Chapter 10 Maeve #2
“We’re not going to discuss our feelings and braid each other’s hair.” I place my half-empty mug onto the side table so I can move my hands back under the blanket.
I hate the extra smothering, but I don’t want him to notice the trembling of my hands.
“That’s not what I’m trying to do, love,” he says sharply. “This isn’t me mollifying you, for crying out loud. I’m checking in.”
“Then check in somewhere else. A mental health facility maybe? Or even better—a graveyard.”
He chuckles, and I hate the smooth sound of it. I especially hate the way my body relaxes from the warmth.
“You scared me, little light. Did you know I lost my memories of the attack until you were there?”
“Am I meant to be surprised by your ineptness?”
“I’ve missed your wit. It’s far better in person.”
I can’t help volleying back. “The only thing I’ve missed about you is… huh, I’m really struggling to think. I must not have missed anything.”
My chromius hisses at me.
His hand twitches on his knee like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t. Thank fuck.
“Well, I suppose you’re home now. You won’t have to miss anything anymore.”
My smile turns sad, and I admit my first truth of our conversation. “This isn’t my home, Julian. It never was.”
He looks around my house, and I can smell the way his scent twists in itself, the confusion tickling my nose. “But… it’s your house.”
“A house doesn’t make a home,” I offer. “And this place? It’s nothing more than a prison full of reminders. I’d bet my entire inheritance it was deliberately designed to torture me—over and over, replaying the abuse, the injustice, and the trauma that I’ve been dealt.”
“So, where is home?”
I think to the pride. To my flat with Ari. To… ew, nope, I am not admitting anything close to that.
People claim home doesn’t have to be a house. It can be a place, a person, a memory… a feeling.
And for me?
Home… home is where I feel safe.
The place. The people. The security…
The Phoenix Pride was never meant to become my forever home—and yet, somehow, it is.
Ew.
“None of your business.” I resort to my natural defence—cutting out the people who make me feel.
It’s the best form of survival.
“You know, chameleons are solitary animals,” Julian says, and although it’s a weird change in conversation, I’m not stupid enough to think it’s random.
I hold back my groan while simultaneously building a mental wall between my animal and I. She’s clinging to Julian’s words like they’re her own personal oxygen.
It’s ridiculous.
The distance between them hasn’t undone the lies he made her believe.
Deep down, she knows he isn’t ours.
That we’re not his.
But, like me, she wants to live in delusion and clings to the pathetic hope of a mate. Of bonding. Of gaining her true form—her outlet.
“Don’t remind me of how special I am,” I grumble, my voice dry enough to crack.
It’s ironic, really. Regular chameleons—both the wild animal and the shifter—are designed to be alone. They don’t gather, don’t connect, don’t need anyone.
But for a chromius?
They’re the opposite. They need others.
They’ve got to find their people, their place, and then they can thrive. They can grow, they can fuel themselves.
Connection is how they breathe. Touch is how they anchor. And love, well, love is how they… no, how she finds her freedom.
Without it, my chromius will fade. She’d be dead, and so will I.
My poor creature is starving, and all she’s ever wanted is to be wanted.
Pathetic, huh?
But the cruel joke of it all is that I’m a girl terrified of touch. A creature built for closeness trapped in a body that flinches from it.
One of us is starving.
The other’s in a cage.
Sometimes, though, it’s hard to figure out who is who.
“Solitary works… until it doesn’t. Sometimes, being alone just makes everything harder,” he continues, and I don’t even bother replying to him.
His point is stupid. Just like his face.
Top-tier insult, Maeve. Good job.
I stare across the room into the mirror, determined to avoid his knowing gaze.
Instead, all I find is my own reflection—red-rimmed, stubborn, and so fucking lonely.
I’m the kind of girl who survives because I have no other choice, and yet, classes it as a victory because I’ve never known anything else.
“Being with people turns the noise down in your head,” he adds, and this is a cutting fucking wound.
Cunt.
“No, Julian, it doesn’t. Being with people just gives the noise an audience.”
It feeds my instability and shows everyone how pathetically weak I am.
“But we stack the deck. You pick the people, the audience, the support.”
I scoff, but, of course, my chromius perks up. She likes the idea of control, and she absolutely has a group she’d use.
