Chapter 8
Elowyn
The next morning, I sat on the couch reading.
My fingers smoothed the edge of the page, but I hadn’t absorbed a single word in the last ten minutes.
Normally, I would have tea going and wait excitedly for Abram to get up so I could see him, maybe try to have a conversation—but not today.
The memory of last night sat heavy in my chest, like a bruise pressed too often.
Abram had come out a few minutes ago. I felt his heavy gaze on the back of my head, warm and deliberate, but I didn’t bother greeting him. I couldn’t bring myself to chase his attention again.
I realized I was the only one trying to have conversations and doing too much, always reaching, always hoping he’d meet me halfway. So, I read as he rummaged around the kitchen, pretending that the rustle of pages was more interesting than the sound of him moving around behind me.
A few minutes later, he walked into the living room and set down a cup of tea for me. The scent of it curled upward—bitter, earthy, not quite right. My heart gave a small, stupid flutter anyway.
“Good morning, little weaver.” He watched me closely.
“Morning.” I answered politely, but continued to read my book.
His presence filled the space like gravity itself.
I could feel him standing there, waiting.
He was watching me, and clearly he wasn’t leaving until I looked at him.
My gaze flickered up over my book at his face, and for a second, I almost softened, until I remembered how easily he could wound me again, with the excuse of not meaning to.
“Did you need something?”
He frowned slightly. The look in his eyes almost made me want to apologize for my own distance, but I didn’t.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
He frowned slightly before looking at the cup of tea. His expression shifted, uncertain. Maybe he was trying; maybe this was his way.
“I made you tea.”
I nodded and glanced at the steaming cup. The effort twisted something deep in my chest.
“Oh, thanks.”
My gaze moved back to the book, though the words blurred together. I tried to ignore him gawking at me, tried to keep my face unreadable even as the tension pulsed between us like a heartbeat.
“What are your plans for today?” he asked.
“I’m not sure.”
I saw him nod slightly before glancing around the house like he was looking for something to fill the silence. The pause stretched until it felt like it might snap. Then he turned back toward me.
“I was thinking we could do something together.”
I looked up at him. What was he doing? Was this guilt talking, or something else?
“That’s all right. I’m sure you’ve got things to do for work. And I might go to a coven meeting.”
He perked up at this tidbit of information, his eyes sharpening like he’d just heard something important.
“Do you need me to come?”
“No.” There was no coven meeting, but I didn’t want him hovering around me all day. I needed space to breathe, to untangle what last night had done to me.
“Elowyn, I don’t like that you’re upset with me.”
I closed my book and grabbed the cup of tea, taking a sip of it. The taste was awful, too bitter, but I swallowed it anyway because he’d made it. Gods, the man may be a god, but he couldn’t make tea to save his life.
“I’m not upset.”
I wasn’t. Disappointed, sure, but not upset. There needed to be clear boundaries between us because I would be the one getting hurt, not him. I couldn’t fall into the delusion that Abram, the godsdamn God of Fate, wanted me in any sense of the word. His shoulders fell.
Abram dropped it verbally, but he went to his little desk that had all sorts of tools on it and grabbed some things before coming to sit beside me. The couch dipped beneath his weight, the space between us shrinking in a way that made my pulse race despite everything.
I glanced to see what he was doing. He held a block of wood that looked small in his big hands. Abram started shaving chunks of it off, the quiet scrape of his knife filling the silence between us. His brow furrowed, focused—gentle in a way that didn’t match his temper.
I went back to reading, but I couldn’t stop watching how gently Abram carved the wood, the tension in his jaw easing with every slow motion. There was something intimate about it, like a man trying to speak without words.
“Can I ask you a question?” he asked without looking at me.
“Yes, but I’m not promising an answer.”
He licked his lips before glancing up at me, his gaze roaming over me like he could see something I couldn’t. The weight of it made my pulse jump, as if he were peeling back layers I didn’t mean to show.
“You don’t use your magic very often. Why?”
The question caught me off guard. My fingers froze on the edge of the page. I lowered my book slowly and turned toward him, studying his expression for any hint of mockery, but there was only quiet curiosity.
“I do use my magic.”
