Jesus Christ.
Adorable,I thought before I could stop myself.
I mentally slapped myself.
He’s the son of a fucking cult leader, I reminded myself. The right hand of a man who’s probably responsible for a whole list of offenses. That innocence? It could be an act.It’s probably anact.No one gets raised by a fucker like Malachi Ransom and comes out of it pure and kind andcute.
Still, as Elior’s eyes met mine again, I felt something shift in my gut. Not just nerves, not just curiosity, but something magnetic that I hadn’t felt in years.
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to look away, to focus on the floor of the stone dais instead. “It’s… an honor,” I said quietly, more for Malachi’s benefit than anyone else.
Elior tilted his head, like he wasn’t sure how to react. His lips parted, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to say something, but had thought better of it.
That hesitation made something twist in my chest.
I really needed to get my shit together.
Because the truth was, this boy—thisVessel—was dangerous in a completely different way than his father. Malachi was obvious about it—you could see the threat in him, smell the ego, the need for control. But Elior? He was the kind of dangerous that sneaks up on you, that you never see coming. The kind that made people want to protect him, to believe him, to kneel and call him holy.
And apparently, I wasn’t immune to it either.
Which made me stupid.
I reminded myself of the checklist I’d run through every time I got too deep undercover:
—Keep your cover story airtight.
—Don’t form attachments.
—Don’t get distracted by sympathy.
Or freckles.
Or soft smiles.
Or what he might look like under that robe.
Or the fact that, under different circumstances, I might’ve wanted to make him laugh.
I forced a polite grin and turned to Malachi. “Your son has a divine presence,” I said. “You can feel it the moment you walk in.”
Malachi’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “He is the Light made flesh,” he said, with the kind of certainty that made my skin crawl. “His radiance humbles even the strongest men.”
I bet itfuckingdoes.
Elior ducked his head slightly, the way people do when they’re embarrassed—or when they’ve been trained not to react to praise. His fingers curled around the arms of his seat.
I thought about what kind of life that must be—sitting up there day after day, worshiped but never free. I tried to imagine being raised in a world where every breath you took had to mean something holy.
Had he ever been allowed to just be a kid?
But then I remembered why I was here. This wasn’t about sympathy.
This was about intel.
About breaking through the layers of delusion Malachi had built.
Still, as Elior’s gaze flicked back up, shy but steady, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was just as much of a victim of his father as the others.
