Chapter 18 Zaria
ZARIA
Ihear the door unlock and I stand before I even register the sound, my body moving on instinct.
The door swings open and Callum steps inside.
Just like the first night. Same posture, same unreadable face, same quiet heaviness that fills a room before he even speaks.
A guard follows him in carrying a silver tray of food. He sets it on the dresser without a word and slips out, shutting the door behind him.
It's just the two of us now and I do what I've been trained to do.
I bow.
A full, formal bend at the waist, eyes lowered, hands clasped in front of me, bow.
"Good morning," I say.
When I lift my head, Callum is staring at me like I've grown a second head.
"Do you normally do that?" he asks.
Heat floods my face.
I straighten too quickly, my hands fumbling against the denim of my jeans.
"Yes... no... sorry," I stammer, and sink back onto the edge of the bed.
My palms press into my thighs.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
He's not a Brother. This isn't the compound, but my body doesn't know that yet.
Callum doesn't move from where he stands near the door. He watches me for a moment and then gestures toward the tray.
"Your breakfast."
"Thank you," I say as he crosses the room and lowers himself into the chair opposite the bed.
Callum leans back, his posture relaxed in a way that makes me more nervous, not less.
Angry men you can read, relaxed men are unpredictable.
"Now that you've had a few days to rest and eat," he says, his tone flat, "I'd like to talk."
I nod quickly.
"Yes, of course."
My hands twist together in my lap.
"What would you like to know?"
He leans forward, his forearm resting on his knees, and the distance between us shrinks even though neither of us moved.
His eyes, sharp and green, lock onto mine.
"You know," he says, "you're very interesting to me."
I blink.
"What? Why?"
He tilts his head. "Well, I did some digging, and it turns out everything you told me was right."
I stare at him, confusion fighting the tightness in my chest.
"Why would I lie?"
He leans back in the chair again, one hand draping over the armrest, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the wood.
"The better question is why wouldn't you."
I open my mouth, but he continues before I can respond.
"In my basement, you spilled everything without hesitation. I didn't even have to pull it out of you. Why?"
His gaze doesn't waver. It's not cruel, but it's not kind either.
I take a much needed breath.
"For a long time," I say slowly, "I've been told how to think. How to act. What to say. And I went along with it because... because I thought that was what loyalty looked like."
I pause, swallowing hard.
"But everything changed. And the things I believed were truths were actually lies. And in your basement..." My voice cracks. "I thought to myself, why the hell would I do anything to protect the Order? They want me dead probably as much as you do."
His eyebrows tighten slightly. I can't tell if he's surprised or annoyed or just listening.
"I mean, I could tell you didn't even know why Cormac was after you. I was told you knew. Your entire family knew what your grandfather did, celebrated it even."
Callum's jaw flexes as I stop and sigh.
"But it didn't seem like you really did. So if I was going to die down there," I continue, "at least I would speak the truth for once. Maybe find some solace in my final moments. You know, if there is a God, maybe he'd take pity on me trying to be honest in the end."
I take another shaky breath.
"So that's why I told you. For me."
Callum studies me in silence and then shakes his head slightly, either processing or dismissing something I'll never know.
"Tell me about you. Did you grow up in this Order?"
I freeze.
"You want to know about me?" I ask as I wrap my hands around my shawl. "Why? You'll just kill me after all this anyway."
He lifts his chin, his expression doesn't soften.
"I was taught to know the enemy as best you can," he says, and rubs the stubble on his face. "It's the only way to secure a victory. So answer the question."
"You think I'm your enemy?" I ask quietly.
He doesn't respond. He doesn't have to. The silence is enough.
I look down. I get it. Up until about seven or eight months ago, maybe he'd be right.
"Well, let's see." I force a breath. "I was raised by my mother until I was thirteen. Then I went looking for my father."
He frowns slightly. "So you just left her at thirteen?"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I mean it to.
I force a smile, but I can feel the tears forming in my eyes, hot and unwelcome.
"She left me."
My voice cracks.
"She died."
Callum's posture shifts.
The hard lines of his shoulders soften just slightly.
"Oh. Sorry."
The way he says it makes me think he kind of means it.
"Thank you."
I wipe at my eyes quickly, hating that I'm crying in front of him.
Again.
He clears his throat. "So did you know him before you went looking for him?"
"Just his name and what he looked like from some pictures."
I stare at the floor.
"My mom, she was an escort. Had a hard life. Did what she had to do, you know."
I risk a glance at Callum. He doesn't flinch or judge. Just listens.
"One day she met a man who promised her the world, and so being young and naive, she went along with it."
"Cormac, I take it," Callum says.
"Yes." I wrap my arms around myself again. "Before the Order was what it is now, Cormac's original idea was to have children with as many women as possible."
Callum scoffs. "Cult 101."
"Yeah." I sigh. "So my mom learned quickly that she, and other women, would be the ones working, raising the kids, and supporting whatever cause he was after. She didn't want to do that anymore, so she fled with me to a small town in Idaho, where we lived until I came back looking for him."
"Did he chase her?" Callum asks.
"I don't know," I shrug. "We lived there until she died. Then I took a Greyhound bus by myself to find him. Stupid, really."
I'm not sure why I'm telling him this, except that he asked and no one has ever asked before.
"Why?" Callum asks. "If he had all this money to start Shadowharbor, why use women?"
I let out a breath that's almost a laugh.
"Question of the year."
I brush the hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.
"He keeps it all separate. He lives lavish, but the Order doesn't have a right to the money, per the Morrígan. We have to source it to be pure."
When I say it aloud, the absurdity hits me and I start to really laugh a little.
Callum raises an eyebrow. "What's so funny?"
"Well, it sounds so absurd now when I say it out loud, but from the time I was thirteen until about eight months ago, I believed it."
"Why?" he asks.
I shrug and meet his eyes. "When I found him, he cried. Literally got down on his knees and thanked the Morrígan for bringing me back to him. He told me I was special. Chosen. I was treated like royalty. And at thirteen, who doesn't love being important?"
Callum nods slowly.
"Then, as I got older, I realized I wasn't treated like a person. Not really. I was groomed psychologically, forced to learn rituals, history about you and your family, fake prophecies, and then..."
I stop.
My hand moves to my side, fingers pressing against the fabric where the scars are hidden beneath.
"I started being the ritual."
Callum's eyes follow the movement of my hand.
"Why didn't you just leave?" he asks.
I give a fake smile.
"It's not that simple. You know when you see people on TV and they talk about being in a bad relationship, it's easy to think, 'Why didn't they just walk away?' Well, it's not that easy, for a lot of reasons. For me, leaving would mean believing I deserved something better, and I didn't."
I pause, trying to find better words to explain myself.
"I was beaten when I questioned anything. Punished when I resisted. Everyone I knew turned against me. My father became both the man I feared and some god-like figure we looked up to."
My voice breaks.
"There was nowhere to go. No one to take me in. It was easier to let him break me."
The tears come now, hot and fast, and I don't bother wiping them away.
Callum shifts in his chair.
"The marks on your body," he says. "Those punishments?"
"Yeah."
I nod.
"And sacrifices too. Blood for the Morrígan."
Callum rubs his forehead with his right hand.
"Jesus Christ, Zaria."
My chest warms unexpectedly at the sound of my own name spoken so gently. So human.
I've been called Sister Omega forever.
We sit in silence for a few minutes.
I take the time to collect myself, focusing on the rhythm of my breathing, on the feeling of the fabric beneath my fingers.
Then Callum breaks the silence.
"I need you to do something for me," he says. "Make things easier for me."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees again.
"Can you do that?"
I nod quickly.
"Sure. What do you have in mind?"