He shook his head as he responded, steady and certain. “No, you hardly use it. I can feel it pulsing around you, but I can also feel that you are suppressing it, and I want to know why.”
His words landed heavily, cutting through the fragile calm between us. I swallowed hard as Abram turned his focus back to the wood in his hands, the steady scrape of his knife against the grain filling the silence. He waited, patient in that infuriating way of his.
“Because of my mother.”
He stopped moving. The knife hovered in midair as his brows pinched together. His gaze snapped to mine, sharp and searching.
“Because of what she did? That doesn’t make sense.”
I looked down at the book in my hands, the words swimming across the page, and thought about not answering him.
It wasn’t something I shared, not with anyone.
No one ever noticed that I didn’t use my magic much.
Sure, I used small spells sometimes, parlor tricks really, but I could do far more. More than anyone should be able to.
“Do you know why my mother picked my father?”
I looked at him again. He shook his head, the faintest crease forming between his brows.
“My father comes from a long line of power. His fae magic is elite; it is unheard of. My mother was determined to have an heir that defied the fate of boring witch magic. So, she cast the spell to change my father’s fate so that he would believe he was fated to her.”
Abram stopped carving and listened to me carefully. His knife was lowered completely now, forgotten in his hand. There was something unreadable in his eyes, interest, maybe, or unease.
“What magic does your father have?”
I glanced away from him and sighed heavily, rubbing a thumb against the spine of my book to keep my hands from trembling. The air between us seemed thicker now.
“My mother’s magic gives me the power to play with death, in a sense. I can bring things back to life, but not fully. I can kill things with a touch. My mother could change fate, in seemingly small ways, but mixed with my father’s ability…”
I looked at him. The words caught on my tongue. Should I really tell the God of Fates this? Would he see me differently if I did?
“My father can see soul threads.”
I looked up at Abram when he stilled completely. His posture changed, alert and guarded.
“He can see the threads of our souls, and when he touches them, he can see big events in their lives.”
Abram exhaled from his nose loudly, like he was trying to process something that unsettled him.
“I have never heard of this magic before.” He seemed confused, even a little wary. “So your coven isn’t messing with fate all of the time, it’s you.”
“Yes.” I looked at him, meeting his gaze fully now, letting him see the truth I’d spent years hiding. “I don’t change it often, just when I see terrible things happening to someone.”
He looked at me like he had never seen me before, like he was reassessing everything he thought he knew. Abram set the wood down on the table, the soft thud sounding louder than it should have, and turned to face me.
“Changing fate has consequences.”
“I know,” I sighed, the words barely a whisper. And gods, I did.
“Elowyn, you have the same magic I do.” His voice was uncertain.
My heart thudded hard against my ribs. The air between us seemed to hum with something ancient and familiar.
“I’m not as powerful as you; you’re a god,” I scoffed, forcing the words out like a shield. “Besides, I think the only thing my mother loved about me was that I had all the magic she hoped I would get. So, to spite her, I don’t use it. And I locked Nyxthra away.”
His expression flickered with confusion.
“What the fuck is a Nyxthra?”
I froze, realizing I’d said too much. My pulse quickened.
“She is the wraith that is connected to my magic.”
Abram stood up sharply, the couch scraping against the floor. His eyes widened, the flicker of firelight catching on his irises as if searching for a lie. He moved closer and sat down beside me, his warmth brushing my arm as he grabbed my hands in his.
“Why the hell do you have a wraith attached to you? They are dangerous.”
I swallowed, feeling the tremor in my chest. “Because I am dangerous,” I admitted softly.
The truth stung even now. “She used to feed into my strong emotions. If I were angry, she’d want me to destroy anyone or anything that hurt us.
If I were happy, she wanted me to siphon the source of happiness for ourselves.
And when she gets attached to someone, she wants me to take them for myself, even if they are not mine to keep. ”
The fire crackled, filling the silence that stretched between us. I searched his face, waiting, hoping for understanding, and not disgust.
“Has she been attached to someone before?”
My breath hitched. “Yes.” I nodded.
He swallowed hard, his throat moving as a range of emotions crossed through his eyes—fear, curiosity, something else I couldn’t name.
“A man?”
“Yes,” I whispered, barely trusting my voice.