His Eternal Claim (The Eternal Ruin #2)

Prologue

Papa is yelling again.

I hear it before I see it, like always. It reminds me of storms and thunder. It’s loud and mean. Nanny’s hand tightens around my shoulder and tries to turn me away, but I shrug her off. I’m not a baby. I’m nine. I can look and understand that whatever Papa is doing is bad.

Mama is already sitting on the bench beside me, her hair brushed so neatly it shines under the sun, like she’s trying to pretend everything is normal.

Like me. Like everyone else in this house.

She’s cradling Corvin, but her hands are trembling.

They always tremble when Papa is shouting. She says it makes her scared.

I look across the grass.

Papa is on top of the guard, fists moving fast. There’s blood on the guard’s face, on Papa’s knuckles and the stones.

“Papa has gone mad again,” I whisper.

No one answers me, so the words stay in the air like always, like the smoke this house is covered in most of the time.

He was supposed to visit my room tonight. He promised. He said he would teach me how to tie a proper knot, not the childish one Nanny teaches me.

I swallow.

Will Papa not visit me in my room tonight?

I look at Mama to ask her, but she’s staring at Papa the way she always does.

She’s frozen.

Her eyes don’t blink and her breath is too slow.

I hate this look.

“Mama,” I whisper. “Mama, stop looking at him like that.” Or he will get angrier and will make you cry more. I don’t want to see you cry.

She doesn’t hear me, like always.

I grab her arm to pull her back to me, and the sleeve slips a little. That’s when I see the blue flowers on her skin.

She calls them flowers, but I know they’re called bruises; I heard Nanny saying. They’re deep and blue. I know because yesterday there were only faint marks, but they’re new today.

I rub the biggest blue flower with my thumb, and she flinches.

“Mama,” I ask quietly. “Why do you have them… and not me?”

Because I’m the one who should have them. I’m the boy. I’m supposed to take this. I’m supposed to protect her. Papa says men protect women, but he hits Mama. So, I don’t understand. None of the rules make sense. Her lips part, but her voice is lost.

Nanny tries to pull my hand away.

“Master Zagreus…”

“Don’t,” I snap, and she goes silent.

Papa finally stands, fixing his clothes, and the guard isn’t moving. My stomach twists, but I force myself to stare.

Men don’t look away.

Men endure.

Men don’t cry.

Papa wipes his hands on a handkerchief and turns, breathing hard. When his eyes slide past us, he doesn’t even stop.

Maybe he won’t visit my room tonight. When he’s angry, he sleeps in his own room, and then the next day, Mama has more blue flowers.

Something heavy sits in the middle of my chest, but I push it down. Crying is for stupid children; I’m not stupid. I’m Zagreus Vitale. Papa says that a name should mean something.

That I will inherit his throne and legacy, and I must learn to become like him.

Like most children, I do want to become my Papa, but what if I truly become him?

I don’t have time to think when the iron gates at the end of the garden open. A car rolls in, black and shiny, and stops. A man steps out. Papa’s friend. George Visconti. The one who was supposed to come today, the one Papa said we must behave for.

I sit straighter. Behind him comes his wife, holding the hand of a little girl.

She’s tiny. Around Corvin’s age. Her hair is tied into two pigtails that bounce when she walks. She looks around the garden and points at the roses.

Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles.

A big, bright smile like a man wasn’t killed in this garden a minute ago.

I hate it instantly.

I hate how her eyes shine. I hate how her dress is pink and clean. I hate how she knows nothing about bruises, or shouting, or blood on stone floors.

But… I can’t stop looking at her.

She keeps smiling at me as she walks with her Mother. Her cheeks are round and small. Her eyes look like they are honey dipped in cinnamon.

My heart makes a weird jump, like it skipped a step on the stairs.

I look away fast.

Mama moves beside me, her fingers brushing my hair. “Zagreus,” she murmurs. “Be polite. They’re our guests. Papa won’t like it if you are rude.”

“I don’t want to,” I mutter.

The little girl is still staring at me. She tilts her head, pigtails swaying.

Her Father kneels to her level. “Selene,” he says. “Come greet our hosts.”

Selene.

That’s her name.

She lets go of her Mother’s hand and walks toward us, her tiny shoes sinking into the grass. She stops right in front of me, so close I can see her lashes. So close I can hear her small breaths.

“Hi,” she says.

Her voice is soft, like cotton candy, like nothing in my house. I say nothing.

She’s holding a rolled paper in her fist and unfurls it when she notices me looking.

She sticks her hand out. I glare at the rough strokes of paint brushed on the paper. But when I look at her face again, something inside my chest moves. I don’t like it. I don’t like her. But my hand lifts anyway. Our fingers touch as I take the painting. Her skin is warm. She smiles even more.

My throat goes tight. I hate her. I think. I’m not sure.