Chapter 16 Caius
I wake before sunrise, the way I always do when my body is running too hot for sleep. The room is dark, but I don’t fumble. I don’t make noise. Every step is muscle memory, a sequence I’ve rehearsed so many times my feet could walk these halls without the rest of me attached.
Before I leave, I check on my girl.
She’s burrowed in the nest of down and Egyptian cotton.
She looks dead—one arm thrown across her forehead, the other curled tight at her ribs, like she’s protecting something precious or broken.
Her hair is a snarl, damp at the temples, her face slack in the brutal honesty of sleep.
The bandages hold, but barely. I’ll have to redo them after breakfast.
She’s shivering.
I crank the heat and pull the covers higher, then close the door with a soundless push.
The suite is cold and clean. All white walls, steel fixtures, glass so polished it shines. I glide through the kitchen, flicking the switch for the espresso machine before I even reach the fridge. The motor’s whine is mechanical comfort, a baseline for the morning’s rituals.
I arrange the eggs. Two, no cracks, room temp.
I break them with one hand, no shells, let the whites slip into the pan before the yolks hit.
Toast in the broiler—never the cheap pop-up.
Knife through the butter, a perfect curl.
I set the table for one, the best plate, the one with the gold lined rim.
As the eggs set, I run a finger down the length of the counter. No dust. No streaks. I rinse the finger anyway, habit.
The espresso hisses. I fill the cup to the lip, top it with frothed milk.
The aroma is sharp, almost bitter, the way I know she likes it.
I remember things like that. I remember every word she says, every time her jaw tics when she’s lying, every time her breath stutters because she’s afraid or because she wants to be.
I plate the eggs, slide the toast to a perfect angle, cut up some fruit and lay it on the side.
I find a silver tray, the kind my father used when the Board came to visit. Polished to blindness, heavy enough to cave a skull if I needed to.
I balance the tray on my left palm, coffee cup in my right, and carry it back through the silent suite.
She’s awake when I return. Barely, but enough to know I’m there.
Her eyes are slits, bloodshot and swollen.
She blinks at me like I’m the light and the darkness all at once.
Her face is mottled purple with bruises, lips split in two places.
There’s a fine tremor in her hands as she pushes herself upright against the headboard.
It takes three tries. The effort leaves her panting.
She’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I set the tray on the nightstand.
She stares at it. “You poison it?”
A chuckle escapes me, but I swallow it back when I see she’s not joking. “You need food.”
She gives a laugh that’s more cough than sound, but she reaches for the toast. Her fingers are clumsy, but she manages to tear a corner and chew. Every bite looks like it hurts her jaw.
I cross to the bathroom, come back with a bottle of acetaminophen and a glass of water. I set both next to her coffee.
“Take two,” I say.
She’s watching me now, like she’s waiting for the punchline. She pops the pills, gulps the water, then chases it with espresso. The burn of the caffeine nearly makes her gag, but she holds it together.
We sit in silence.
I watch her eat.
She watches me watching her.
After the second slice of toast, she sets the food aside and leans back, head tilted to the ceiling.
“Is this your version of an apology?” she asks.
“No.”
“Good,” she says, voice stronger now. “I would’ve thrown it at your face if it was.”
I smile. She doesn’t.
Rolling my eyes at her, I sit at the edge of the mattress, hands on my knees, letting her study me.
She does, eyes flickering over the bruises on my jaw. She looks at my hands, the way they flex on my thighs, like I’m ready to break something.
She meets my gaze, and there’s no hate in it now. Just a hollow, exhausted curiosity.
“Why are you being nice all of a sudden? I know what you said about The Board, but you could also have fucked me in my sleep and you didn’t.”
I don’t answer right away.
I stand, walk to the window, and tug the blackout curtain open a few inches. The sun is just crawling over the edge of the trees. Everything outside is blue and frozen, perfect.
“Because. I’m not cruel just to be cruel. I’m cruel to teach a lesson and once it’s taught, I can worship the ground you walk on. As I will do everyday henceforth.”
She laughs again, but this time it’s real. “God. HENCEFORTH? You’re so fucking pretentious.”
“You ain’t lying.”
She pulls the covers tighter. Her hands have stopped shaking.
“Do you remember everything you did?” she asks, voice quiet.
“Yes.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“Yes.”
“Because of tradition.”
I nod.
She runs her tongue over the cut on her lip, winces. “You’re fucked in the head.”
