Eva woke late the next morning to the deeply unfamiliar sensation of warmth.

Actual warmth.

Not magical accidental-near-death warmth.

Blanket warmth.

Fireplace warmth.

The sort of warmth usually associated with safe places and emotionally stable circumstances.

Which meant it felt extremely suspicious.

She opened one eye cautiously.

The black marble hearth still burned low across the room, silver fire crackling softly behind iron grates. Pale light filtered through the enormous windows overlooking the Underworld below.

No screaming souls this morning.

Well.

No audible screaming souls.

Progress.

Eva stretched carefully beneath the blankets before immediately regretting it.

Pain shot through her left arm.

“Oh, wonderful.”

She sat up with a grimace and pulled back the sleeve of her nightshirt.

The shallow cut from the ruins no longer looked shallow.

Angry black veins spread faintly beneath the skin surrounding the wound, thin as cracked ink beneath glass.

Eva stared at it.

“…That feels medically incorrect.”

The skin around the injury burned unpleasantly.

Not hot.

Wrong.

As though something beneath the wound was slowly waking up.

Excellent.

Exactly what every woman wanted after signing a blood contract with an ancient death god.

A knock sounded at the door.

Eva nearly fell off the bed.

“Right,” she muttered, clutching her chest. “Fantastic. My nerves are doing wonderfully.”

The knock came again.

More hesitant this time.

Eva slid carefully out of bed and crossed the room.

When she opened the door, she found a servant standing there holding a silver tray.

The poor woman looked terrified.

Not unusual for this palace, admittedly.

“Good morning?” Eva offered cautiously.

The servant flinched like she’d been threatened with violence.

Progressively more concerning.

On the tray sat tea, fresh bread, dark berries, and a folded set of black clothing that looked significantly more expensive than anything Eva had ever owned legally.

“…Is this for me?”

The servant nodded rapidly.

“No poison?” Eva asked.

The woman looked horrified.

Eva sighed.

“I’m joking.”

The servant clearly did not believe her.

She held the tray out with trembling hands.

Eva reached for it automatically—

And the servant recoiled violently before she even touched the silver handles.

The tray nearly crashed to the floor.

Eva froze.

The servant froze.

Silence stretched awkwardly between them.

Then Eva realized.

“She told them not to touch you.”

Acheron’s voice.

Behind her.

Deep.

Calm.

Dangerously close.

The servant went pale instantly and dropped into a bow so quickly Eva genuinely worried she might injure herself.

“My Lord.”

Eva turned around.

Acheron stood several feet down the corridor dressed entirely in black again, silver embroidery glinting faintly along the cuffs of his coat. His expression remained unreadable as always, though the shadows at his feet had already begun creeping slowly toward her room.

Honestly, they were becoming alarmingly predictable.

The servant still hadn’t moved.

Eva frowned.

“You can stand up, you know.”

The woman looked horrified by the suggestion.

Acheron stepped closer.

“Leave.”

The servant fled instantly.

Actually fled.

Eva watched her disappear down the corridor before looking back at him.

“You know,” she said carefully, “at some point we should probably discuss the fact that everyone here reacts to you like you eat people.”

“I do.”

“That was not the reassuring answer I hoped for.”

Acheron’s silver eyes shifted toward her arm suddenly.

The air changed immediately.

The temperature dropped.

The shadows across the corridor walls stilled unnaturally.

Eva followed his gaze downward.

Ah.

Right.

The wound.

“Well,” she said lightly, tugging the sleeve lower, “good news. I appear to be dying slightly differently now.”

Acheron moved before she fully registered it.

One second he stood across the corridor.

The next he stood directly in front of her.

Too close.

Far too close.

His hand closed carefully around her wrist.

Heat exploded through both of them instantly.

Eva gasped sharply.

The silver in Acheron’s eyes flared bright blue.

And beneath his glove—

That heartbeat returned.

Hard.

Violent.

The sound echoed through the corridor once like distant thunder.

Acheron ignored it entirely this time.

His attention remained fixed on her arm.

More specifically—

The wound.

His jaw tightened slowly.

“The contract is reacting.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It is not ideal.”

“Wonderful. Love that for us.”

The black veins beneath her skin pulsed faintly.

Acheron’s grip tightened slightly around her wrist.

Then he went completely still.

Eva frowned immediately.

“What?”

He did not answer.

His expression had changed.

Not visibly.

But something behind it had sharpened.

Focused.

The shadows near his feet twisted violently.

And then Eva realized—

He was breathing differently.

Slower.

Deeper.

As though listening to something.

No.

Smelling.

Acheron lowered his head slightly toward her wrist.

Very slightly.

But enough.

Eva’s pulse stumbled.

The air between them shifted instantly.

Heavy.

Still.

Dangerous.

The silver in his eyes darkened.

“What,” Eva said carefully, “are you doing?”

Acheron did not answer immediately.

His gaze remained fixed on the cut along her arm.

And then, quietly:

“…Roses.”

Eva blinked.

“What?”

His jaw tightened harder.

“The scent.”

Eva stared at him.

“There are absolutely no roses here.”

Acheron looked almost angry about that fact.

“It’s in your blood.”

Silence.

Complete silence.

Eva became abruptly aware that the God of Death was still holding her wrist far too tightly while staring at her like a starving man seated in front of food he refused to touch.

That realization did extremely unhelpful things to her heartbeat.

Acheron noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

His silver eyes flicked upward toward her face.

Then lower.

Toward her throat.

Toward the pulse beneath her skin.

The shadows around them shivered violently.

Eva’s breath caught.

For one dangerous second, neither of them moved.

Then Acheron released her abruptly.

Too abruptly.

As though contact itself offended him.

He stepped backward immediately.

The temperature in the corridor dropped sharply.

The heartbeat vanished.

Acheron looked furious.

Not at her.

At himself.

Interesting.

Deeply, deeply interesting.

Eva rubbed her wrist slowly.

“You keep reacting to me like someone poisoned you.”

“You are affecting the contract.”

“That sounds suspiciously like denial.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You presume much.”

“And you keep staring at my neck like you’re having a spiritual crisis.”

The shadows snapped sharply across the walls.

Definitely irritated.

Acheron turned away from her abruptly.

“The palace healer will examine the wound.”

Eva blinked.

“There’s a healer here?”

“There are many things here.”

“That sentence somehow made me less optimistic.”

Acheron began walking down the corridor.

Then stopped.

Without turning around, he said quietly:

“Do not bleed openly inside this palace again.”

Eva frowned.

“That feels oddly specific.”

Silence.

Then:

“There are creatures below the lower sanctums that can smell living blood from miles away.”

Eva went very still.

“…And yet somehow that was not the most concerning part of this conversation.”

Acheron finally looked back over his shoulder.

The silver in his eyes remained cold again.

Controlled again.

But now she knew what hid beneath that control.

Hunger.

And somehow, terrifyingly—

He knew it too.