I look feminine. Pretty and feminine.
Not even my damp, unstyled hair can take away from that, though I do my best to make even my hair as presentable as I can.
Hopefully this works.
I cannot believe I’m actually trying to seduce anyone at all—let alone Death. I’m a better archer than I am a temptress.
With that encouraging pep talk, I leave my room, forcing myself to find the horseman before I can chicken out again.
Thanatos is already in the dining room, waiting for me. He has a full plate of food in front of him and a glass of wine, but I doubt any of it will go between his lips.
Not unless I can convince him to give it another try.
It’s worth a shot. All of it is worth a shot. Eating. Sleeping. Seducing. Saving the world.
All it takes is a little convincing.
As soon as he sees me, his eyes burn with some inner fire. But then his gaze sweeps over me, from my made-up face to my form-fitting dress, to my bare feet, and a hunger grips his expression.
Oh God, he looks like he wants to devour me.
Maybe this was a bad idea, after all.
I steel myself and walk into the room like I’m headed into battle. I’m not the only one. At some point between when I last saw him and now, Thanatos has found his shirt and his armor. He looks ready to lead an army and vanquish his enemies.
Here goes nothing.
I head past my seat and over to his. Setting his plate aside, I hoist myself on the table and sit where his food should be. Tonight, I’m the main course.
Granted, this is not as drastic as sitting on his lap, like I did last night, but then I wasn’t planning on actually getting carried away.
Tonight I am.
“Isn’t sitting on tables breaking some arbitrary human rule?” Death says with a twist of his lips. He looks absolutely delighted at the notion.
Instead of answering, I pick up his fork. Spearing a scalloped potato from his plate, I pop it in my mouth, trying not to think about the entity that made the dish.
I set the fork back down and, after a moment, I put one foot, then the other, on Death’s lap.
Breaking etiquette rules is actually kind of fun. I think I could get used to this.
Thanatos stares down at my legs. Ever so slowly, he moves a hand to one of my calves, resting it there. The black material of my dress has slipped away, revealing my bare flesh.
“It will always cause me no little wonder to see you withstand my touch,” he murmurs, staring at where his pale hand touches my skin.
“Oh, your touch does do things to me.” I don’t know what possesses me to voice that thought, but the words are out before I can think twice about them.
Death’s gaze flicks to my face, even as that tantalizing hand of his slides up my leg.
He has no idea what he’s doing.
I pick Death’s fork back up and spear another slice of potato, trying to ignore my rising anxiety.
“How’s the food?” he asks, his penetrating gaze on me.
“I haven’t found any bones in it yet, so good.” I’m only half joking. I’m actually more than a little terrified that someone’s thumb is going to show up in one of the dishes.
Thanatos’s hand continues moving up my thigh, shifting my thoughts from one disturbing topic to another. He must know how intimate his touch is, he must—
All at once Thanatos removes his hands from my legs, but only so that he can grab me by the waist and haul me onto his lap.
I let out a small yelp, my fork slipping from my hand and clattering onto the ground. And then I’m back where I was last night.
Death’s face is so close that I can see those strange silver flecks in his night-dark eyes and how his pupils dilate at my nearness. His cold, unyielding armor bites into me, and I can smell the smoky scents of frankincense and myrrh drifting off of him.
Ever so slowly he raises a hand and wraps it around the back of my neck. He pulls me into him.
Death has a hungry, predatory look on his face.
He’s going to kiss me.
Only … he doesn’t.
He brings my ear to his mouth. “Last night we talked about all the ways you hated me,” he says. “Tonight it’s my turn to pick the game.
I go still in his arms.
He draws away from me so he can look me in the eyes. “No more dancing with words, Lazarus,” he says. “I want your passions and your truths all laid bare. I will ask you questions, and you will speak to me plainly.”
“This is your game?” I say, skeptical. I don’t think I like what he has in mind.
“Yes,” he says with relish.
His hands resettle on my hips, one of his thumbs stroking the soft material there. “Tell me what you feel when you look at me.”