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My family won’t mingle with those who worship them. A more elegant meal waits at home. Aunt Jacqueline insisted. I don’t intend to show up for that performance either.

Then I see white. Zaiya’s dress slips through the church’s back door with the Boltons. The sight hooks into me.

I follow without thinking.

Her sweet scent trails through the basement corridor, brightness cutting through the smell of food. It leads me straight to her.

She passes through the kitchen, where several women work to arrange the dishes. Steam rises from the pans. Every countertop is packed with identical dishes that claim to be different. She weaves through the noise and the clatter and steps into the open gathering room.

The place is crowded with strangers who I’m sure have lived here their whole lives. Folding tables stretch across the room. Chairs scrape. People laugh. They talk about him as if he were theirs.

“He paid my debt once. Saved my house,” one man says.

Another nods. “He dealt with my daughter’s ex. Never asked how. Didn’t care. She’s safe.”

I drag in a breath and let it out slowly. If that’s the version of my father they choose to cling to, so be it. They’ll be disappointed when they come looking for the same mercies from me.

The men stop talking when they notice me. Their faces scramble into respect. I nod once and keep moving, cutting between the tables, ignoring the curious glances from octogenarians who haven’t seen me since I was a teenager and now look at me like I’ve grown fangs.

I’m reaching the refreshment table when I catch sight of her again. Zaiya stands off to the side like a misplaced doll waiting to be put back on the proper shelf. Frank hovers near her as though he could offer protection against solitude.

Patrick Connelly comes down the creaky stairs from the sanctuary and stains the room by entering it. He doesn’t belong here. He’s too smug to be among these pious faces. He’s shaken enough Serpent hands today to make his intentions obvious.

And now he’s heading straight for her.

Rage flares in my chest.

He greets Frank with a handshake. Lets his gaze drop to Zaiya. My girl. My fucking girl. Frank introduces them like it’s harmless. Patrick reaches for her hand. If he wants to know whether she’s a weakness, I’m about to give him his answer.

The moment their skin touches, I lose every inch of patience I have left.

I start around the table in front of me, but a small, white-haired woman steps into my path and catches my hand.

“Edwin Crotavere, you look just like your father,” she says, staring up at me. “I remember when he came back from school and started stepping into Wallace’s shoes. How is Wallace doing these days? Your grandfather was a gambler, you know, making business deals that didn’t always pan out, but somehow your family—”

“For Christ’s sake, not now.”

I don’t process a single word of her rambling. All I can see is Zaiya’s delicate hand trapped in Patrick’s grip.

The woman’s mouth falls open.

That much at least cuts through my temper. I catch her hand again and kiss the back of it. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking mourning here.”

Then I push past her and every other person in my way. Zaiya is smiling politely up at Patrick, the careful smile she wears like armor. He says something to amuse himself. I don’t care what it is.

I catch her arm and pull her behind me. Patrick’s face twists into a smug little mask of surprise.

“You don’t get to talk to her,” I say. My voice stays low but sharp enough to cut. “You don’t get to breathe her air.”

Frank cautiously tries to calm me down. “Edwin, this isn’t the time or place to get upset.”

I ignore him. My eyes stay locked on Patrick. “What are you doing down here? These aren’t your people.”

Patrick smooths his jacket. “I wanted to compliment Reverend Bolton on the service. It was a touching tribute.”

Bullshit. He attended the funeral to save face in front of the Order. None of us wanted him here. But there’s no reason for him to linger.

“You two fucking friends now?” I look between him and Frank like the answer matters.