He’s always there, quiet, lurking in the background like a shadow that doesn’t know how to fade. I’ll feel him before Isee him — the soft scuff of his boots, the shift in air when he’s standing too close. He’s not cruel. Not kind, either. Just protective in a way that feels involuntary. Like my presence rewired some part of him he doesn’t want to understand.
Saint’s easier.
Tooeasy.
He says grace before dinner, though I’m not sure who he thinks he’s praying to. He looks at me like I’m both temptationandabsolution — like I might save him or ruin him, depending on how the light hits. Once, he handed me a glass of wine and said, “You remind me of penance.”
I didn’t ask what he meant, didn’t touch the wine. I didn’t want to know.
And Ash —Lysander— he’s the ghost in the machine.
He’s polite. Always so polite. He’ll ask if I need anything, if I’m sleeping, if I want tea — then disappear into his servers like he’s more comfortable with code than skin. But every so often, I’ll catch him watching me. Not in the way the others do. Not with hunger. With… curiosity.
I can feel it like static under my skin.
He knows something. I think he’s the only one who sees I’m not just adapting.
I’m preparing.
Together, they orbit like planets — each with their own gravity, pulling at different pieces of me. And me, I’m somewhere in the center, pretending it’s not working. Pretending I’m not starting to feel safe. That’s the cruelest part.
Not the captivity—the quiet.
Because the quiet feels almost normal.
They eat. They argue. They breathe. And every evening, I sit at their table, this fractured constellation of men who rule the underworld and somehow think dinner should be civilized.
It’s almost domestic.
Almost.
Saint serves the wine. Wraith passes the bread. Ash ignores them all. Mateo teases. Caelum presides.
Like some fucked-up family.
And me — the stray they dragged in, the variable they can’t solve — I’ve stopped flinching at the clatter of plates.
The first night I ate with them, I didn’t touch anything. Now I use their silver. I drink their coffee. I sit between Saint and Vale like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And every time I catch myself doing it — playing along, smiling, eating, talking — I feel that slow, sinking horror in my chest.
Because it’s starting to feel less like pretending.
I hate that. I hate how my body adjusts to routine like it’s oxygen. How my mind catalogues each of them automatically — tone, mood, position, exit routes.
How sometimes Iforgetto think about escape.
Tonight, after dinner, I slip away early. My nerves feel raw. I tell Saint I’m tired, and he nods with that half-smile that always looks like forgiveness. Wraith watches me leave but doesn’t follow.
Upstairs, the hallway’s dim, lit only by the warm, flickering glow from wall sconces. I move quietly, though not quietly enough — the floorboards here are old, and this house has too many ears.
I reach my door, hand halfway to the knob—
“Ember.”
His voice is low. Smooth. Dangerous the way silk can strangle.
I turn.
