Page 11 of His Eternal Claim

“Always?” she presses. She’s staring at me as if she wants to consume me, as if my breath belongs to her lungs. “Even when you’re big? Even when men come with their flowers and their false promises to take you away from me? Will I always be the center of your world?”

“Always,” I promise, the drug in my system making my head loll against her shoulder.

“Good. Because you are mine, Stina. You weren’t made for the world. You were made for me. We are the same blood, the same soul. Everyone else is just a ghost passing through.”

The shouting downstairs reaches a crescendo. My Father’s roar gets closer, then the sound of his heavy boots heading toward the study. My Mother strokes my hair, her touch shifting back to that rhythmic, hypnotic grace.

“If he were gone,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “there would be no more headaches. No more shouting. Just you and me in a house by the sea, where the monsters can’t find us.”

She pulls me against her chest, and I’m so small I disappear into the silk of her dress. I want to believe in the house by the sea. I want to believe that the medicine is helping. But as I drift into the grey wool of the drug, I think of the boy with the bruised knuckles I saw yesterday—the one who looked at me like I was a miracle.

“What about Zagreus?” I mumble, my eyes fluttering shut.

My Mother’s hand freezes on my head. For a heartbeat, the silence is more terrifying than my Father’s rage.

“Zagreus is a Vitale,” she says, her voice turning into a cold, sharp blade. “And Vitales are the worst kind of monsters, Stina. They break things. They steal them. They take what is pure and they turn it into ash.”

She leans down, kissing my forehead with a cold, dry finality.

“Sleep now. Forget the Vitales. Forget the world. Just remember me.”

And as the darkness takes me, I realize that I am more afraid of her love than I am of my Father’s hate.

***

“Stina, my child. Wake up.”

I pry open my eyes, gasping slightly as the choking sensation crawls up my throat and settles between my lips. I think I can’t breathe. But as my eyes adjust to the vision and I see my Mother sitting beside the bed, holding a cup of water and the same painkillers she had yesterday, something nauseous swarms up my spine.

“My head doesn’t throb today, Mama,” I say, my voice thin and hollow in the vastness of the room. “I don’t think I need the medicine.”

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It remains fixed, a mask of maternal concern that feels heavier than the air.

“You used to take them when you were a child, Stina,” she murmurs, her thumb tracing the rim of the glass. “Your head used to hurt so badly then, too. You would scream for the darkness. I am only trying to prevent the pain before it finds you. You remember how it was, don’t you?”

An oily feeling coats my thoughts. I remember the window seat. I remember the spoon. But the memory feels like a caution, not a comfort.

“Of course,” I manage to whisper, forced by an instinct I didn’t know I possessed. “I’m sorry. I’m just… tired.”

“I know, my darling. Take it for me.”

She holds the glass out. I reach for it, my fingers trembling. As I take the cool weight of the glass, she turns slightly to arrange the small tray she brought: porridge and sliced peaches.

In that split second, I don’t think. I act on a primal impulse.

I slide my hand beneath the heavy silk pillow, the pill disappearing into the darkness of the fabric. I lift the water to my lips, taking a long, deliberate gulp, making sure she hears the sound of my throat working as I “swallow” the phantom medicine.

When she turns back, I offer her a small smile. “See? All gone.”

“Good girl.” Her expression softens, and she sets the water aside. She moves closer, her fingers combing through my long hair, detangling the strands. “You always had such beautiful hair. I used to spend hours brushing it while you told me your secrets.”

As her fingers graze my scalp, a violent jolt of déjà vu strikes me.

The touch is familiar, but the feeling it evokes is wrong. It isn’t the safety a daughter should feel; it’s the sensation of a bird being smoothed over before its wings are clipped. I can almost hear the door slamming in the hallway of my memory. I can almost feel the presence of a boy with bruised knuckles standing just outside my reach.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, her hand pausing near my ear.

“No,” I lie, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Just a bit of a chill. The windows are so tall here.”