17. Chapter 17
Mattie
For the last twenty-eight years, my life had been an endless fight to distinguish what was real and what wasn’t.
The wealthy suburbs I grew up in, where my parents paraded my brother and me around to prove how charitable they were?
Real.
The love behind the actions?
Not real.
We were pawns in their game.
Children adopted from godless backgrounds, brought to the States, waterboarded in holy water, dressed in white cloaks—all for show. A perfect, pious family.
The churches we filled the pews of?
Real.
The messages behind the scripture?
Surprisingly real.
The promises of eternal life, unconditional love, and a sacred community only Christ could offer?
As fake as the new preacher nervously pacing the stage each Sunday.
Sebastian Castillo wasn’t fit to lead a cult. Wasn’t fit to be a prophet. Wasn’t fit for anything except rotting in prison.
And that meant a lot coming from me.
Because I knew cult leaders. I grew up under their rule, forced into sermons led by Christian, or Colin, or Carsen, or Cameron, or whatever name the false god adopted when authorities caught wind of the atrocities performed in the name of religion.
The men dreamed of obeying him. The women died trying to carry his heir. And me? I was twisted into becoming the perfect vessel for the second coming of Christ.
But there was one fatal flaw in their plan: I didn’t like men. Never had. Sure, I liked having male friends. I always had a good time dicking around with the guys at the gym. But the idea of having sex with any of them made me want to hurl.
When I told my parents that at fifteen, they sent me straight to confession.
At the time, the false god was weirdly understanding. He preached some crap about how God didn’t make mistakes, how I was exactly who the Lord intended.
But Dale disagreed.
I spent the next three years in ‘classes’ meant to scare the devil out of me. In reality, it was just another excuse to break me.
To beat me into submission.
To turn me into another pretty fool—eager to bear the child who would cleanse our souls and grant us salvation.
It didn’t work. One day, I snapped.
My parents were lucky they didn’t live to see their precious daughter grow into a godless degenerate. Though they’d probably be proud of how close I’d gotten to Reverend Cole.
I crossed my arms, muscles straining against the sleeves of my black button-down. Nothing less than my Sunday best for a weekly meeting with Satan himself.
“Matilda,” Dale drawled, leaning forward in his chair.
My jaw tensed.
I resisted the urge to correct him. Sure, that was legally my name, but I hated it.
I’d barely made it through Sebastian’s limp sermon about how a child would save us—or whatever garbage Dale had coached him to say. Reverend Cole was lucky I hadn’t stood up, grabbed his faded chestnut hair, and smashed his face into the desk until the wood splintered.
But I had channels to go through. If I didn’t follow the rules, I’d earn myself another five years of servitude.
“Are you certain you saw Calvin picking up pregnancy tests?” Dale asked.
“Are there any other seven-foot-tall gingers running around Hartwood?” There really shouldn’t have been.
“No, thankfully, God spared us that indignity. But that’s a serious accusation against Father Castillo—”
He broke into a harsh, hacking cough. When he sat up, blood slicked his lower lip. He wiped it away with his elbow and drew in a wheezing breath.
I cringed.
If God is real, he’d better let me kill this sadistic fucker before this disgusting disease did.
“Father Castillo claims he’s yet to produce an heir,” Dale rasped. “That level of perjury, from a man in his position, is unbecoming.”
To be honest, I didn’t care if Sebastian lied about getting Mason pregnant, or the tests, or anything else. He was still a dumbass who fell into the cult; that made him guilty enough. But there was something in that farmhouse I cared about more than I should have.
“There are two women and three men in that house. So… it’s possible Sebastian isn’t lying.”
That was the truth.
Dale nodded slowly. “And that’s why you’re so interested in his household?”
I bit my lip and nodded. “That’s it. It’s my job to redeem myself if I ever want salvation.”
Salvation.
That’s what Dale promised. If I followed Sebastian, ensured he was honest and fruitful, I’d be healed of my sins.
But, Dale failed to consider that not all of us feared what made us unholy.
The drive from Saint Samael’s to Mason’s house usually took less than half an hour. But I had errands.
First stop: my apartment. I needed to shower, feed my ferret, and change. Don’t get me wrong, I looked hot in my fancy church attire, but the shirt was itchy.
I swapped it for a white tee Mason loved. Sure, she’d been ignoring me lately, but my ego refused to believe our whirlwind romance had already burned out.
Mason was a sweet little alien, and if those pregnancy tests were anything to go by… she’d been busy.
Instead of spiraling, I swung by the store and picked up a few things.
A bouquet of forget-me-nots.
A bottle of iced green tea–lightly sweetened, with a hint of mint.
A jar of Nutella.
A bag of pretzel sticks.
Maybe I went overboard, but I needed her to trust me. Okay, that was a lie. She already trusted me.
I did it because I wanted to.
I bit my tongue, halting the fiery flutter in my gut before it turned into something dangerous.
The tires of my Camaro crunched over the gravel as I pulled up beside Mason’s minivan. A smile tugged at my lips. She used to drive a sleek sports car, but now? Now she was a mom before anything else.
And I liked that about her.
That was the truth.
I gathered my offerings and stepped into the sun, walking up the porch. Even from outside, the house buzzed with life—fast footsteps, the shriek of laughter, and someone yelling—
“Goddammit, Richard!”
