Chapter 19
Eden
It's a beige-on-beige purgatory. A limbo of muted tones and suppressed hysteria, furnished with hard, plastic chairs that I’m sure are designed to keep you so on edge, that when you finally sink into the therapist’s plush armchair, you’re comfortable enough to want to open up.
It’s a psychological trick. A lullaby of false comfort before the dissection begins.
Next to me, Malachi’s doing that weird little habit I’ve noticed, where he curls his top lip upwards, touching his septum ring with it.
“This environment is hostile, Eden,” he grumbles, kicking the magazine table lightly.
“This lighting is designed to induce madness. And why is there a placard demanding I ‘Just Breathe’?” he grunts, sneering in genuine distaste.
“Is oxygen so scarce here that mortals require a written reminder to use their lungs?”
“It’s an inspirational poster, Malachi. Don’t start.”
The plastic armrests are slick under my palms, and I’m gripping them so hard I can feel the tendons in my hands screaming.
The room’s shrinking. The walls are inching closer with every tick of the clock on the wall as I stare at the door, my brain running a looped simulation of exactly how many seconds it would take to bolt through it, sprint down the hall, and vanish into the street.
“It is a command,” he counters, crossing his arms. The heavy wool of the coat—Matthew’s coat—strains across his broad shoulders. “And the typography is aggressive. If I wanted to be micromanaged on my gas exchange, I would have stayed in Hell.”
“Keep your voice down,” I plead, eyes darting to the receptionist, who’s aggressively organizing files behind her desk.
“I am merely pointing out the inefficiency of a system that tells you to breathe through your problems rather than simply removing the source of the irritation,” he says, leaning back so far the plastic chair creaks in protest. “If a limb is gangrenous, you don't take a deep breath and 'sit with the feeling,' Eden. You lop it off. It’s cleaner.”
“It’s not gangrene, it’s grief,” I hiss. “And you can't just 'lop off' your brain.”
“We could try,” he murmurs, a dark, playful glint in those round-but-not-quite-right pupils.
I open my mouth to tell him to shut up for the tenth time, but the words die in my throat.
He moves faster than I can track. One moment his hand’s resting on his knee; the next, it’s swallowing mine, lacing his furnace-like fingers through my clammy ones.
“You are in distress,” he states, his thumb rubbing the back of my knuckles, glare fixed on the poster as if he is mentally lighting the edges on fire.. “Why are we doing this to you?”
“I have to,” I choke out, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars explode behind my lids. “If I don't do this, Piper calls my Mom. If she comes here... it’s worse. This is the lesser of two evils. Just...”
“Edes?”
I look up, and my heart falls right out of my ass.
My sister’s standing by the frosted glass door, her yoga bag slung over one shoulder, perfect face a mask of pitying softness that shatters the moment her eyes land on the man sitting next to me.
“Piper?” I choke out.
“Eden,” she breathes, her voice trembling with quiet confusion. “Is that... why are you holding hands with this man?”
My brain short-circuits, sparking like a downed power line in a puddle. Think, Eden. Think. I’m holding hands with a disguised demon who’s wearing my dead boyfriend’s coat, in the middle of a lobby that features a poster titled ‘Healing After Loss.’
Yeah. The exponential rate of my breakdown is officially hitting terminal velocity.
The silence is a vacuum, sucking the air right out of my lungs. I’m hovering somewhere between vomiting on the beige carpet or passing out into Malachi’s lap when the hand laced through mine gives a grounding squeeze.
“You must be Piper,” he says, his voice smoothing into something warm, compassionate, and utterly fraudulent. He offers his free hand. “I’m Mal. I’m so sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”
Piper blinks, her hand moving instinctively to shake his. She’s staring at him—at the slightly bronzed skin, the handsome jaw, and the sheer, overwhelming presence of him. “Mal? I… I’m sorry, how do you two know each other?”
“We met in a grief circle,” he outright lies, his expression softening into a mask of noble sorrow.
“Lost my wife, Sarah, a few years ago. It was… a journey. I saw Eden across the room a few weeks ago and recognized the look in her eyes. I thought I’d keep her company today. Moral support, you know?”
What the fuck…
Piper’s eyes widen, her protective-sister hackles lowering just a fraction. The sheer audacity of the dead wife card hits her right in the empathy. “Oh. Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you’d been going back to the groups, Edes. You told me you hated them.”
I make a sound that’s meant to be a confirmation but comes out like I’m choking on a marble. “Mhm. Yeah,” I manage. “I... I went back. For a bit. It’s just been... a lot.”
“It’s quite alright,” Malachi interjects, his thumb tracing a soothing circle on the back of my hand—a gesture that feels less like comfort and more like a victory lap. “She’s probably worried you’d think it was 'too soon' for her to be making new friends. But pain recognizes pain, doesn't it?”
“I’m so sorry, Mal,” Piper mutters, her face flushing a deep pink with embarrassment. “I’m just… I’m a bit on edge. I saw you two together and I just… I’m protective, I guess.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says with a gracious shake of his head. “But let’s focus on Eden, shall we? She’s the one doing the hard work today.”
