I even find Stargaze Tower, where I’m supposed to chuck Bell into the sea when the moon is full. The raging sea is right below, the tower rising up from it like a cliff. The room itself is a marvel, all gold and silver, with star maps and astrological drawings all over the stone walls, books of galaxies and planets strewn across sturdy wood tables. Two telescopes stand at the large windows, pointed at the clouds. Both windows open and when I test one, cold salty sea air flows into the room, invigorating me.
Finally, there is the lowest level, into the sprawling wine cellars, chain-riddled dungeons that looked primed for torture, and oubliettes that make me shudder, fathomless holes that I’m sure many have been thrown down to be forgotten about. They all seem to lead along the damp path to a black iron door with flickering candles outside. The door has strange symbols written over it. It’s locked, and there’s a dark, ominous hush to the area, which makes me think that the notorious crypt is inside there.
I don’t stay there trying to figure it out—the place gives me the creeps. And considering I’m a prisoner of Shadow’s End, that’s saying a lot.
I have to say, after being given that freedom, I’m happy to be back in my room. Dare I say I’m growing to appreciate it. When Raila comes by later to attend to my needs, I request not only a warm bath with that smooth skin scrub, but a bottle of wine as well.
By the time night rolls around, the snowstorm turns to darkening mist—I’m nervous but feeling pretty limber thanks to the bottle of wine, and that nervousness gives way to strange bouts of excitement. Bell keeps trying to give me tips and pointers for my meeting with Death, but eventually I have to put the towel over her tank, shutting her up like you would a parrot. She gets the hint.
I’m about to put on the white nightgown he picked out for me （I’ve been sleeping in the black one）， then remember his instructions for last time. I may have initiated this round, but I still want to comply when I can.
So I let myself be naked and go over to the bed, lying down on my stomach. I don’t even know if he will come by, he never actually said he would, and while I feel a bit of relief at the thought, I also feel a hit of rejection.
Which is weird. Because I shouldn’t be looking forward to this, not even a little. I mean, he’s essentially my captor and, while I walked into this bargain, it doesn’t mean that I have to like it. I shouldn’t like it. I should hate every moment of it.
And yet…and yet…
I’m curious.
I can still hate this and yet want it to happen, purely because I want to know what Death has planned for me.
I want to know what he’s like.
What he feels like.
The noises he’ll make.
The fact that he’ll come undone. and there has to be power in that.
It’s my power to give.
Make him want you, make him want to keep you, make him love you.
Then fly.
I think I must fall asleep because suddenly I hear the door open, flickering light briefly slicing into the room, and then it closes.
The room is dark now, the candles having been blown out, and yet I’m tempted to turn around, to see him approach.
As if sensing this, he says in a thick, rough voice, “Keep still.”
And so I do, my pulse racing so fast I think it might burst. I take in a deep shaking breath, my nerves in a frenzy, and close my eyes.
The sound of his boots on the floor is ominous as they get closer and closer, and then I feel the strength of his presence behind me. I know he’s standing at the foot of the bed.
I hear the buckle being undone.
I hear his breath get deeper.
I feel his eyes as they coast over my body, leaving licks of fire in their wake, heat that starts to gather between my legs.
I swallow hard, holding my breath. Every single muscle and nerve is waiting for his touch. Will it be hard? Will it be soft?
Will it be the touch that ends me?
A low growl comes from his chest and then he’s grabbing my hips with his gloves, the leather textured this time like roughed-up serpent scales. He yanks my ass up impatiently.
“That’s better,” he murmurs, his fingers digging into my flesh. He slowly brings his hands down beneath my ass, grabbing hold of my thighs and kneading them lightly. “Who is the last man to give you release?”
I frown, confused by his question. “Um. I-I don’t remember,” I say, my words shaking.
“Then it couldn’t have been very good,” he says, his fingers now slipping between my thighs, delicate at first.
Truth is, I probably could remember if I really thought about it, but it had been awhile and at the moment my brain is complete mush. I don’t think I could tell him my name right now. I’m too focused on those roughly textured fingers slowly sliding up and up and up…