The first thing I do when I wake up is look for him. I don’t know what it is exactly—it’s not like I’m any braver today than I was before—but I need to speak to him. It’s been a full three days since my hand seemed to vanish into thin air, so maybe having had a little time to let things sink in made a difference. I don’t know. What I do know is that there are so many things in my life I have no control over. Too many things. Whether I’m asleep or awake, it’s like I hardly know my own mind these days. And I’m tired of it. Literally. I’m exhausted.

Ready or not, it’s time to ask questions. And hopefully get some answers.

But I feel no sign of him now. His heat is notably absent, and it makes me pull the covers around me tighter when I sit up in bed. Still, I look around a little, feeling silly for it but not knowing what else to do.

I clear my throat. “Hello?” My voice is quiet, shy, and I get no response. “Um . . . Death?”

Hearing those words come out of my mouth and drift into the empty bedroom makes it pretty damn hard not to stop and roll my eyes at myself. But I resist, sitting up a little straighter instead and trying to add backbone to my voice.

“If you can hear me, I’d like to . . . I don’t know. I’d like to see you. To speak to you.”

Silence.

“I—I have questions.”

Still nothing.

Okay, this is ridiculous. He probably can’t hear me; not that I know anything about him, how any of this works. If another person were to tell me they met Death himself and were having one-on-one conversations with him, I’d take their temp or give them a drug test.

Yet here I am.

After another long moment of silence, I shake my head and peel the covers off. The wooden floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and I pad to the restroom, where I brush my teeth and take a short bath. It’s still early. I have no reason to rush before heading over to Mr. Blackwood’s, but the time seems to be ticking slowly by, leaving me with over an hour to spare once I dress in dark jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After pulling my hair into a ponytail, I turn on my heel and crash straight into a solid, warm figure.

“Wha—Jesus—” I look up to find those blackish grey eyes piercing into me and stumble back a step. The fact I just said Jesus to Death is not lost on me. His dark hair is just as disheveled as the last time I saw him, and he’s wearing the exact same fitted, black T-shirt molded to the hard shape of him, with dark, worn jeans over sculpted thighs. “You can’t just keep . . . sneaking up like that.”

His jaw tightens, the only indication of a reaction. His eyes are closed off. Hard. Dark brows furrow, almost slight enough to miss the movement completely. He says nothing though, which only makes me more aware of the way he seems to take up my entire bathroom. He’s practically pushing me out with his presence alone.

It’s not the first time I’ve felt the all-consuming way he commands a room, but usually I can’t see him. Somehow, this feels different. More intimate in some ways, letting me see every flicker in his eyes, every tick of his jaw, each curve of muscle. Less intimate in others, relying on words instead of touch.

I yank my eyes away from him and maneuver my way around his body until I’m standing in the large open space of my room. He turns his head over his shoulder, eyes tracing my movements. He exits the bathroom, taking two large strides until he’s standing beside the unlit fireplace.

There’s about ten feet of space between us, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. I get the impression he wouldn’t be able to simmer down his heat and intensity any more than the sun would.

Finally, he speaks; the roughness beneath the cultured tone of his voice makes my spine tingle. “Your questions.”

Straight to the point. I wasn’t prepared for that and don’t really know where to start.

After a beat, I say, “So, you can hear me then.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Okay . . . You can hear me then?” I make sure to emphasize the upward tilt at the end, exaggerating the—now—question.

“Apparently, yes.”

“Apparently?”

“Are these your questions?” The way he asks, it’s not like he’s mocking me, but rather genuinely confused. His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle.

“You were here a few nights ago,” I mutter. When I realize that’s another statement, I add, “Weren’t you?”

A pause, then a firm nod. “In a way, yes.”

I frown before recalling I wasn’t able to see him that time. Is that what he means by in a way?

I’m about to ask when the hard edges of his body begin to blur, smooth shoulders fading enough that I catch glimpses of the brick wall behind them. It’s not much, not like last time when he disappeared, but I realize he might be about to take off.

The next thing I say comes out of my mouth on its own, in a hurry before I lose my chance. “You saved me.”

His muscles tense, jaw ticking again and eyes somehow hardening even more. Scared he’s going to leave before I can go any further, I force my legs to take a step forward, then another, until I’m close enough to have to lift my chin to see those eyes.

“Why?” I whisper. With the closeness, his warmth reaches me like a silky blanket teasing my skin, making me want to inch even closer. But I don’t.

A moment of silence passes. “I can’t answer that.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” My eyes drift briefly to his neck when I see him swallow, then flick back up to his face. “Please. Why did you save me?”

Finally, he just shakes his head, almost in defeat. Such a contrast to the stiffness of his body, the intimidating stance of his strong build. “I . . . don’t exactly know.”

The vulnerability of his answer hits me hard, for some reason. This man, so unyielding and centered, with enough strength to steal my soul with a single look. Yet in this moment, he seems so . . . uncertain? Cautious?

He takes one slow step back, away from me. “Next question.” His back’s almost pressed up against the wall now, nowhere else to go.

My eyebrows knit together, my eyes tracing the set of his jaw, the way his lips tighten as he watches me.

Wait, am I making him uncomfortable?

Just in case, I follow his lead and take a few steps back myself. His broad shoulders relax ever so slightly, just enough to confirm my suspicion. I keep my observation to myself and decide to take advantage of this time he’s giving me.

