Crickets and frogs peeped in the distance, calling for mates or mourning young lost to the shadows. The soft chorus of dawn filtered through the cracked window—gentle, innocent, almost soothing.
It lured me toward peace.
But that peace shattered like a bubble beneath the story Balthazar had painted—of my father, ofher, of a love too sacred to speak aloud.
Rage simmered beneath my skin.
The man Balthazar described sounded like nothing more than a self-righteous hypocrite. A man more suited for robes and sermons than darkness and blood. The twisted triangle between him, Balthazar, and that ghost of a woman made my stomach burn with acid.
I wanted to kill her twice—once, for ever existing in his arms, and again for the longing she left behind.
And him? I wanted to strike him for telling me that story. How dare he parade such potent, undying love before me like a relic from a better past? There should be no room for love in his heart… exceptours.
“I should have been allowed to join you in my father’s execution,” I hissed.
“It was an honor I had to take with one hand,” Balthazar replied coolly, unbothered. “And you were but a babe.”
“My hatred for him is only eclipsed by the pride I feel knowing you took my mother as well,” I spat. “There’s no mercy left in me for those who are toosweet.”
He arched an eyebrow, silent, but his eyes gleamed with quiet approval.
I glanced around the room and felt a sudden loathing rise in my throat—the air stank of sweat, sex, and scorched memories. The faded wallpaper, creaky floor, and stifling heat all sickened me.
I threw the covers off and stormed across the room, grabbing my clothes in harsh handfuls. I snatched Balthazar’s garments off the chair and flung them at him.
He raised his arms lazily to ward them off, a smirk curving his lips.
“What’s got you in such a snit?” he asked, voice thick with amusement.
“Everything!” I snapped, yanking on my undergarments with furious hands. “My father was a simpering, sanctimonious bastard?—”
I struggled with the fabric, my rage boiling hotter with every movement.
“And your former lover… I want to summon her from hell and tear her apart for existing.”
Balthazar hummed a low, tuneless melody from the bed as he watched me. The sound needled under my skin, maddeningly calm. Mocking.
Then, without warning, his voice dropped low and sharp.
“Your father never wanted you.”
I froze mid-motion.
“What?” I whispered, blinking at him, stunned.
“He wanted nothing to do with a daughter,” Balthazar said, his words like ice cracking through the floor beneath me. “He ran the moment your mother gave birth. Disappeared. Hid from the responsibility. When she begged him to return, he only returned long enough to say it out loud—he never wanted you. Not then. Not ever.”
The air in my lungs turned brittle. My fingers trembled as I held my dress, unable to respond.
“It’s not your fault,” Balthazar said softly now, his tone a strange mixture of cruelty and consolation. “He had demons of his own. But he was never ready to be a father—especiallyyourfather.”
I turned away, my eyes burning. I refused to let the tears fall.
The ache in my chest turned to fury.
I seized the nearest object—a chipped figurine, probably a trinket from a whore’s enamored client—and hurled it across the room. It broke on impact, porcelain shards scattering like the broken remnants of my childhood.
“I’msickof this room!” I screamed, breath ragged. “Do you hear me? I’m sick of the stink, the heat, the filth! I want to gohome!”
