BLYTHE

BLYTHE WAS BREATHLESS WHEN SHE RETURNED TO THE BALLROOM, flushed

and clutching her chest.

She couldn’t say what drove her to follow Signa, or what she might have done if her cousin had noticed her in the hall, watching as Signa spoke to the murky haze that was becoming more visible by the second.

Maybe Blythe had gone to talk to her. Maybe she’d gone to try to quell the raging guilt that was bubbling and festering within her.

Or maybe she’d gone for answers.

He would have killed her. He would have killed her.…

She’d heard Death when he spoke those words to Signa back in the garden, his voice like smoke and honey. She couldn’t seem to scrub the sound of it from her mind.

He would have killed her.

Surely Death hadn’t been referring to who she thought he was. It wasn’t possible. And yet… Blythe still had not cried. Weeks of knowing that her brother was dead, and still she could not bring herself to mourn him.

It wasn’t so different than when she’d found out about Signa. The truth had stared her in the face since the beginning; it was only a matter of believing it.

She missed Percy more than she could put into words, and yet for some ridiculous reason she felt only guilt clawing at her throat, fighting to suffocate her. Not for losing her brother or for her lack of tears, but for being unable to wipe away the memory of Signa’s heartbreak and the

tenderness of her touch as she held Death.

Signa Farrow was in love with the reaper. She was in love, and yet she was willing to give up her own happiness all because Blythe had asked.

Signa deserved it, though, didn’t she? For all the harm that she’d brought to the Hawthorne family? Besides, women married near strangers all the time, and surely Aris was better than death incarnate… wasn’t he?

The ballroom was too hot, cramped with dancing bodies ignorant of what was happening around them. Why were they still here, twirling in their ridiculous gowns and laughing while Blythe’s world fell apart?

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.