Page 25

At my husbands death. On the train from Berlin. During the outbreak in New Orleans. Fleeing the proposal in London. On the plane to Seattle.

In the hospital. At every grave I stood beside. I’d run all my life. But this? This wasn’t something I could outrun. It was in me. It was me.

And I had to be stopped.

“It’s late,” Feodora said softly, as if she’d just remembered the concept of time.

“I believe Death’s decided to stay. You should either go enjoy the party or retire upstairs.

I have things I need to attend to.” She gestured to a set of antique bells on the wall, one of those old-fashioned butler systems I hadn’t seen on over a century.

“You can ring for whatever you need. And send Death in on your way out, will you?”

Her fingers pressed into her forehead, holding her skull together, as a deep frown carved into her face. She looked... spent. Somehow I’d siphoned all the light out of the room just by being in it. Again.

“Thank you,” I said, voice quiet. “For everything.” I meant it. I would never forget this encounter with Fate.

I stepped out into the hallway, still dizzy with the weight of what I’d learned, what I hadn’t learned, and was thoroughly disappointed to find Death was not waiting outside the library. Instead, Day uncrossed his arms and pushed off the wall.

“Found a shirt, huh?”

“Death made me,” he grumbled, wrapping an arm around my waist as he leaned in conspiratorially. “He’s a jealous bastard.”

“Is he now?”

“Yep, and I’ve got Storybook duty,” he chirped. “So, what do you wanna do, princess?”

He was handsome. Sweet. Capable of making me laugh even when I wanted to scream. But he wasn’t the one I wanted to see.

And when the hell did that happen? When did I start wanting to see Death?

The realization made me frown. Too much had happened. Too many faces. Too many truths I wasn’t ready to hold. Suddenly, all I wanted was a smoke and a bath so hot it could melt the skin right off my bones.

Grim was mad. I couldn’t understand why. Day’s joke had been hilarious—I snorted with laughter.

“What the hell are you two doing?” he growled, and somehow, that only made me giggle harder.

I felt funny. Glorious. And wet. So, so wet.

The water clung oddly to my skin as I moved my hands through the sea of bubbles. Day had definitely overdone it with the bath gel. It foamed so much, it looked as if Grim was floating through a cloud bank, even though he was very much across the room, arms crossed and glowering.

At some point, he’d ditched his funeral couture. Gone were the dress slacks and somber shirt, replaced by a plain black tee and gray sweatpants. He looked… relaxed. Unarmored. Who was this man?

“Day, get out.” Grim’s voice cut like a blade—sharp, regal, utterly unamused.

Day just chuckled, casually handing me the cig as I passed him the bottle. “No can do, big man. Storybook wanted a bath, and a bath she shall get.”

I laughed, a real one this time, and leaned back until my head thunked against the rim of the tub. “Ow.”

I rubbed at the spot, still giggling.

Grim was on me in a blink, slipping on the tile in his hurry to assess the damage. He tilted my head, inspecting the barely-there bump as if it was a mortal wound. “Day. Out. Now.”

Day stood, peeled off his transparent shirt, and tossed it to the floor in a sopping heap. I watched him with bleary interest, whiskey still in hand. His jeans clung to his legs as he stepped out of the tub, slow and casual.

“Careful, Princess,” he said with a wink, “Death might get the wrong idea.”

I fought a blush, sinking deeper into the water.

Grim took a step toward me, still watching as Day stripped to his boxers with no shame whatsoever . His frown deepened as Day sauntered over to me again to kiss my cheek and snatch the bottle back.

“Off to work we go,” he sang, off-key and dramatic as he stumbled out the door.

Grim muttered something under his breath as he pulled a towel from the cabinet and set it nearby. “I thought we had an agreement,” he said, plucking the cigarette from my mouth and dropping it into the water with a hiss.

“It’s not as though I can die,” I muttered. “What does it matter?”

He paused, arm already in the bath as he pulled the drain plug. His eyes turned calculated and cold once more. “Why are you fully clothed and drunk in the tub?”

It wasn’t as if the booze or the smoke did anything permanent.

Just enough to numb the noise for a few very brief hours before my body shook it all off.

Truly tragic, if I was being honest. What is the point of living forever if nothing affects you?

I would have spent the last century drunk in the sorrow of losing my family, if it weren’t for that small excruciating detail of the curse.

“ Astoria. ” He squatted beside the tub, arms braced on the edge, fingers trailing lazy lines in the water just in front of my chest.

I watched the patterns swirl and break. His skin shimmered faintly beneath the bubbles, pale and almost luminous.

I hadn’t noticed before, probably because he was always covered.

Faint markings, the same kind as on his chest, traced up his arms, and I imagined them as scars carved by fate itself.

His own reckoning. “What are those?” I asked, reaching out.

He followed my gaze. “The cost of my duty.”

My fingers brushed one of the longer ones, running from his elbow and disappearing beneath his sleeve.

“They make me sad,” I mused, not quite sure why.

Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was the way he didn’t flinch when I touched them.

Or maybe it was the fact there were so many .

My own scars weren’t as visible, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

He didn’t answer—just let me draw lines across his arm. The quiet stretched between us soft as silk.

When he looked at me, really looked , it was with sight of every bone I’d ever buried. It was unearthing. Shattering.

“Why are you taking a drunken bath,” he asked again, “in your dress and tights, no less?”

“They needed a wash,” I said with a smirk, dodging the real answer.

“Did Feodora upset you?”

“Does it matter?” I muttered.

“Yes.”

That made me look up.

“No,” I answered honestly. “She was kind. A lot less doom and gloom than I expected of Fate.” I swallowed, looking at the ripple of water reaching for me from where his hand disturbed it. “I’ve just realized you were right.”

He watched me with a stern expression.

“About me,” I added, tucking a wet loose curl behind my ear. “My insufferable existence.” I tried to mimic his tone when he first called me that—distant and clinical, but it came out brittle.

Something flickered across his expression at that. Not pride. Not triumph. Sorrow.

Letting out a sigh, I stood in the tub, wringing out the hem of my soaked dress. The water slapped gently against the porcelain. Grim reached for me without hesitation, taking my hand and helping me out. Then wrapping me in the thick towel, he crushed me to his chest.

“I should never have said that,” he murmured against my hair.

“You’ve only ever been honest with me,” I replied. “I used to think I was the hero. But I’m starting to think… maybe I’ve always been the villain.”