Chapter 004
Kaelen was avoiding him.
To anyone else, the morning routine might have looked normal—coffee, the hiss of a pan on the stove, the quiet shuffle of domestic life. But Voren knew better. He read the silence in the apartment like a threat assessment, and the results were flashing red.
It had started the moment they woke up. When Voren had leaned in for a morning kiss, Kaelen had turned his head. It wasn’t a clumsy accident; it was a precise, flinching evasion that landed Voren’s lips on his cheek. Before Voren could address it, Kaelen had slipped out of bed, muttering something about breakfast, and put a wall of distance between them that felt thicker than the drywall separating the bedroom from the kitchen.
Voren stood in the doorway now, watching Kaelen push eggs around a skillet. Kaelen’s shoulders were tight, drawn up toward his ears. He hadn’t looked at Voren once since entering the room.
Voren didn’t know how to fix this because he didn’t know exactly what he’d broken.
He knew it was about the nightmare. Kaelen had woken up screaming, and Marrow—usually just a pile of bones with an attitude—had acted like a feral guard dog. But Kaelen wouldn’t talk about the dream, and his refusal to make eye contact suggested the monster in that nightmare wore Voren’s face.
Guilt, heavy and familiar, settled in Voren’s gut. He still hadn’t told Kaelen about the Organization. He’d justified the silence a thousand ways—waiting for the right time, protecting him from the truth—but the delay was rotting the foundation of their relationship. Kaelen was a necromancer who felt death like a physical blow; if he was sensing the ghosts of Voren’s past, Voren had no defense.
He hated this feeling. Helplessness. He was a man who solved problems with ballistics and careful planning, but he couldn’t shoot the tension out of the air. He wanted to cross the kitchen, wrap his arms around Kaelen, and force the fear to dissolve. But he knew that would only make Kaelen pull away faster.
"What did you do to him?"
The whisper came from the table. Silas was sitting there, looking like a wreck but sounding entirely too pleased with himself.
Voren shot him a glare that usually sent people running. "Who said I did anything?"
"Well, look at him," Silas said, nodding toward the stove. "He’s treating you like you’re contagious. He’s not even looking your way."
Kaelen’s back stiffened. He could hear them. Of course he could.
Voren’s patience snapped. He didn’t care if Silas was injured; he cared that he was making Kaelen’s obvious discomfort worse. He crossed the distance in two strides, grabbed Silas by his good arm, and hauled him out of the chair.
"Hey!" Silas yelped, stumbling as Voren marched him out of the kitchen. "Watch the merchandise!"
Voren ignored him, dragging him into the living room and shoving him toward the couch. He didn’t want Silas in there picking at the scabs of Kaelen’s mood. Kaelen wanted to be alone? Fine. Voren would give him space, and he’d make sure the peanut gallery stayed out of earshot.
"What did you do that for?" Silas complained, rubbing his arm as he dropped onto the cushions.
"You were making Kaelen uncomfortable."
"He didn’t say anything."
"You opened your big mouth. That was enough." Voren pointed a finger at him. "Sit. Stay."
Silas frowned, leaning back gingerly to favor his bandaged chest. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Tempting as it is to finish what they started," Voren muttered, grabbing the first aid kit from the coffee table, "Kaelen likes you. God knows why."
He sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing Silas. "Let me see the wounds."
"I don’t know if I want you to see my wounds. You have a look in your eye."
"Silas."
"Fine, fine." Silas grumbled but began unbuttoning the oversized shirt he’d borrowed. It was easier than a t-shirt, given the mess of his torso. He pulled the fabric aside, revealing the gauze Voren had applied previously.
Voren didn’t speak. He peeled back the tape with efficient, unsympathetic movements. The skin underneath was angry—black, blue, and striped with lacerations that were starting to knit but still looked ugly. Someone had taken their time with Silas.
He soaked a cotton pad in disinfectant.
"Seriously though," Silas said, wincing before Voren even touched him. "What did you do to Kaelen? I haven’t seen him this jumpy since... well, ever."
Voren pressed the disinfectant against the worst cut. Hard.
"Ow! Fuck!" Silas jerked back. "That was on purpose."
"I don’t know if we’re fighting," Voren said, his voice flat. "But if you keep asking, I might take it out on you."
"I didn’t do anything."
"You’re talking."
"Is it forbidden?"
"For you? Yes."
Silas pouted, looking ridiculous with his bruised face and open shirt. "I’m not feeling the love here, Voren. Maybe I should go back to the kitchen and talk to Kaelen. He has a better bedside manner."
"Maybe you want to die," Voren said. He didn’t look up from the wound he was cleaning.
"I definitely don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t be here asking for your help."
Voren paused, the cotton pad hovering over a particularly nasty slice near Silas’s sternum. "You’re not here because you asked for help."
Silas had come to warn them. He’d shown up bleeding and broken because he knew the Organization was closing in. It would have been easy for Silas to trade Voren’s location for a quick end to the pain. Professional courtesy only went so far when someone was taking a scalpel to your chest. But Silas had kept his mouth shut.
