Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(109)
Her father was to be hanged. Her dead brother had left an unborn child behind. Signa, the cousin she wanted so desperately to hate but couldn’t no matter how hard she tried, was going to marry a man Blythe could not even begin to trust. And if her head didn’t stop its pounding soon, she had half a mind to tear it from her neck.
Each breath that Blythe took felt like someone was dragging nails down her throat. All she wanted was for the party to end and for these people to leave. Byron had gathered Charlotte and Everett to watch over Eliza, and the only person Blythe still recognized was Aris. Even the way he sipped his champagne was too smug for her liking, and before she knew what she was doing, she was storming over to him.
“Are you certain that he has foul intentions?” Blythe didn’t know the question was on her mind until it spilled out of her, earning immediate scrutiny from Aris as he set down his drink. He didn’t need to ask who she was talking about.
“He is Death, Miss Hawthorne. I’m sure you can answer that question yourself.”
That was the problem, she couldn’t. Signa had always seemed like a relatively sound judge of character, and her love for him was undeniable. She’d claimed that Death had saved Blythe, too. If all that was true and both she and Death really were on Blythe’s side…
She took the half-full flute that Aris had set down and finished it in one swig, grimacing. “You’ll take care of her, won’t you?” God, it would be so much easier if she could dismiss Signa from her mind and think of her only as the killer who had pried Blythe’s family apart.
“Of course I will.” Aris extended his hand, and Blythe took it on instinct. He led her to the dance floor, one hand slipping to her waist. “She will want for nothing, I assure you. At the very least, you can rest easy knowing that your cousin will no longer be surrounded by death every waking moment of her life.”
That was precisely what was bothering her. Whether Blythe understood it or not, it was difficult to ignore that being with Death at every moment seemed to be precisely what her cousin wanted. Never had Blythe seen Signa with such tenderness or adoration upon her face. It wasn’t infatuation or a morbid curiosity, but real love that Blythe was going to rip from her. All because of Aris. All because of Fate.
“I know what you are.” The words were too soft, too timid, and Blythe despised them. “And I know that you are aware of things that no one should be aware of. I want you to tell me the truth—do you know what happened to my brother?”
His severity was like a punch to the throat as he squeezed her hand. “Your cousin killed him—”
“I know that part.” It had been a while since she’d danced, and yet her body moved effortlessly with his just as it had the night of his ball, the dance ingrained in her bones. “I want to know why. The truth, Aris. Please.”
When his eyes flickered over her, seemingly searching for an escape, Blythe wanted to curl into herself and never unfurl. Because in that moment she knew why she hadn’t cried, knew why Signa had taken Percy, and that what Death had said in the garden was the truth.
Percy had been the one who had tried to kill her. Which meant that Percy had killed their mother.
Blythe shoved away as the music crescendoed into a crashing finale. Her head throbbed harder, and the world continued to spin even as she stopped moving. Aris watched her with narrowed interest as she staggered away from the dance floor.
She’d made a mistake. An awful, horrible mistake.
“Miss Hawthorne?” Aris closed the space between them, taking her by the elbow. “Miss Hawthorne, what’s wrong?”
Heat lanced through her body at that touch, and she ripped her arm from him. She needed to get out of there. Needed to give her mind room to breathe, to think, and… God, what had she done?
“Get them out of here,” she all but gasped. The words sounded like a distant echo, as though they hadn’t even come from her lips. “Get everyone out.”
And before Aris could argue, Blythe fled the ballroom.
FORTY-TWO
MORNING CAME TOO QUICKLY. SIGNA WATCHED AS DAWN CREPT through her curtains, slices of dusky orange cutting across the room.
She was wound in Death’s arms, head against his chest and entirely at home in the cocoon of sheets they’d drawn over them. She and Death kept to their silence, neither daring to shatter the peaceful lie they’d built around themselves. Yet as birds sang and the sunlight had them burrowing deeper into the sheets to shield their eyes, Signa knew there was no other choice. If they didn’t get up, Fate would find them soon enough. She pressed kisses down the length of Death’s neck and chest before she forced herself from him to get dressed.
Perhaps it was foolish of her, but the dress she grabbed from the armoire was stark black mourning wear, and neither she nor Death made any comment of it as she slipped it over her body.
Shadows slid up Death’s neck as he stood, shrouding himself in a mantle of darkness. He brushed a finger down Signa’s neck as she pinned her hair up, then let his hand slip to her waist.
“There is another option.” His voice was as sweet as ambrosia, and so divine that all Signa wanted was to lose herself within it. She didn’t want to hope, fearing she would only be disappointed. And yet she peered up at him, praying for words that could save them.
Death curled his hand around her waist, his hips pressed against her low back as he drew her close. “We could find a way to kill my brother.”