“I consumed bear jerky while hunting,” he growls.
“Excellent,” I say cheerfully. “Empty stomachs make everyone cranky. Speaking of which...” I’m suddenly struck by numerous questions, “I reacted poorly to meeting your brothers initially. I found an apron in the pantry closet, so I won’t be naked when I see them again. It’s musty and moth-eaten but provides adequate coverage. Will you take me down and introduce me properly this time?”
His expression shifts from anger to complete bewilderment.
“You... want to meet them again? After what happened?”
“Well, yes.” I shrug, trying to project more confidence than I feel. “If I’m staying here permanently, I should probably get to know your family. And maybe understand why they’re...” I search for diplomatic phrasing, “confined downstairs.”
“They are dangerous,” he says bluntly.
“So are you,” I point out. “Yet here we are, having a civilized conversation in your kitchen.”
He blinks at that logic.
“Look, I know I panicked before. But I was caught off guard and had no context. Now I know they’re your brothers and that you must have reasons for the current... arrangement.” I take a step closer, noting how his pupils dilate slightly. “I’d like to understand your world better. All of it.”
The way I emphasize ‘all’ seems to affect him. His chest begins glowing faintly.
“You would trust me to keep you safe?” he asks quietly.
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” I meet his golden gaze directly. “I could have kept running yesterday. But I came back. That has to count for something.”
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, wariness, maybe both.
“Besides,” I add with a slight smile, “if we’re going to be stuck together forever, we might as well figure out how to make it work.”
THIRTY-FIVE
ABADDON
She smileslike she’s daring the world. The sight is ridiculous and unbearable and utterlyher. Perhaps it’s a fungus in the stew—some mushrooms make mortals wander in strange circles — for she speaks half in sense and half in fire.
I lean in, the motion practiced and careful, and lift her lids with two fingers to study her pupils. Creator-Father liked his luxuries and his substances. I watched him change when the world was smeared with stupefaction. “Abaddon!” she cries, and the sound of my name on her lips is a warm blade in my chest. I savor it, but not at the cost of my scrutiny.
Her eyes betray no drugged glaze. No bloodshot rim. She scowls as I release her face. “What was that for?” she demands.
“I am unsure if you are of sound mind,” I say bluntly.
She laughs—the disregard curls like flame—and then becomes serious with a question I did not expect. “Why do you treat them like monsters? How can you lock your brothers in a basement?” She moves her hands to her hips, and the little flame in her eyes is more dangerous than any weapon.
I pause. The question stabs at a place my mind keeps bandaged. Chains. Cold stone. My father’s orders. The answer is a practice I have kept so long it hardened into law. “They are dangerous,” I say. “Romulus’s parasite—” I make the word sharp as a spear.
She shakes her head as if the sound will dislodge belief. “You call it a parasite. But he spoke to me like a man before—before his head spun. How do you know there is no hope? Have you tried… another way?”
The audacity of the question burns. For a creature raised on commands and correction, such softness is unnatural and infuriating. My first impulse is to roar and shut down the debate. Instead, I feel something else: the notch of shame, the long bruise of my own past. Creator-Father chained me, tore at me, taught me obedience by the lash. I have been both jailer and jailed.
“You would have me release them into an empty wild?” I say tightly. “You would have me undo the only order that keeps this place from disintegrating into blood and chaos?”
“How would you like,” she shoots back, “to be locked in filth and called a monster? Would you deserve it?”
Her words knock at the old place in my ribs. I do not answer with heat this time. Coldness slides into my chest—the cold that speaks of consequence, not of fury. “Enough,” I say, and the single syllable is an edge.
She steps forward, danger bright in her face. “You might order me around in bed. You might like that. But do not think this life we begin will be you barking orders and me shrinking. This is my life too. I will not be made small.” She plants a small finger in my face as if I were a child and she were the thunder.
The brazenness is a challenge, and I feel my animal smile.
She refuses me. She is fed and obstinate.
