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The interior was just as grand as the outside.

Wide timber floors and dark wood paneling spun tales of a bygone era, while textured wallpaper and a crackling fireplace gave the space a designer-magazine kind of charm.

Olive velvet curtains framed the windows.

Antique French rugs warmed the floors. Heavy furniture filled the room with quiet opulence.

It felt lived in. Luxurious. Rich.

At the reception desk, a slender young woman lit up the second she saw Grim. Her smile was warm, her laugh soft and inviting. I didn’t have any claim to him, but I watched anyway, hawk-eyed and petty.

He’d never laughed like that at anything I said.

She was stunning—long, straight black hair, deep brown eyes, golden skin. Polished. Effortlessly elegant in a simple black dress and cream sweater. Not muddy sneakers and ripped jeans. Not someone who looked like she crawled out of a bookstore during finals week.

I picked at a frayed knee in my jeans, reminding myself I had no right to be jealous. It wasn’t as if he could actually date her.

Do I care? I shouldn’t, I thought. I was still angry over the stolen kiss, and the way my thoughts turned fruitless. He was confusing.

“Yes, my wife and I are quite excited to use the spa,” Grim drawled, waving me over. “Astoria, darling,” he added, turning to me with a gleam in his eyes, “this lovely woman was just telling me about the spa. I know you were looking forward to a massage.”

I hesitated, hovering at the edge of the conversation. Maybe I waited a beat too long, because suddenly Grim’s arm was around my waist, pulling me flush against the firm line of his body.

“The spa sounds nice,” I said evenly, keeping my tone just this side of deadpan.

“Whatever you want, darling.” He laid it on thick. His voice syrupy as he, again, brushed his lips against my temple. It was too casual, and nothing about us was casual.

My chest fluttered in betrayal. When I glanced up, his gaze was already on me, unwavering. In the darkness of his eyes, I caught a glint I hadn’t noticed before—iridescent flecks swirling like stardust in ink.

A pointed throat-clearing brought me back to earth. The woman behind the desk handed Grim a key and a neatly folded pamphlet of spa offerings with the kind of smile that said she was officially done with us.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. and Mrs. Tempest.”

Grim gave her a charming nod and steered me away, my bag swinging effortlessly in one hand as he made for the staircase across the room. I trailed after him, still dazed by the key. Mr. and Mrs. Tempest?

“We’re not sharing a room,” I blurted, grabbing a fistful of his coat sleeve.

“Sorry to break it to you,” he said, not even looking back, “but there was only one room left.”

“Says you,” I snapped.

He finally turned, walking backward up the stairs with a shrug. “Says me.”

At the top, we moved down a long hallway to the lone door at the end. Grim unlocked it and pushed it open with a little too much flair, revealing a room that looked as though it had been pulled from a high-budget period drama. It was suspiciously romantic.

“We’ve got a funeral to attend tomorrow.”

“What funeral?” I asked, almost on autopilot.

My fingers brushed over the plush duvet, taking in the four-poster bed, the stone fireplace, the soft fur rug.

Snow was falling steadily now, sticking to the massive window that overlooked the frozen garden below.

It was weirdly peaceful. A surreal hideaway in the middle of a storm—both meteorological and metaphorical.

Then his words finally registered. Funeral?

“What funeral?” I repeated, louder this time, spinning to face him just in time to see Grim crash against a hutch with a clatter, a few bottles of overpriced liquor wobbling dangerously on top.

“Death!” I panicked, rushing to his side. “Are you alright? What is it?”

He groaned, low and pained, and sagged into me before I could brace myself.

His weight caught me off guard. For someone not technically alive, he was alarmingly heavy and dense, as if the gravity around him had shifted.

I struggled to keep him upright as he leaned into me, head dipping toward my shoulder.

“I… just… need a—”

But whatever he was going to say was lost. His body went limp, his head thudded softly onto the pillow, and a moan slipped from his lips. His face contorted in pain, eyebrows pinched together. Then… stillness.

Eyes closed. Breathing shallow.

“Grim…” The name slipped out before I could stop it.

And just like that, the air shifted.

His skin burned beneath my palms and his face looked at war with something I couldn’t see. His whole body radiated heat. A fever? Did Death get fevers? Could he even get sick?

I scrambled to undo his coat, tugging it off with frantic hands.

It hit the ground in a heap. Then came his thick and unyielding sweater.

I muttered curses under my breath as I wrestled with it, struggling to get it over his head.

His limbs weren’t cooperating, and I had to half-pull him into my lap just to get the damn thing off.

I averted my eyes, trying to keep this from becoming more intimate than it already was, but then I saw it.

A flash of red.

I froze.

His chest, his back, and his arms… they were covered in angry, swollen marks. Deep crimson lines that resembled scarred burns, but rawer, as if something had clawed its way out of him and left a trail of fury in its wake. The sight of them stole the breath from my lungs.

“What the…” I sputtered, reaching out.

My fingers brushed one near his hip, light as air. His body tensed beneath my touch, and a guttural groan escaped him as he jerked away, muscles spasming.

“What are these?” I asked, though I knew I wouldn't get an answer. He wasn’t here and wherever he was, it was far beyond this room.

His eyes moved rapidly beneath their lids, flicking back and forth, trapped in a nightmare. It was disorienting to watch, like his soul was trying to escape through his lashes. I felt dizzy just looking at him.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know if I could do anything.

Gently, I tucked the quilt around him, smoothing it up to his chin, and grabbed the throw blanket from the couch, layering it over him. He was burning up. Was he always this warm? No, this was different. This was fire, fever, chaos beneath his skin.

Dragging a chair over, I sank down beside the bed. My limbs ached, my stomach growled in protest, and the thought of the deep tub in the bathroom made me nearly whimper, but I couldn’t leave him.

A soft sound broke the silence. Barely more than a breath.

“Astoria…”

My name on his lips cracked something inside me.

“I’m here,” I assured, grabbing his hand beneath the blankets and cradling it in mine. I stroked the back of it with my thumb, over and over. The movement was small and probably meaningless in the grand scheme of things. I couldn’t decide if it was more for him, or for me?

Could Death get sick? Could he… die?

No answers came. Just questions and panic and that constant, wild flutter of dread as I stroked his hand. Because I needed him. For the curse, I told myself.

Deep down, buried in a place I wasn’t ready to excavate, I knew the truth. There was more to our story than a curse.