Not Mason.
I froze.
Who the hell was Richard?
When I visited, it was always late or early. Quiet moments, just the two of us, drifting through the stillness.
This?
This was a zoo.
For a second, I thought about leaving. I could text Mason. Say I dropped some stuff off. Keep it casual. That would’ve been smart. Normal. Maybe even respectful.
But I wasn’t any of those things.
I adjusted the flowers and knocked.
“Daddy! Someone’s at the door!” a little girl called.
“Yes, Juniper. I have ears. Thank you,” came the dry reply.
A tall man with dark hair opened the door, an orange cat draped across his arms like a baby. The cat immediately sank its teeth into his wrist. He didn’t even flinch.
“Who are you?” he asked, just before a boy barreled into his legs, knocking the cat loose.
The cat hit the floor, paused like it was questioning its existence, and bolted.
The man sighed. “Fuck.”
“Sorry, Daddy,” the boy mumbled.
“It’s okay, mijo.” He ruffled the kid’s hair, like I wasn’t even there.
Should I run?
“Who’s at the door?” called a familiar voice—feminine, but not my Pipsqueak.
“I don’t fucking know!” he snapped.
“Daddy needs to put a quarter in the swear jar!” chirped the girl.
“Uh… this is for Mason,” I managed, offering the bag. “And I—”
“Oh, there you are!” The blonde from yesterday appeared and gently pushed the man aside. “This is Mason’s girlfriend. Maggie—”
“Mattie,” I corrected.
“Right. Mattie.” She turned to him. “Quit being rude.”
“Am I not allowed to ask strangers why they’re at our fucking house?” he shot back.
“Daddy has to put another quarter in the swear jar!” the little girl sang.
The man looked like he was five seconds from losing his mind. But then something softened, and a crooked smile twisted his lips.
“I don’t have to pay if I throw you in the trash,” he teased.
“Nooo!” the little girl squealed as he chased her inside.
Something strange and painful twisted in my chest.
“Sorry about that—kids,” the woman said with a shrug. “Take your shoes off. Mason’s downstairs, we're ordering pizza. You like pizza?”
Was this real life or a fever dream?
“I, uh… yeah. Pizza’s great.”
I slipped off my shoes and added them to the chaotic rack.
The door closed behind me.
Warmth settled over me like a blanket.
The house was the same—open and bright—but now that I wasn’t rushing to Mason’s room, I saw everything:
Framed photos.
A black cat dozing on a chair.
Laundry baskets and mismatched toddler shoes.
A life I didn’t expect.
“So… Mason is downstairs?” I asked, still stunned.
“Mhm. Rosie’s not feeling great and—” she gestured around. “Chaos and grumpy babies don’t mix. Could you bring her some water?”
I shook my head. Her face fell.
“She likes green tea,” I said. “I brought some. It was on the way here.”
A lie. The store was out of the way, but worth it if it made Mason smile.
The woman smiled back, and I took it as my sign to go.
I crept downstairs. The chaos faded into soft lullabies and lavender. Light from the TV painted the room in oceanic purples.
At first, I didn’t see her. Then I spotted Mason curled on the sectional under a plush blanket, a hoodie pulled up just enough to reveal a bare breast.
And there she was.
Rosie.
I’d seen pictures. Heard stories. But I’d never met her. Mason didn’t want just anyone in her life. I hated that those words might've applied to me.
“Hey,” I whispered.
She startled, then looked up, her lips parting just enough to reveal the gap in her teeth.
“Fuck—I never texted you back, did I?”
I grinned. “Better be careful. They’re really serious about the swear jar up there.”
She laughed, rubbing her face. “It’s just for Lucian. Sophia thinks he swears too much and, well—” She shrugged, then patted the couch beside her.
Sophia. Lucian. Names I’d heard, but hadn’t cared about until now. Maybe it’d be easier to remember them now that I had faces to put with the names.
“Can I sit?” I whispered.
Mason nodded, knocking baby gear off the cushion next to her.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m gross right now.”
Anyone else, I’d be annoyed. From her?
Didn’t bother me at all.
I sat beside her, doing the best to ignore the baby in her arms. Except, I couldn’t.
Her little hands gripped Mason’s breast, her chubby cheeks flushed.
“She’s beautiful,” I said.
Mason looked down at her daughter like she was holding the sun.
“That’s how she cons people into never sleeping again,” she whispered, gently sliding Rosie off her. “Do you want to hold her?”
My heart skipped.
“Can I?”
She nodded.
I opened my arms, and she placed Rosie against me with a mother’s practiced ease. The baby was heavier than I expected. Soft. Alive. I suppressed the urge to kiss her forehead.
Mason leaned into me. Head on my shoulder. Arms wrapping around both of us.
“I’m sorry for being the worst girlfriend ever,” she yawned. “It’s been a lot.”
I rested my chin on her head.
“Stop apologizing. You’re allowed to have a life outside of me.”
“So you won’t be mad if I fall asleep right here?” she whispered, voice fading into a tired laugh.
“Never,” was all I could say.
Because if I kept talking, I’d say something stupid.
Like I love you.
And that would be the truth.