Darius hasn't betrayed us. Not yet. Could've. Should've, if he was smart. But maybe he still needs us. Or maybe… maybe he's actually keeping his word. And that unsettles me. Makes me feel like I owe him something. And I don't like owing anyone.
"The media story's seeded," the púca announces. "Gas leak narrative's spreading. Some locals lost control. Explained away the crazies."
"Casualties?" Darius asks.
"Four stabbings, minor injuries, three fatalities," the púca replies without flinching. "Two were shot by private security. One found in the garden, head bashed in."
Asher doesn't react much, but I know that look—his jaw tightening like he's adding numbers he never wanted to count. Three more for the guilt weight.
"Violent ones detained. Medics are monitoring. Once the influence fades, we'll have them released quietly."
"And the Quinns?" Darius asks.
"Secured. They're in the safehouse, sedated."
Darius turns to us. "We need you to handle that. Influence them. Make them forget."
I scoff. "Since when do I work for you, goat man? I must've missed the paycheck."
It comes out tired. Not even sarcastic enough to sting, just worn down.
Asher nods. Always ready for duty. "We'll make sure they stay away from her. Permanently."
He glances at me. I meet his eyes, and we don't have to say it aloud:She's ours.
"What will you do now?" Jace asks, his voice tight. "With her?"
Darius doesn't blink. "Whatever we must."
There's a pause.
"Someone should be there when she wakes up," Asher says.
Silence.
Three men. One woman. A cellar full of regret and wreckage between us. And they all look at me.
Of course they do. Because I'm the loud one. The reckless one. The one who'd bleed himself dry just to make her laugh again. I can feel the weight of their expectations pressing against my chest like a hand trying to stop my heart.
But I don't move. Because right now, I don't know if I can face her.
Not with her voice still ringing in my head, telling me she didn't love me. Not with her pulling the trigger and walking away like I was nothing but target practice.
I stare down at the floor, then exhale and say, "Darius should go."
Heads turn. The expressions of shock are priceless.
"He's known her the longest," I explain. Then, with a dry chuckle, I add, "Let him take the first round. And when goat man fails, we'll step in and fix it. Like always."
Astrid snorts at that. Donna rolls her eyes. A few nervous laughs. The pressure breaks.
That's my role. The charming disaster. The scotch-drinking, joke-cracking mess who makes the room relax again. They prefer that version of me. Not the one bleeding on the inside. Not the one wondering if my wife really hates me. If all this time, I was just the wrong choice, a blip in her story that she wants to correct.
I take another swig and let the burn chase the thoughts back down.
Let the satyr walk into the cellar. Let someone else try to reach the girl made of thorns and fire.
Because if I go now, I'm not sure who'll come out. Me… or the monster I used to be.
