Page 115 of His Eternal Claim

We hold onto each other for a long minute in the middle of the kitchen, two fractured pieces of a violent world trying to fit together.

When the faint, burning smell breaks the intensity of the moment, I blink, my head snapping toward the stove. “The eggs.”

A startled laugh escapes me as I look over his shoulder at the smoking skillet. “The great Zagreus Vitale, defeated by a breakfast menu.”

He chuckles, turning the stove off with one hand, the other still around me, a glint of mischief shining in his eyes as he whispers, “I suppose we’ll have to find something else to satisfy our hunger.”

Chapter 40

Requiem

THE REQUIEM | Past

By afternoon, or more like early evening, the penthouse is bathed in sunlight.

“I don’t care about other members, Bianchi. If they slide across the border line, put them down.” Zagreus is pacing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, talking to someone. “I have prepared the ledgers. Use them to expose the Davenports.”

I sit cross-legged on the plush rug in front of the low bookcase, content to ignore his terrifying business calls. I had been looking for a book to pass the time when I stumbled upon a row of leather-bound binders tucked away on the bottom shelf.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I pulled one out. Now, my breath catches in my throat.

“No, keep the security tight at the perimeter. I want eyes on every vehicle,” Zagreus murmurs into the line.

I can barely hear him. I slowly turn the pages of the first album, and a wave of nostalgia hits my chest.

It’s a photograph of me. I am maybe seven years old, wearing mismatched floral overalls, my hair a wild halo of loose curls, laughing so hard my eyes are squeezed shut.

I blink, quickly pulling out the second album. Then the third.

The fourth. Fifth. Sixth.

Six thick albums in total. I flip through them in a daze. Every single page is a repository of my life. There are photos of me reading under the old oak tree in our backyard, photos of me blowing out birthday candles, photos of me crying over a scraped knee, and even a few rare ones where Zagreus is in the frame, stubbornly staring away from the lens until the younger version of me forces him to smile by shoving a handful of cake near his face.

A wistful smile trembles on my lips.

Looking at these makes me ache for how carefree we used to be, back when we didn’t have to worry about anything and our Fathers were just two friends smoking cigars on a porch. He kept everything. He tracked my entire life.

My eyes lock onto a specific photograph in the third album. We are on a secluded strip of beach, maybe ten or twelve years old. I am sitting in the sand, focused on building a crooked sand castle, while a young, sullen Zagreus sits right beside me, holding a plastic shovel glaring at the camera.

Closing the album, I stand up. My bare feet make no sound against the hardwood as I march straight across the room.

Zagreus is still talking, his brow furrowed as he listens. “If the shipment is delayed, tell them—”

I take a running leap, jumping right into his space.

Without breaking his stride or dropping his phone, his free arm shoots out, catching me by the thighs and hoisting me up against his torso. I wrap my legs securely around his waist, my hands clamping onto his broad shoulders as he effortlessly absorbs me, his grey eyes locking onto mine with a mixture of amusement and fierceness.

“Hold on,” Zagreus says quietly into the phone, though his attention has shifted to me. He keeps the device to his ear, his thumb caressing the bare skin of my thigh exposed by his oversized shirt. “What are you doing, Dolcezza?”

“We need to recreate this,” I say as I wiggle slightly against him. “Right now. We have to.”

Zagreus raises an eyebrow as he speaks over my head into the receiver. “I’ll call you back.” He doesn’t wait for a response, pulling the phone away and tossing it carelessly onto the sofa behind him. He loops both arms around my waist, keeping me pinned flush against his chest. “Recreate what?”

“A picture!” I plead, leaning back a little so I can look into his beautiful, stubborn face. “I found the albums. Why didn’t I know you had those? There’s one of us playing in the sand when we were kids. We need to recreate it. Please?”

“No,” he answers.

“Why not?”