Page 30 of His Eternal Claim

The ache in my chest sharpens. I should be praying he’s forgotten me.

I should be celebrating the fact that I am no longer under the shadow of a man who brands his name into the souls of his enemies.

Better the devil who knows your name than the angel who wants to erase it.

I am not afraid of his violence. I am afraid of her peace. Her peace is a lobotomy, but his violence was a heartbeat.

It made me feel alive.

At least back then I knew he would never hurt me.

Do I succumb to the lavender fog and let her heal me until I am nothing but a hollowed-out vessel for her ambition?

Or do I hold on to the pain, the blood, and the memory of a man who looked at me like I was a miracle and a sin all at once?

Love is a debt, yes. But obsession is a death sentence.

I won’t let her see the storm in my eyes. I will walk down those stairs, I will sit at her table, and I will be the silent weapon she created.

But I am not waiting for her to pull the pin. I am waiting for the predator to catch the scent.

***

When the door opens again at eight o’clock, I am the perfect girl. I am the sweet, foolish thing she expects to find.

“How are you feeling, my darling?” Hannah says. Her voice is a melody I once found comfort in, but now it sounds like the rhythmic scraping of a whetstone.

“Good, Mama,” I whisper. The word Mama tastes like ash. It feels like a sacrilege, a title stolen from a woman who died in a fire I no longer believe happened.

She brings a tray. Poached eggs, sourdough toast, a crystal glass of orange juice. It is a tableau of domestic bliss, a scene from a life I should have had. I sit up, offering her a small, fragile smile, the kind a broken doll might wear.

“You look better now that you’re dressed,” she says, reaching out to brush a stray hair from my forehead. Her touch is light, but it lands like a thousand pounds. I don’t flinch. I let her touch me. I am a master of the mask now. “The colour is returning to your cheeks.”

“I feel… lighter,” I lie. Each word is a stepping stone across a river of glass. “The dreams were quieter last night and the shower helps.” She beams, and for a terrifying second, she looks genuinely happy. That is the horror of it. She believes her own lies. She has convinced herself that hollowing me out is an act of love.

A cage went in search of a bird; my Mother didn’t just find the bird, she plucked its feathers and told it the cold was a new kind of warmth.

“Eat, Selene. We have a long day of rest ahead of us.”

I eat. I chew the toast until it is a flavorless paste. I swallow the juice, wondering if the “medicine” is mixed into the pulp. I don’t care. If she wants me drugged, I will appear drugged. If she wants me silent, I will be a tomb. I am playing a game where the stakes are my soul, and I cannot afford to lose a single hand.

She leaves me after breakfast, locking the door with that soft click. I spend the day by the window.

The gardens outside are beautiful in a way that feels aggressive. Every hedge is trimmed to a sharp edge; every flower is planted in a geometric precision that defies nature. It is a controlled environment. A managed ecosystem. Just like me.

I try to read the books she brought. Brontë. Rossetti. Poetry filled with yearning and stone walls. But the words scramble on the page. I keep seeing Zagreus, not the monster the world fears, but the man who looked at me as if I were the only fixed point in a spinning universe.

Was it real?

Doubt is a parasite. It feeds on the gaps in my memory. I remember the cold iron of his world, the smell of gunpowder and expensive bourbon. I remember his hand on the nape of my neck. There was no lavender in his world. There was only the truth of the kill.

If he is the monster, why does his memory feel like the only thing that isn’t a lie?

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. I am a ghost haunting my own life. I am caught in a state of permanent déjà vu. Every time my Mother speaks of my childhood, the trips to the coast, the birthdays with strawberry cake, the way I used to hide in the lilac bushes, a part of me screams.

That didn’t happen.

Whenever she speaks ill of Zagreus, something in me wants to defend him.