"Maybe not," Silas murmured, his tone losing its mocking edge. "But you and Kaelen helped me. You took me in. That means something."
"Does it?"
"It would’ve been easy to leave me outside. I would’ve survived, probably. But you brought me in."
Voren finished cleaning the cut and reached for fresh gauze. "You protected Kaelen."
"By not giving them your position? I guess."
Voren met his eyes. "That means a lot to me. Even though you’re annoying as hell."
Silas burst out laughing, then hissed in pain, clutching his ribs. "Good to know you’re still the same charming bastard."
"I’m not charming."
"No. I suppose you’re not."
Voren taped the gauze down, smoothing the edges. "You kept Kaelen safe. That’s all that matters."
Safe. The word tasted like ash. Voren could protect Kaelen from hit squads and tracking teams. He could stitch up wounds and secure perimeters. But he couldn’t protect Kaelen from the things going on inside his own head, and he couldn’t protect him from the truth of what Voren used to be.
He looked toward the kitchen. The silence from that room was heavy. Voren knew how to stop the hurting—he just had to tell the truth. But the truth was a bullet he couldn’t call back once it was fired.
---
Kaelen kept one eye on the eggs and one eye on the doorway.
He could hear the low rumble of voices from the living room—Voren’s terse baritone and Silas’s lighter, pained complaints. He didn’t think Voren would actually hurt Silas, not really. Voren was precise with his violence. He didn’t lash out without a reason.
Unless the reason is a teenage girl in a warehouse.
Kaelen gripped the spatula until his knuckles turned white. The nightmare was still clinging to him, a cold film of sweat he couldn’t wash off. It hadn’t felt like a dream. It had felt like a memory. The damp smell of the concrete, the terrified hitch in the girl’s breathing, the way the gun in Voren’s hand didn’t waver.
Melissa Campbell. The name was burned into his mind.
He scraped the eggs onto a plate, his hand trembling. He was exhausted. He hadn’t slept after waking up screaming, but Voren had. Kaelen had spent the rest of the night lying rigid in the dark, listening to the man he loved breathe, wondering if those hands had really pulled the trigger.
He felt like he was grieving someone who was still alive. He looked at the empty doorway and tried to summon the feeling of safety he usually felt around Voren, but all he got was a spike of adrenaline.
He didn’t know Voren. Not really.
He knew Voren the boyfriend, who made terrible coffee and let Kaelen steal the duvet. He didn’t know Voren the asset. He didn’t know the man who could look a crying student in the eye and end her life because an order came down the pipe.
"Kaelen?"
He jumped, the plate clattering loudly onto the counter as he spun around.
Voren was standing just inside the kitchen, hands raised slightly, palms open. The universal gesture for I’m not a threat. The fact that Voren felt he needed to use it on him made Kaelen’s chest ache.
"I didn’t mean to scare you," Voren said softly.
Kaelen forced his heart to slow down. "You didn’t. I was just... lost in thought. Startled."
Voren’s eyes searched his face, scanning for the lie. He found it, of course. "Are you okay?"
"I’m fine."
It was a flimsy lie, thin as paper. Voren didn’t push, though the concern in his eyes deepened, shifting into a hurt resignation that made Kaelen want to scream.
Just tell me, Kaelen thought. Tell me you didn’t do it. Tell me the dream was just a dream.
But he couldn’t ask. If he asked, Voren might answer. And if the answer was yes... what then? Could Kaelen lay in bed next to him knowing that? Could he let Voren touch him?
"I’m just tired," Kaelen added, turning back to the stove to hide his face. "The eggs are done. Do you want some?"
"I’m not hungry," Voren said. "I’ll check on Silas."
The footsteps retreated. Kaelen let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, bracing his hands against the countertop.
Beside him, there was a dry rattle. Marrow was perched on the counter, his small, skeletal form hunched. The construct’s skull was tilted toward the living room, his bone-tentacles twitching with agitation. He was usually a chaotic, playful presence, but today he was a weapon waiting for a target. He sensed Kaelen’s fear, and he had identified the source.
Kaelen reached out and stroked the smooth curve of Marrow’s skull. "It’s okay," he whispered, though he wasn’t sure who he was comforting.
He couldn’t live like this. He couldn’t live in the gap between suspicion and truth. He needed to know what happened to Melissa Campbell, but he couldn’t trust Voren to give him the unvarnished version. Voren would try to protect him. Voren would sanitize the gore.
Kaelen needed the raw truth.
He looked down at his hands. They were pale, shaking slightly. He wasn’t a detective. He wasn’t a spy. But he was a necromancer.
Melissa Campbell was dead. In any other relationship, that would be the end of the inquiry. But for Kaelen? Death was just a different area code.
If Voren wouldn’t tell him what happened in that warehouse, Kaelen would ask the only other person who was there.
He was going to find Melissa. And he was going to make her talk.