Chapter 14 #2
We walked in silence at first, down the corridor lined with ferns and filtered light. Irina didn’t speak again until we neared her office. She gave me a side glance—measuring, wary still—but motioned for me to wait by the threshold.
“I need something,” she murmured, and disappeared inside.
The not-dog followed at her heel with the kind of precision that said guard , not pet .
But when she opened a drawer near her desk and pulled out a soft charcoal-gray leash and matching collar, his ears flicked back and his shoulders drooped slightly.
Not in resistance. More in visible, offended dignity .
Irina noticed immediately.
“Oh, come on,” she said gently, kneeling beside him.
“You don’t need it, I know that. You probably understand traffic laws better than half the drivers out there.
But rules are rules, and I don’t want anyone getting the idea that you’re lost or unattended.
” Her voice dipped. “I don’t want anyone taking you. ”
The dog’s reaction was instant and subtle: the tension melted out of him, his head lowering, muzzle brushing her knee.
More quiet agreement than submission. An understanding.
It was a moment of unguarded affection so clear, so instinctively intimate, it stopped me. Not because of the display itself.
But because something in me… ached at it.
She could say she didn’t remember. She could fight the recognition rising inside her. But this creature—this presence she hadn’t even named yet—had earned her claim. That was exactly what it was, too: a claim . Spoken gently, yes. But there, all the same. She chose him.
I remembered what it was like to be chosen by her, and I remembered what it cost her every time.
She clipped the leash with a soft click and stood. “I want to walk to the park,” she said.
“It’s a few blocks,” I replied, not objecting.
“I know.” There was no challenge in her voice now. Just a quiet need for space, for distance. For air.
“Then we’ll walk,” I said.
We left the Annex through the side entrance. Not as grand as the atrium, but quieter. Better. The door hissed shut behind us, sealing off the cold scent of jasmine tea and unanswered questions.
“Will you tell me about the letter?” The question was hesitant, almost unnerved as if she had no idea how I might react.
“Eventually,” I promised “But not now.” Even I didn’t want to know what it contained. I wanted to be here, now, in the present.
The city’s damp morning pressed in immediately, a concrete wet with the thin sheen of rain not quite over. The air was ripe with ozone and the faint chemical musk of spring trying to push through industrial rot.
Irina stepped onto the sidewalk first, the leash looped loosely in her hand. The not-dog pressed close, ears high, eyes tracking. I fell into place at her opposite side. Neither of us spoke.
We bracketed her.
Anyone watching might not have noticed. It wasn’t overt. But to those who knew —who looked —there would be no mistaking our positions. This was not a casual walk.
This was escort.
Protection.
The city moved around us: taxis muttering at intersections, pedestrians whispering down crosswalks, distant sirens howling between the buildings. All of it a blur I filtered out. My focus was narrow. Trained. Irina.
Her shoulders stayed high for a few blocks. Guarded. But not brittle. Not fragile. She was gathering herself with each step. Letting the motion wear down the jagged edges inside.
I didn’t fill the silence. I didn’t need to. Presence was sometimes louder than words. And right now, what she needed wasn’t explanation or comfort.
She needed to exist without being hunted. So, we walked. As we moved, I made sure no one came close enough to threaten the space she was finally learning how to reclaim.
By the second block, Irina began to speak.
Not to me, exactly, nor at me, but into the world beside her, casting thoughts into the air like seeds. Her tone was half-wonder, half-casual… The kind of voice people used when talking to themselves but hoping someone else might be listening.
“That bakery on the corner?” she said, gesturing with a slight nod. “The one with the blue awning? They used to give out broken biscotti pieces to kids on Sundays. Probably still do. I haven’t checked in a while.”
I said nothing, just listened.
“There’s a gingko tree behind that traffic light,” she went on, more softly. “It was planted after the blackout in 2003. The owner said it was to remind the street that even in the dark, some things endure. People don’t notice it, but it drops the most perfect gold leaves in October.”
She glanced at me briefly, then looked ahead again.
“You probably don’t care about that.”
“I do,” I said.
She blinked, surprised. But something in her expression eased.
