But I wasn’t going to fix anything from bed.
And on the one hand, I wasn’t convinced I deserved to have anything fixed. Caliban had always been too good to be true. But on the other hand, I smelled like onions. It wasn’t exactly a cure for my depression, but I hated when my bedroom smelled like food, and sometimes any reason to get out of bed was suitable. I lit a candle and dropped the box of greasy paper and used napkins off on the island before disappearing into the bathroom.
I avoided my reflection, unwilling to face myself. I stepped out of my clothes and ran the hot water, checking the temperature before I lowered myself to the shower floor. I pulled my knees to my chest and sat beneath the running stream as it plastered my hair to my face, my shoulders, my back, praying for the wounds, the shame, the self-loathing to swirl down the drain. Maybe if I was lucky, the water would wash me away, too.
A knock came at the door, but I ignored it.
I stayed on the ground, fetching one product at a time from the ledge. Much to my dismay, the soap, shampoo, and conditioner did nothing to alleviate the pain.
Another knock. Would this man never leave me alone?
“Mar, did you die in there?”
“Unfortunately, no,” I grumbled as I got up inelegantly from the bathroom floor. I scrunched the moisture out of my hair, then wrapped the towel around me before emerging from the room, preceded by a cloud of steam. It took me two minutes to step into oversized sweats, fluffy socks, and a hoodless sweatshirt: the depression uniform. I made it halfway down the hall when I slowed.
Silas was leaning backward, resting against the island while crossing his arms. He’d dipped his head just enough to cradle his chin. It looked like he was hugging himself. He didn’t so much as move, blink, or breathe as I approached. He didn’t see me until I was right in front of him, then jolted as if startled by my presence.
I tried to mask my concern with a half-smile. “Feeling a little lost there, buddy?”
His quiet laugh held no joy. “You could say that.”
“Is it about…us?”
He laughed through his nose, a soft huffing sound, but said nothing.
I wouldn’t push. Not about this. Not to my last ally, who, objectively, I should not have fucked. Now it just hurt to look at him.
“Did you make coffee?” I asked, the scent tugging my gaze to search for the French press, only to find it empty.
He shook his head. “I can. Do you want some?”
“I’m fine,” I said quietly. I did want coffee. But I realized the smell was coming from him. He no longer smelled of thieves’ oil. I gestured to the couch, and he followed. I sank onto the cushions, hugging a pillow to my chest as the quiet pressed in on us. “So, what do we do?”
He closed his eyes for a moment before asking. “That depends on the outcome you want. What are your goals, here?”
I frowned. I knew the ultimate goals, but that wasn’t what he’d asked. He wasn’t looking for war strategy. He wasn’t asking how to move forward with fostering allies, how to stir the sirens’ armies, how to get more gods to come out from the shadows. He was asking what I wanted.
“Because,” he said quietly, “I know my answer. I made my choices. I knew what they would cost me. I have no title, no kingdom, nowhere to go. That’s a separate set of problems.” He looked at me for a long while before saying, “I didn’t just do it for you, Marlow. I did it because it was the right thingto do. But…”
I swallowed. “But?”
He took a step close to me and lifted a hand. He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear as he said, “Thousands of years of servitude all came to a crashing end when I met you.”
