7. Festival Flames #2
"Envy is an age-old affliction. What you have will always be the object of another’s desire," he said finally. "Even if all you had was your life, how far would you go to protect that?"
The hair rose on my arms. Not threatening, Eli never felt threatening, but heavy with implication. Like we were standing on the edge of something, and he was deciding whether to push me over or pull me back.
"You talk about your family like you're guarding something," I said.
"Do I?"
"You all do. You, Jasper, Callum. Every conversation feels like there's another conversation happening underneath it. One I'm not invited to."
Eli was quiet for a long moment. The shadows had grown longer while we talked, the light fading to that particular shade of purple-pink that Louisiana seemed to specialize in. When he spoke, his voice was careful.
"We're a close family. Private. But please." The word caught, earnest and vulnerable in a way that didn't match his usual careful composure. "We want you to feel welcome."
It was the most emotion I'd heard in his voice. The please caught me off guard.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said, and was surprised to find I meant it.
We walked in silence for a block. I found myself acutely aware of Eli's presence beside me, the steadiness of his step, the quiet focus of his attention.
The way his head turned slightly toward sounds I could barely hear, orienting toward them the same way Callum did.
The same way Dex Fontaine did. The same way all of them did.
"You're going to the festival," he said eventually.
"Jasper convinced me."
"He's good at that." Warmth in his voice when he talked about his brother. "He makes things easier."
"And you? What do you make things?"
He considered the question seriously, the way he seemed to consider everything. The way he gave weight to things other people would brush past.
"I make things understandable. Eventually. When people are ready to hear them."
"And Callum?"
Something shifted in Eli's expression. Tender, amused, maybe a little worried. "Callum makes things safe. Whether you want him to or not. It's who he is. He can't help it."
I thought about Callum's constant watchfulness.
The way he seemed to track my movements without ever looking directly at me.
The way he positioned himself, always, between me and anything that might be a threat.
The way his eyes sometimes caught the light wrong, flashing gold for a fraction of a second before returning to dark brown.
"He barely speaks to me," I said.
"I know." Eli's voice was gentle. "That's not about you. It's about him. About what he's managing." Another careful word choice. "Give him time."
"Jasper said he'll be at the festival. That you'll all be there."
"We will." He glanced at me sideways. "Does that bother you?"
"Should it?"
"I don't know." His voice was careful. "You're very good at deflecting questions with other questions."
"Professional habit."
"No." He stopped walking, turning to face me. In the fading light, his eyes were very dark behind his glasses, the silver I'd glimpsed before gone entirely. "It's a survival skill. You learned it somewhere, from someone. And now you use it without thinking."
I felt exposed. Seen in a way that wasn't comfortable.
"What makes you say that?"
"Because I do the same thing." He started walking again. "Recognizing defensive patterns in others is easier than recognizing them in yourself."
I wanted to ask what he was defending against. What had taught him to build walls, to deflect, to keep parts of himself hidden. But the question felt too intimate for the fading light and the quiet street and the strange, charged space between us.
Instead, I said: "You see a lot. More than most people."
"It's my job." A pause. "And my curse, sometimes. Seeing things clearly doesn't always make them easier to bear."
"What do you see when you look at me?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it. I felt my face heat up, grateful for the dim light.
Eli was quiet for so long I thought he wasn't going to answer. We passed under an oak heavy with Spanish moss, the gray-green tendrils brushing my shoulder like ghostly fingers. The street was empty except for us, the town settling into evening quiet.
"Someone who's been hurt," he said finally. "Someone who's stronger than she knows. Someone who came here looking to disappear and is slowly realizing she might want to be found instead."
"That's a lot to see."
"I told you." His voice was soft. "I pay attention too. We all do. In our different ways."
We didn't talk the rest of the way home. But when we reached the stairs to my apartment, he paused.
"The festival can be overwhelming, but there are quiet spots if you need them." A small smile, barely visible in the dusk. "I can show you."
"That's a kind offer."
"I hope you’ll take me up on it."
He disappeared into the main house, moving with that same fluid grace his brothers shared, and I climbed the stairs to my apartment.
Thinking about protective patterns. About the things we learn to survive. About symbols that hummed when you got close, brothers who moved like something wild and a town full of questions no one wanted to answer.
And about being seen, really seen, by someone who wasn't trying to use that knowledge against me.
That night, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about three brothers who each seemed to understand a different part of me.
Jasper, who made me laugh. Callum, who made me feel safe without ever saying a word.
Eli, who saw straight through every wall I'd built and somehow made that feel like a gift instead of a violation.
The howling started around midnight. Three voices, weaving together in the darkness, rising and falling through the trees.
I listened to it for a long time. Tried to match the tones to the brothers, the way you might match instruments in an orchestra.
The deepest voice, powerful and sure. The warmest voice, rich with something that sounded almost like laughter.
The clearest voice, precise and measured even in its wildness.
Callum. Jasper. Eli.
I didn't know what to do with any of it. Didn’t know if was projecting my fears, my desires onto any of it…
all of it. Didn't know what they wanted from me, or what I was willing to give, or why the thought of the festival, of spending hours with all three of them, made me feel excited and terrified in equal measure.
But for the first time since Atlanta, I fell asleep looking forward to something.
I completely forgot to check the locks.
I was almost asleep when my phone buzzed. Unknown number. My heart seized, that familiar cold terror flooding my veins.
But when I looked at the message, it wasn't from Marcus.
You’re almost there.
Three words. No signature. No context.
I blocked the number with shaking hands and told myself it was a wrong number. A coincidence. Nothing to do with me.
But sleep was a long time coming. And when it finally arrived, I dreamed of a woman with dark skin and knowing eyes, standing in a kitchen that smelled like coffee and herbs, looking at me like she'd been waiting.
You're almost ready, she said. Almost.
I woke with the taste of chicory on my tongue and no memory of how it got there.
My hand was tingling, a warmth that had no source. I flexed my fingers, half expecting to see something wrong, but there was nothing—just the faint crescent marks where my nails had dug in during sleep, and a strange certainty that whatever I’d dreamed had been more than a dream.