Page 129 of Death is My Ride or Die

I had a feeling he did. Maybe ignorance was bliss.

I shivered at the sensation of his fingertip drawing a slow shape on my bare thigh, and that was when I realized he’d never removed his arm from my leg. “I have a question,” he said.

Laughter that I didn’t quite recognize tumbled out of my mouth. “I might have an answer.”

“You said you wanted to be loved your first time. Why?”

I blinked, totally not expecting that one. The seriousness in his expression was off-putting. Like he genuinely didn’t understand. It took me a second to think about what I wanted to say.

“There’s a coldness in not feeling anything. I don’t want to remember feeling cold. Not for my first time. I associate love with feeling secure, warm.”

“Coldness.” Death stared into nothing as he sketched small shapes on my thigh. “I think I can understand that.”

I tried to articulate my opinion carefully. “People who don’t want to have attachments to others, they learned how to flip a switch. They know how to feel nothing. And I . . . can’t do that. I feel things fully. Most of the time, I feel too much. When I don’t want to feel anything at all, it builds up inside me until it surfaces, until it explodes.”

“Because you’re young,” he said. “The world hasn’t had its way with you yet. Nobody is born with thick skin. You’re tried and beaten with life’s weapon of choice until you decide how much more you can take. True power is controlling how you react. To everything.”

“Love isn’t just a reaction,” I argued.

“It’s a mental, physical, and hormonal reaction based on subconscious, innate behaviors.”

“You can’t be serious, Death. Love is healing and powerful. It’s what connects people to others.”

Death let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. “Your poetry is cute. If only it wasn’t based on the deranged romantic fantasies of mortals and had some merit. I have a hard time believing the worldview of a girl raised in a safe, nurturing family, sheltered from all the horrors of the world. What could you possibly know about life to be so certain about love?”

I knew this wasn’t about me, and it broke my heart. “Your mother loved you, Death. I could tell in the memory I saw of you as a little boy. She loved you.”

“Sometimes. In acoldway, I suppose.” He gave me a meaningful look. “My father—well, you’ve seen how naturally paternal he is. And my mother—she allowed my father to rob me of my childhood, mold me into an executioner. All for power, money, materialistic things to fill the voids inside them both. Children reflect their parents. If I reflect my parents’ love, then I am twisted and cruel and vacant. So vacant that I have become nameless.”

Feeling like I couldn’t breathe, I got up from the couch and stood over him. “Is this the lie you’ve trained yourself to believe? That you’re nothing? You arenotnothing. Living without any connection to others is a trauma response. You’re so afraid of being hurt again that you’ve convinced yourself that you don’t need love. And that’s not living. That’s just . . . existing.”

This dark revelation confirmed what I had hoped was not true.

“In the warehouse,” I continued, prying the difficult words from my mouth, “you said you envied mortals because their lives had significance. I saw something in you that frightened me.” I halted as my vision blurred and my throat tightened. “You don’t care whether you live or you die, do you? You haven’t for a long time.”

Death shut his eyes and leaned forward onto his knees, raking his fingers through his hair from the back of his skull to the top. “Faith.”

“That’s why you’re afraid to get close to anyone. You push people away because you don’t want them to see that you’re suffering inside. And let me tell you something. That makes you as human as I am. Your life isnotinsignificant, Alex.”

His head snapped up. His expression sent a chill down my spine as his eyes erupted with a glowing kaleidoscope of green. It felt as if I’d wrenched something merciless and haunting out of his soul.

“You matter,” I said, finding the bravery to continue. “If you were gone,Iwould grieve you.Iwould miss you.Iwant you to live. You’ve become . . . everything to me. If that means anything to you, anything at all . . . ” My shoulders slumped as a sob shook my voice. “Promise you’ll do everything in your power to stay.”

Death remained unmoving, gazing up me with slightly wide eyes as I wept.

“Come here.” He reached out with both arms, and I let him tug me into his lap. He cradled me into his chest. “You sweet, beautiful,foolishlittle mortal. I’m not worthy of these tears, and you should be frightened by what they awaken in me.” He took my hand in his and flattened my palm over his heart. “Until you feel that coldness, I promise.”

My eyes drifted closed as I pressed myself deeper into Death’s warm embrace. He kissed my forehead and rested his chin on my head, and I knew. I knew he loved me.

Death stiffened. The stench of smoke and burning flesh.

“Isn’t this sweet,” announced a British voice. “The bitch and the zombie canoodling like it’s the end of the world.”

My heart plummeted. Duncan, the master vampire, stood in the door of the entertainment room with one hand clasped behind his back. The fabric of his shirt had burned away, leaving a few strands of silky material hanging from his lean, pale chest. The porcelain skin of his face and his right arm were slowly healing from a vicious burn that was so deep, it exposed sections of bone.

Death moved in a blur, placing me behind him. “How did you get past the ward?”

“Oh, you have much bigger things to worry about than your little ward,” Duncan said, flashing his fangs. “I come bearing a lovely gift. From Ahrimad.” His amiable veneer vanished. “Meet us at the Greywood mausoleum in one hour.Bothof you. Or the warlock dies.”

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