Page 113 of When Death Whispers

I don’t feel him. Not the tether or the usual pull between us. Just absence, sudden and sharp. Like a part of me had grown used to the weight of him in my blood and is only now realizing how comforting it had been.

I’m alone.

And I hate how much that matters.

It’s that loneliness that opens me up. It’s that loneliness that makes me say it.

A name slips past my lips like a secret. Like a confession.

“…Steorfan?”

The air stirs like it’s listening. Like I’ve just said something I can’t take back. Like I’ve just invited something in.

I don’t hear footsteps.

But something shifts.

And then he’s there in front of me like the shadows rearranged themselves into the shape of him. Like they don’t exist without him moving through them.

His eyes find me first. Glowing. Steady. Twin embers that watch without blinking, without flinching—like they’ve seen every version of me and are still waiting for the one that finally breaks.

Then the rest of him begins to take form, sharpening in the low light until he’s no longer suggestion or shadow.

He’sreal.

He’s still cloaked, but his hood has fallen back, revealing unruly dark hair that curls at his temples like it’s never been tamed. It frames a face that walks the edge of human—sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, all wrapped in skin that’s nearly translucent, stretched over the ghost of a bone structure beneath.

He doesn’t look alive.

But he doesn’t look dead, either.

His features are delicate and defined, wrong in the way paintings become when you stare at them too long—like they’re breathing when they shouldn’t be.

And his eyes?—

Twin embers, glowing orange, locked on me.

They don’t flicker.

They burn.

His full lips part slightly, like I’ve interrupted a thought. Or started one.

He has a face.

Not a shadow. Not a blur. Not a mask of bone.

Him.

And it strikes me, all at once, how beautiful he is.

Not in the way Rad is—with danger and magnetic charm. Not like Hudson, either, with his softness and steadiness.

No. Steorfan’s beauty is the kind you don’t survive. The kind you can’t look away from even when it’s unraveling you from the inside out.

His expression is unreadable. Not blank. Not angry.

Just… watching.

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