She’s starved enough to take crumbs and call them dinner.
“Has Adrian been in contact yet?” I ask, changing the subject.
Julian’s eyes flash with something, so fast, before he masks it.
“No, but we’re waiting for him. I’ve not yet met your bear—”
“Not mine, and not just a bear,” I say, rolling my eyes.
How fucking rude.
Imagine calling Julian a horse? He’d be horrified.
“Well, either way, Luc says we’ll be seeing him this afternoon.”
I ignore the rush of warmth that comes with his words and shrug. “Good for him. As long as he keeps the cat away, that’s all I care about.”
Julian’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t call me out on anything.
Smart man—for once in his life.
“Come downstairs. We’re making breakfast and getting prepared,” he says with a wry smile.
“What kind of food?”
He grimaces. “Lucifer’s trying to make pancakes… shaped like knives.”
“Of course, he is,” I say brightly to cover my unease. “Do you think he’s got the patent trademarked? Lucifer’s Limited Edition Stab Cakes?”
Julian laughs. “More than likely. Bet he allows for custom orders with specific poisons.”
“Unsurprising.”
“With that said, Hadrian’s already burnt the first pan out of spite, so you best hurry.”
“And that’s why we don’t let Hades near the oven.”
He gestures towards my mug. “Bring your tea, come eat, and we’ll get things ironed out for the day.”
“Ugh. Can’t someone just bring me breakfast in bed?”
“I never thought you’d be demanding the princess treatment,” he says, shaking his head, but he winks to let me know he’s joking.
I should protest. Mainly because I don’t have a grasp on the group dynamics between the three of them just yet, and any hint of confrontation is likely to send me spiralling.
Again.
“Fine,” I say, and nod to the door. “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be down.”
He raises a brow, those beady blue eyes flicking over my face, looking for cracks. If he’s trying to make me uncomfortable, he’s already lost.
I’m the queen of discomfort—crowned and undefeated.
When he leaves, the room feels too still, and my chromius whines at her loneliness. She wants connection. She deserves it.
But she’s stuck with me—half-alive, half-afraid, and fully inadequate.
Makes sense.
I’ve never been enough for anyone.
For once, I don’t have the energy to fight. Not her, not him, not any of them. Sure, going downstairs won’t kill me, but staying up here with them interrupting my silence every few minutes will.
The door clicks shut, and I kick the blanket off myself. A pathetic rebellion that only upsets me, but I suppose movement is still movement.
Cold air skates over my bare skin, every hair on my arms saluting like a panicked soldier.
Dramatic, I know.
But my body doesn’t.
I move my legs, mentally preparing to get up, but the moment I do, I know I fucked up.
Fabric drags over my ankles, and my pulse jacks high—my chest squeezes, the old phantom weight pinning me, the long-ago whisper brushing my ear—
“She’s shaking. I love seeing her like this.”
“Fuck off,” I hiss, too loud for the empty room. I’m wasting my time—ghosts don’t hear the words of the living.
Right?
Tears sting but don’t fall. I blink until the pain is locked away, until I can breathe without tasting blood and dust.
The memory fades, and I shove it into my mental box.
Pandora freed hers and doomed the world.
If I ever free mine?
They’ll have to build me my own asylum.
I stand slowly, moving to the dresser. I pull out clean undergarments and strip off my clothes. I mentally disassociate the best I can as I rush through the process.
Socks. I can do socks.
I can manage with them.
“Who the fuck am I kidding?” I snap, tossing the folded pair of socks at the mirror, hating that they didn’t shatter it.
Instead, I pull out a pair of heels—ones I’m definitely bringing back to the pride with me—and put them on immediately.
Now I don’t need to feel the cold, hard flooring of my bathroom when I brush my teeth.
I steady myself on the dresser and pull out another dress I regret leaving behind.
Goodness, some of my best clothes didn’t make the journey.
Fucking Adrian.
I breathe out slowly. I’m not ready—but hiding won’t fix anything.
Fine. Downstairs it is.
Voices drift up the stairs, muted but familiar—Luc’s lazy drawl, and the low chuckling from Hades.
Something clatters and one of them swears, causing another round of laughter from the dark pegasus.
They’re not killing each other.
Disappointing, really.
But at least it means I can walk into the chaos instead of the blood.