He looks back at me, those lying, demonic eyes sparkling with an unholy level of amusement.
Motherfucker.
“Eden Loxley? Dr. Aris is ready for you,” the receptionist calls out, mercifully breaking the tension.
I stand up. Piper moves closer to me, her hand already twitching. And Malachi—God help me—unfolds all six-foot-four of himself, placing himself right at my side like a gigantic guard dog.
For a second, we all just stand there, eyes darting between each other.
I can’t take him in there. Talking about my actual demons in front of a demon is a one-way ticket to me losing the last shreds of sanity I have.
But if I leave him out here...
My gaze darts to the receptionist, then to the elderly woman in the corner who’s just trying to read her Gardening Weekly in peace.
If I leave him alone, he might decide the waiting room music is an inconvenience and burn the building down.
Or he might get bored of his brand-new, stolen shell and try hunting for a new one.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
No. What’s the worst he can do? We know our limits with how far apart we can be. He won’t do anything stupid. Surely he can show some form of restraint.
“Edes, come on,” Piper says, her hand firm on my shoulder, steering me toward the office door. She shoots a look at Malachi that could peel paint. “I’m coming in with you. Dr. Aris said it was fine to have family in the session today.”
I look back at Malachi, who has a wicked smirk playing on his lips as if he can taste my thoughts.
“Stay,” I mouth at him, my eyes wide and pleading.
He just tilts his head, his brow arching in a silent challenge that says 'Try and make me.'
The panic is roiling hard and hot in my body, but I swallow it down. I don't have a choice. I never have a fucking choice.
“You wait here… Mal,” I say cautiously, putting my back to Piper so she can’t see the fear in my eyes.
“Are you sure, baby girl?” He leans down and murmurs right into my ear, sending goosebumps skittering over my body. “Must she be involved? I’ll be much better company.”
“Just sit and stay,” I whisper-hiss, my grip tightening on the charcoal wool until my knuckles ache. “And for the love of God, don't attack the other patients.”
He lets out a soft, huffed breath of a laugh and settles back into the plastic chair.
Dr. Aris is already seated, his spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose like a gatekeeper to clinical stability. He looks up as we enter, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Eden,” he says warmly. “It’s been far too long. I was beginning to think you’d decided you were cured. And Piper, it’s good to see you again. I don’t believe I’ve seen you in the office since… well, since the early days. How’ve you both been?”
The early days. The polite way of saying since your world exploded and your sister had to carry you here like a broken doll.
“Great,” I lie, sinking into the velvet couch. “Everything is just… perfectly normal. I’ve just been busy.”
Dr. Aris hums, scribbling something on his notepad. He looks over the rims of his glasses, his gaze softening into that specialized look of professional empathy that usually precedes an intellectual dismantling.
“I’m glad to hear you’re busy, Eden, but Piper reached out to me before the session. She’s concerned. She mentioned that she believes you might be self-harming.”
The air leaves my lungs in one big whoosh, like I’ve been kicked right in the solar plexus. I whip my head around to my sister, the healing cut under my sleeve throbbing at the reminder. “Piper?! What?! I told you that wasn't self-harm!”
“Edes, please,” Piper says, her voice thick with that agonizingly earnest, supportive tone that makes me want to scream.
She reaches for my hand, but I pull back, tucking my arms against my chest, shielding the bandage hidden beneath my sleeve.
“Even if what you did was just part of some… ‘grief ritual’… You’re hurting, and you’re taking it out on your body. ”
“It’s okay, Eden,” Dr. Aris diffuses smoothly. “There’s no judgment here. We’ve talked about this before—when someone has been through a trauma as profound as yours, witnessing the accident, losing your partner so suddenly… it’s common to feel a need to take that pain out on yourself.”
A familiar, prickly heat crawls up my neck. It tingles through my fingertips—a static charge that has my fists clenching until my nails dig little crescents into my palms.
He leans forward, the light catching his lenses. “We call it survivor's guilt. But in your case, I suspect it’s complicated by what we call 'legacy pain.' The things they made you believe about yourself when the doors were closed.”
A high-pitched, tea-kettle of a whistle sparks in my mind. He’s reaching for the part of me I keep buried in the dark, the part that lived in silence long before everything that happened.
Survivor's guilt. Legacy pain. The words are too small. They’re clinical labels for a catastrophe and they don’t even begin to scratch the surface.
They’ll never know. They’ll never fucking know.
I chew my lip, the already-chapped skin breaking under my teeth until the sharp tang of iron coats the tip of my tongue.
“Eden, do you think,” Dr. Aris continues in a comforting murmur, “that maybe you’re trying to punish yourself for something that was entirely out of your control? That you’re hurting yourself because you couldn't stop him from hurting you then?”
I’m not hurting myself. I’m not a victim. I’m the woman who tore a hole in her life and then tore one between realms too. Dr. Aris might as well be trying to fix a hurricane with a Band-Aid.
Breathe, the poster said. Inhale. But my lungs are full of lead, and I can't find a single breath of air that feels clean enough to suck in.
I need air. I need out.
And God help me, I think I need the monster in the waiting room.