“I’m fucked over you. And yes, a bit in the head.”
She goes silent, staring at the tray like it might explain me if she looks long enough.
I leave her there, walk into the bathroom, and run the sink until the water is hot enough to scald.
I scrub my hands, digging under each fingernail until I’m sure there’s nothing left under them.
My shower was quick, one I took in five minutes after she’d fallen asleep.
I didn’t want to leave her too long, so I’d been as fast as humanly possible.
The soap is unscented, the towel white. I dry my hands, fold the towel, and wipe the faucet for water drops.
When I come out, she’s asleep again, coffee cup tipped on its side. The eggs are gone. The toast is crumbs on the sheets.
I clean up, careful not to wake her.
I check the bandages, rewrap the worst of them with fresh gauze. I do it slow, methodical, never making a sound.
I sit on the floor at the foot of the bed, knees to my chest, and watch her breathe.
Every inhale is a victory.
Every exhale is a warning.
The sun climbs higher, flooding the room with white.
I let her sleep, but I never stop watching.
She wakes two hours later. I know because the rhythm of her breathing changes, quickens. She opens her eyes, meets mine at the end of the bed.
She doesn’t look scared anymore.
She looks interested.
I wait for her to speak first.
She doesn’t, so I do.
“Are you hungry?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I need to pee.”
I stand, offer her my hand. She ignores it, swings her legs off the bed and stands on her own.
She makes it three steps before her knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the ground, lift her back to the mattress.
Her body is limp, but her eyes are furious.
“Stop it,” she says.
“Stop what?”
“Stop pretending to care.”
I shrug, let her go.
She tries to stand again, slower this time, one hand braced on the headboard.
She makes it to the bathroom.
I hear the lock click.
I sit on the bed, wait for her to return.
She takes her time. I imagine her running her hand over every surface for sharp edges, for weaknesses, for a way out. I want her to try. I want her to see how futile it is.
When she comes out, she’s still wearing my t-shirt, only it looks a fuck load better on her than it ever did on me. It hangs past her knees, sleeves bunched at the elbows. Her legs are bare, but the bandages make her look armored.
She sits on the opposite side of the bed, knees up, arms around them.
She stares at me, eyes glassy.
“What now?” she asks.
I grin.
“Now we play house.”
She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t get up.
The silence is comfortable.
I reach for her hand, and this time, she lets me take it.
Her fingers are small, cold.
She doesn’t say anything for a while.
“Can you get me more coffee?”
I nod, grabbing her cup and pouring her more.
After the third refill, she sets the cup down and pins me with a look. Not the frightened kind from last night, or the curious one from before, but something new, hardened.
“Why you?”
“Why me, what?”
“The God Son. The Night Hunt. Why you? What’s so special about YOU?”
She shifts, tucking one knee up under her chin, pulling the hem of my shirt down to cover the rest. The collar slips off her shoulder, baring the purple handprint I left there. It’s beautiful.
I answer her, eventually.
“Because the last ones failed.”
She snorts. “What do you mean? Your little secret society?”
“Yeah.” I pick at a hangnail. “The Pineridge boys. You know the story?”
She shakes her head, curls tangling in the air. “No.”
I wait. She’s not going to ask, but she wants to know.
“They were supposed to carry the legacy,” I say. “The Board’s wet dream. Five heirs, five girls, one night. Simple.”
She leans forward, interest kindling behind her eyes. “So what happened?”
“They went off script. Left campus, found their own girls. Hunted them on some old money property up North. Broke the chain of command and left The Board scrambling. There were no more old money heirs. The Hunt was revamped last year, but it wasn’t the same as it is now.”
“We botched it,” I say, my fingers playing with the sheet. “One of the runners died.”
She stops moving. Just—stops. The coffee cup hangs in the air for a beat, then she sets it down, hands going white at the knuckles.
“Died how?”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Dead is dead.”
She stares at the table, then at me. “So they canned the whole system? You said you botched the Hunt last year. So you were what? Picked?”
I nod. “No more Board legacy kids left. They had to pick from Funders’ lines. The ones with enough money, enough dirt on everyone else to make it stick.”
“And that’s you.”
“Yeah.”
She shakes her head, lips curling. “I don’t get it.”
“I know.”
She chews on her thumb, then stops herself. “Why not just quit? Leave?”
I laugh. “You don’t leave this life. Not alive.”
She grins, but it’s sharp. “Nice pep talk.”