I can’t help it when my questions come tumbling out all together, rushed. “How do you do that? Just appear out of nowhere? And what happened to my hand the other day, when I reached out for you? How come sometimes, like now, I can see you, but other times I can . . . feel you? And why are you solid one minute, but then almost, like, fading away the next?”

He’s shaking his head, fist clenching, clearly frustrated at something. At me? It doesn’t reach his eyes, but that doesn’t stop the tightening of my stomach. What he does next though almost makes my jaw drop, and I can’t help but stare in fascination. He licks his lips, gently biting down on the bottom one, then rakes his fingers through those thick, wild strands of hair, like he’s contemplating something.

I don’t realize that watching him has me biting down on my own lip until it starts to hurt. I quickly release it and lift my chin, expression bold. It’s my you-didn’t-see-that pose.

When his dark gaze latches onto mine again, it’s resolute. Some decision has been made.

“What?” I ask, still feeling thrown off and flustered.

“That’s a lot of questions,” he murmurs, a trace of irritation in his voice. He’s still mostly guarded, though, unreadable through his eyes. “As far as the last one, it’s simpler just to show you.”

“Um . . .” What does that mean, exactly? Before I have time to respond, he’s distanced himself by moving across the room, into the corner farthest from where I stand.

“I don’t understand.”

“Just wait.”

A second goes by.

And another.

Then I notice it; how the wavering of his form increases, the way his chest and torso start to blur like the outline of his body. I open my mouth, not sure how this explains anything, and he catches my eye. He’s focused entirely on me, his gaze like a penetrating thread connecting me to him, willing me to stay patient. With each second that passes, he fades a little more. I can make out the off-white colors of the wall behind him, flickering in and out of sight.

Without warning, he’s crossing the room, taking long, steady strides until he’s standing right in front of me.

“Touch me.” His command is low, a rough timbre that sends a shiver down my body.

I’m frozen, willing the nerves that are suddenly fluttering in my stomach to settle. Slowly, I reach out and bring my fingers to his taut chest. The heat of his skin burns straight through his shirt and into me. A light stroke, a brush of his warmth beneath mine, and he’s already becoming more solid. I gasp and my head tilts up so I can meet his eyes. I know what I see, the way his form solidifies when he’s near me, but I still don’t understand. How could that be? Why?

He’s looking down at me, dark lashes casting half moons above his cheekbones. Unreadable.

I let both my gaze and hand wander. My fingers slide up his neck, taking their time. I stroke the hard edge of his jaw with my thumb, before drifting up and into his hair. It’s softer than I thought it’d be, thicker too. Slowly, carefully, I smooth the strands falling messily over his forehead, bringing them over to the side, only for them to fall back disobediently. I’ve almost forgotten about the reason I’m doing this in the first place, and when I realize how this probably isn’t what he meant, I drop my hand.

My throat’s thick, and I clear it before returning my gaze to his. But what I find isn’t the blackish grey I expect. There’s a shimmering deep green at the edges of the iris, just like that first night in the lake.

“Your eyes,” I breathe.

Some sort of recognition seems to spark in them, and he gives his head a small but firm shake. Just like that, the green is gone, leaving not even a trace to be found. He takes a slow step back, the sudden movement cracking the hypnotic trance he has over me. I let out a long breath.

Looking him over from head to toe, I notice he’s now as solid as I am. Realization dawns. “That day on the sidewalk. That’s why you blocked me in against that tree when you started to disappear. To close the distance between us, so you’d be able to . . . stay . . .”

He doesn’t say anything, just watches me. His guard is up even more now. Eyes, mouth, and jaw hard. And I know that’s all I’m going to get from him today. His patience with me has reached its limit.

“Can I ask just one more question before you go?”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he gives a barely noticeable nod.

“Have you ever done this before?” I pause for a second, working out how to phrase what I’m trying to say. “Saved a person? Or even . . . touched another person?”

He’s so still, so quiet, I don’t think he’s going to answer. His lips press together, and I wonder if he’s trying to decide whether he should. Within moments, the solid outline of his shoulders, his arms, begin to fade again, and I chew my lip. He’s not going to tell me, is he?

But then, just when I’m about to give up altogether, he shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.”

He’s gone before I can respond. I stand alone in my room, frozen in place for I don’t know how long, replaying every second over and over.

No. I haven’t.

That’s the only part of our conversation that really makes sense to me. Not why he saved me—me, of all people—or what exactly happened with my hand the other night; I still wish I had the answers to those questions. But the fact that he’s never done this before, that makes sense.

Never saved a life. Never touched a person. A woman.

This is just as new to him as it is to me. Perhaps newer to him in some ways; I’ve been surrounded by people on and off my entire life. I think back to that first time he felt me, skimming over my scar, my neck, in the bathroom. He was so gentle, so careful. Like I might break. And then the other night, when he traced his fingers along my lips . . . I remember thinking there was something so deliberate yet sensual about the way he did it, almost like it was his first time touching a woman’s lips.

And it was.

The alarm clock on the nightstand blares, making me flinch as I snap back to reality. I let out a shaky breath and move my wobbly legs toward the clock, hitting the golden piece of metal at the top to make it stop.

Eight fifteen. Right.

Mr. Blackwood.

I have a job to get to.