots dot the edge of my vision, and Jaxon eases up just enough that I suck in another thin lungful of air to keep me conscious for a few seconds longer. I’m close. The pressure is building up in clit and my cunt both, a hot swirling hurricane of need. I try to goad him, but all that comes out are strained, choking sounds.

Jaxon squeezes my throat tighter.

The world blinks, and my body erupts.

It’s a monstrous swell of an orgasm heightened by the lack of oxygen. The light streaming through the gaps in the bones seems to swirl and dance, braiding together until there’s nothing but whiteness, a light so bright it burns black on the back of my eyelids, and I see its face. The god that Jaxon worships. The god that brought me to him so he could save me.

The Unnamed.

It nods at me, approving.

And somehow, I’m still coming as I die.