Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)

by Adalyn Grace

The first was perhaps the ugliest that Fate had ever woven, for too much of it was gray, and purpled like a bruise. And yet it was one that Fate had taken his time with, every thread sewed with precision as he crafted this cruel gift for his brother: a woman Death would love but could never have.

He needed to know. Needed to see this girl with threads of silver, this Signa Farrow, for himself. And so Fate grabbed his hat and gloves, and he went to crash a party.

“You may have reign over the dead and dying, but let’s not forget that it’s my hand that controls the fates of the living. For as long as she breathes, this one is mine.”

Elijah took Blythe’s face in both hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “This is nothing to fret over, all right? We’ll have everything sorted out by morning.” Elijah embraced Signa then, and her body warmed from head to foot as he kissed her forehead, just as he had kissed his own daughter. Perhaps it was because both she and Blythe were on the verge of tears—each of the girls holding the other’s hand—that Elijah looked so calm. Like a man on his way to tea, rather than one publicly accused of murder. “Do not trouble your mind, my girls.” He set a hand upon their shoulders. “I’ll see you soon.”

Signa didn’t have the opportunity to press for more before Death stole his hand away to take hold of her chin, tipping it toward him. As dark as it was in the parlor, Signa could still see the cut of his jaw among the ever-shifting shadows. The tension in her shoulders eased as he touched her bare skin for the first time that night. Coolness flooded through her body, and Signa tipped her head against him, savoring the touch. “Tell me the truth.” Death’s lips brushed her ear, and her knees buckled. “Did he hurt you, Little Bird?”

Signa trailed a hand down his arm, watching as the shadows melted beneath her fingertips and gave way to skin. To hair that was white as bone, and a frame as tall as a willow and broad as an oak. To eyes as dark as galaxies, which shone as they looked upon her with the very same hunger that pulsed deep within her core.

Death’s lips savored her neck, her collarbones, the tender flesh just above her corset. “I have thought of you every day.” His voice was a rushing stream, pulling her into the depths of its current and devouring her whole. “I have thought of this, and all the ways I would make my absence up to you.”

That was all Death needed to understand, adjusting his position so that he could scoop her into his arms. Signa sat between his thighs, cradled against the pleasant coolness of his chest.

I do not know when or how, he told her, the words little more than a whisper in her mind, but I will find my way back to you soon.

Perhaps she should change her way of thinking to instead always anticipate the worst, and to be pleasantly surprised if nothing horrible happened.

When everything went to hell, at least she could always count on scones.

“I did everything I could.” Byron fisted his cane tight and looked his niece in the eye. “I’m sorry, Blythe, but I’m afraid that Elijah is being detained for the murder of Lord Wakefield.”

Byron operated under the belief that there was a proper order to all things—that women had their place and men had theirs.

He didn’t need to say the rest; the truth of it already hung heavy around them. The punishment for murder was execution. If they didn’t find the true culprit, Elijah would be hanged.

Gundry looked every bit like a beast that had crawled its way out of the depths of hell,

“Wonderful. I quite like your face, and I’m not sure that it could handle another one of your attempts.”

Steady, Little Bird. The words were a gentle buzz in her mind. Steady.

Death cupped the side of her face and bent to kiss her with lips that tasted sweet as nectar and felt as all-consuming as winter. She tipped her head back as he peppered kisses across her skin,

“You,” he said at last, “are the girl who defied death.”

Something that made her feel as though they should be dancing barefoot in a forest glade rather than a dimly lit ballroom.

But no matter how much she strained—no matter how much she looked upon him or let his skin sear hers—nothing about this man was familiar.

“For every human life, there is a tapestry that defines their fate,” he said. “On yours were threads of silver that I did not sew. My threads are gold while Death’s are black. And yours… yours have always been silver.”

God, how she wished he could be with her now.

Fate was a fool if he thought that she would ever leave Death. She loved him like the winter, resolute and all-consuming. Loved him with summer’s steadiness, and with the ferocity of nature itself.

Has anyone ever told you how immensely stubborn you are? She was surprised by the grin that split her lips. Would you have me any other way? His pause was enough of an answer. Keep it up, Little Bird, and we’ll see if you’re still as stubborn the next time I get my hands on you.

Give me the chance, and I shall show you that I am not the villain here, Miss Farrow.

Blythe waved her away. “He’s not going to see me. I’m just going to listen. Speak loudly, cousin. Enunciate.”

She didn’t need to turn to know where Death stood, for his shadows had already curled around her, bringing her to his chest. He hugged her so fiercely that Signa wondered whether he’d ever let go.

She knew she shouldn’t feel nearly as giddy as she did, but Signa’s life had never been normal, and sneaking into the study to investigate her uncle with Death at her side felt like her own personal brand of courtship.

He laughed, low and pleased, as he watched her. “I didn’t expect you would have such control already.”

She liked that she and Death were so similar. Liked that there was a side to her that only he understood.

She would wage war on this hill if doing so would make him come to his senses.

“Whatever you decide, I will be here,” Death promised. “Until the moment you tell me to leave, I will be by your side.”

“Whatever you are and whatever you can do, you are not who Fate expects you to be. You are still Signa Farrow, and I am not a good enough man to allow my brother to take you from me.”

And it was that while the vines tore through the floor and the burn of Life’s powers lanced through her, Signa had heard the song that she and Fate had danced to.

She had heard the song he’d asked her to remember.

How long had it been since she’d had the strength to pull herself up without thinking anything of it? Blythe turned away from the groom as tears pricked her eyes.

It truly was astounding how nosy she was.

The very act of envisioning him there had the pressure in her chest deflating, for she knew that no matter what happened, he would keep Blythe safe.

She didn’t care to be a sunflower, unfurling her petals in the daylight for all to see. She would rather be an adorable little mushroom, thriving in the dark crevices where few ventured to look.

She shifted her attention back to Everett, who was greeting lovely women in pale tea dresses with twirling parasols to block out sunlight that was doing its best to burn Signa where she stood.

Only then did she throw her mallet down and spin toward Fate. Her eyes were gleaming with constrained satisfaction. Signa had no doubt that if they were alone, she’d be celebrating her victory with nothing short of a battle cry.

Death’s voice came as easy as the autumn breeze, sweeping in and lulling her into its comfort. If people are afraid, he said, then let them be afraid. Your shoulders were not meant to bear the weight of their expectations, Signa. You were not made to please others.

I love it when you make that face, he teased, one thumb sweeping up to skim beneath her eyes, where her cheeks were undoubtedly flushed. I so rarely get to see it. Usually when we’re like this…

Signa held on to the woman as Death swept around them. And though she could not see him, she knew he was there when the child looked up and smiled, extending his hand.

“Have I ever told you that my favorite color is the very shade of red you turn when you’re flustered?”

“Your parents will be so proud when I tell them about the woman their daughter has become. These twenty years were worth the wait. I am happy to have known you, Signa, if only for a moment.”

“You are my world, Signa Farrow.” The tenderness in his voice threatened to break her resolve. Signa had to turn away, shutting her eyes against the feather-soft kisses he peppered down her neck. “Whatever happens tomorrow, know that this will not be our final night together. I swear that nothing could ever stop me from fighting for you.”

“Look at me.” His voice was no whisper, but a command that seized her attention. “I want you looking at me when I touch you.”

“You are mine.” The words were not possession, but a promise. “For as long as you’ll have me, you are mine, Signa Farrow. I will burn this world to cinders before I let anyone take you from me.”