A few steps later, she continued. “Did you know that parts of Central Park were built on land that used to belong to a free black community? Seneca Village. It was razed to build the park. Not many people know that. But the trees remember. You can feel it in the way the wind changes near the west edge.”
I looked at her sidelong, the way you might look at a star just past the horizon line, afraid it’ll disappear if you stare directly.
“You talk about the land like it’s alive,” I murmured.
She shrugged, then smiled crookedly. “Maybe it is. Plants listen , you know. Even if most people don’t. And the city… it breathes. Bleeds. Remembers. You just have to know how to hear it.”
I knew. By everything unholy in the universe, I knew .
The magic wasn’t in the spectacle. It never had been. It was in the details . The bark fissure that formed like a smile after seventy seasons. The lichen that changed color a week before a cold snap. The way roots curved away from grief buried beneath the soil.
She understood it all instinctively, yet she had no idea how rare that was.
As we neared the park, her words faltered. She laughed, at once both soft and embarrassed, like she’d just realized how much she’d said. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I ramble when I’m—when I don’t know what else to do.”
I stopped walking.
“Irina,” I said, catching her gaze. “I could listen to you forever.”
The moment snapped still, golden and suspended between us.
She froze. Her lips parted slightly, eyes caught on mine like a tether had drawn taut between us—undeniable, trembling. The kind of connection that lived in the blood, beneath memory. The kind that crossed lifetimes.
I wanted to touch her. To see if her pulse matched mine. But before I could?—
Thump.
A sharp shoulder brushed mine, forceful and deliberate enough to throw me off balance for half a step. I caught myself before I could stagger. My head snapped toward the source.
Jogger. Blonde. Tall. Her stride slowed just enough to meet my eyes. Her ponytail bounced like any other early-morning runner. But her eyes—those sharp, silver-green predator’s eyes —held me in place with the precision of a blade.
Artemis.
Wearing modern skin, yes. But still her . Huntress. Guardian. And right now? Watchful. Unimpressed.
Her gaze said everything I already knew.
Don’t fail her. Or I will end you.
She didn’t slow again. Just ran on, leaving the warning etched behind like claw marks in fog.
I inhaled once—steady. The dark inside me bristled, then stood down.
“Graven?” Irina’s voice cut through the sudden tension.
I turned.
She’d stepped closer. Her brows drawn in concern, one hand resting lightly on my forearm. “You okay?” The question wasn’t about politeness. It was genuine . Concern poured from her like warmth from the sun—real and effortless, not something she even thought to question.
The weight of it undid something in me.
“I’m fine,” I said quietly. “Just… distracted.”
She didn’t press.
We crossed the street and turned onto the final stretch of sidewalk that bordered the park. The fence line ran ahead of us like an open invitation, trees just starting to leaf out with summer green.
And there, nestled into the corner beneath a canopy of ivy-covered trellis, stood the café.
The Grove.
Small, quiet, half-sunk into the earth like it had grown there instead of being built. Tables clustered around it like mushrooms. Painted signs hand-lettered in gold. The door hung open, and the air smelled like cinnamon and citrus peel.
Irina lit up as they approached, the stiffness in her shoulders easing.
From behind the counter stepped the man who must’ve heard her footfalls before the door even creaked.
Golden skin. Gleaming teeth. Hair like honey spun through sunlight. And when he saw her?—
“ Irina! ” His grin blazed.
She laughed, warm and open. “You’re actually here this morning.”
“Only for you,” he said, leaning over the counter. “The sky doesn’t shine half so bright without your face beneath it.”
I stopped cold. The man’s eyes flicked to me. And that grin—flawless, lazy, challenging —grew wider.
Apollo .
Of course.
The god of light and truth and smug, unbearable charisma. Playing human, again. He had the glow, even muted in flesh. And now he was smiling at Irina like they shared something I hadn’t even been offered yet.
My temper coiled. Heat rolled up my spine like fire under skin.
He reached for a mug without looking. “The usual?” he asked her.
“Please,” she said.
“Anything for the queen of chlorophyll,” he teased.
Irina just shook her head with obvious affection.
Watching them, I remembered with brutal clarity that gods did not always need force to steal what mattered.
Sometimes, they just smiled first.