Page 114 of When Death Whispers

“You said my name,” he murmurs. “You called for me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” I reply.

The air hums.

The shadows don’t move, but something in the space around us does. Like the name shifted the shape of the room. Like it shiftedhim.

“You did,” he says simply. “And now it’s yours.”

I blink. “What is?”

He tilts his head. “My name.”

The words settle in my gut like something alive.

“You don’t understand what that means,” he adds. “But I do.”

I glance down—his shadows still linger at my wrist, loose and patient, like they’re waiting to be called upon, like I’m the one with all the control. My heart squeezes at the shift in reality, at such a small gesture that means so much more in this moment than any words he may have spoken.

He watches me notice. His gaze doesn’t soften, but it sharpens. Like something unspoken isthrivingin the quiet between us. Something that I had only hoped for most of my life, and now seems to hang in the air, waiting to be claimed. Did I only need to come to the Evergloom to conquer my greatest fear?

“You wept,” he says. “While you slept.”

Heat climbs my neck. I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or something else.

“I stayed,” he murmurs. “Correction. My shadows stayed. I watched.”

The breath catches in my throat. “Why?”

His voice is lower now. Almost a whisper.

“Because I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

My breath stutters in my chest.

He steps closer.

Just a little.

Enough that I feel the cold shift in the air around him.

“I could take,” he says softly. “You know this.”

I nod while my stomach drops at the memory of the past few days. The conflicting fear and desire that always comes with a simple brush of his shadows.

I realize I’m hating that I nod. I’m fully aware he could take what he wants. But he hasn’t. Why? What’s changed?

“But I won’t,” he finishes, and that lands heavier than anything else.

“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it, curiosity winning when I’m sitting here, face to face with my personal nightmare, having a civil conversation. I don’t have time to process how absurd it all feels before he speaks again.

His voice turns almost hollow. “Because I want you to give.”

“To give what?” I whisper, though I already know.

He smiles—but it’s not cruel. It’s devastating.

“Everything.”

---