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The nigga didn’t answer or acknowledge me; he just kept moving forward like I wasn’t right there next to him.

“Don’t ignore me now, Marcellus.”

His jaw flexed.

I could see the muscle jumping under his skin and the way his breathing had changed. It was shallow and controlled, like he was trying to keep himself calm.

I leaned closer, dropping my voice. “You ain’t used to ignore me.”

That got him.

Marcellus stopped near the living room entrance, and for a second, I thought he might’ve actually turned and said something. But then Lakelyn almost walked into his back, and he had to pull it together.

“Father?”

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders. “Just concentrating.”

I grinned.

He pulled a small bottle of holy water from the bag he carried—one of those little glass bottles with a screw-top lid—and started the blessing. His voice shifted into that formal, ritualistic tone.

Latin phrases.

Prayers.

The whole production.

He moved through the downstairs while Lakelyn and Willow followed at a respectful distance, their footsteps soft on the hardwood, their voices hushed like they were in church.

I followed closer… close enough that every time he turned, I was there.

Every time Marcellus glanced at me, I smiled.

When he sprinkled holy water near the living room entrance, I looked down at the hardwood, frowning at the droplets hitting my floors.

“Watch my floors.”

His hand jerked, sending a few extra drops onto the wood, more than he intended.

I frowned deeper. “See? Now you doing too much.”

Marcellus closed his eyes briefly and took a breath.

Probably praying for patience… or for me to disappear.

Either way, it wasn’t working.

Willow tilted her head, watching him with that sharp, assessing look she had. “You okay?”

“Perfectly.”

“You don’t look perfectly.”

“I’m fine.”

I leaned toward him, close enough that if I still had breath, he would’ve felt it on his ear. “You definitely don’t.”

His lips moved… barely. “Please.”