Chapter 9
NINE
We do not interfere. We endure.
CIPRIAN
There are bad chefs all over the universe—busy cooking up bland food, stringy vegetables, and putrid, suspicious seafood dishes. The only reason they get away with it is that we’ve all got to eat, and some of us aren’t fans of sweating over a hot stove.
No culinary crime is worse, though, than burned steak. Blackened and charred, tough as leather—it’s appealing to absolutely no one.
And that’s how I feel inside.
While slinking around the compound, no fewer than ten people spot me and take off in the opposite direction. One demon even bangs his shin on the fountain in his hurry. It’s almost funny, but I can’t manage to laugh. Too much effort; too little reward—kind of like cooking.
I’m beginning to think I either smell of burned meat, or my mood is so obvious they’re scared to cross me.
Yelling at Dad hasn’t helped . . . any of the three times I’ve tried it. Even though I was crystal fucking clear, he only blinked at me as if he couldn’t understand a word I said. It made me feel about six inches tall—which was exactly what he wanted.
Dad possesses the uncanny ability to ignore every concrete thing I say and latch on to the only loose thread, yanking on it until he convinces himself my entire argument is unraveling. It’s his specialty, and a hell of a way to avoid stumbling over personal accountability.
I grit my teeth and deepen my stretch, the ache in my ribs blooming as they expand to let in air.
Bees drone around the hedge maze, and the smell of fresh-cut grass sticks to the back of my throat. I’ve been coming to the heart of the maze to rehab from my beating. The training grounds in the courtyard are too public—I’d rather lick my wounds in private—but the silence is tearing me to shreds.
I came here to be alone. Loneliness is eating me alive.
If Sheena were here . . . I sigh. She isn’t. And I have no business feeling sorry for myself when my best friend is going through only the gods know what.
“Pull it together,” I mutter to myself. Just because I tried and failed to fit in on the Fringes doesn’t mean I’ll never belong anywhere. It’s only a setback. One day when I close my eyes, I won’t see red hair, redder eyes, and Luca’s grin.
Unfortunately, that day isn’t today.
Heart racing, I stumble down the hall, following excited whispers to the surveillance room. Gods bless my bestie. Sheena must have known I needed her, because she’s back and causing even more drama than usual.
My eyes find her in the crowded room. Short, wide-eyed, and pale as a fucking ghost. My lips stretch into a grin. “Give it to us straight, Sheena,” I drawl. “Any more urges to join the dark side?”
She squeaks and flies across the room, slamming into me with the force of a much larger woman. My healing ribs throb from the impact, but I hug her tightly, anyway.
The room is packed with people, from the tech squad to all the usual suspects.
And everyone has an opinion.
As we discuss the best way forward, I play the unbothered, flippant jokester everyone expects me to be. Despite my over-the-top delivery, it heals something in me to see Sheena thoughtfully consider my advice.
We leave her alone to talk things over with Idris. So far, having the fae join the enclave hasn’t been as bad as I feared, but I haven’t been around much either.
As soon as I’m out of Sheena’s sight, I rub my ribs.
“You could have told her about the ass-kicking,” Callum says. “She wouldn’t have been rough with you.”
I glance at him and shake my head. After weeks of stumbling around the enclave like the walking dead, my brother’s face has returned to model perfection. Clearly, he’s fed his incubus.
“Damn, you didn’t waste any time, did you?” I ask, waggling my eyebrows.
“Watch it,” he hisses.
I roll my eyes. Callum is touchy these days. And delusional. Sheena tells me way more than I want to know about their sex life.
“She’s okay, though?” I ask, changing the subject.
“She’s here”—he sighs—“and she’s alive. Anything else we’ll figure out. Together.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “I’m glad she’s back.”
“She could use a distraction,” Gideon says, his dimpled grin making an appearance for the first time in days.
I gasp and clutch my chest. “Is that all I am to you? A distraction?”
“Fuck off, squirt.” Gideon grabs my shoulders like we’re eight and ten again and jostles me playfully, making it painfully obvious that he’s holding back. “Come by our room in a few hours. We’ll clear out so you two can talk.”
Callum nods shortly, and I’m torn between thanking Gideon for being thoughtful and telling him I’ll see my best friend whenever I please—their permission be damned. In the end, I settle for a smile and leave. I know how hard the last few weeks have been for them.
Wandering aimlessly, it’s no surprise to me when I end up in the shifter wing, shuffling into the Therion’s apartment like a tired little boy who just got lectured about fear again. The air smells of cookies, and I follow the buttery-chocolate haze to the kitchen with a sigh.
This was inevitable.
I need mom advice, and Sarah has always been better at giving it than my actual mother. She may be a powerful omni shifter and a key part of the reason this enclave is as strong as it is, but she’s also one of the few supernaturals within these stone walls who leads with her heart.
Sarah sits at the kitchen table eating a chocolate chip cookie, a dog-eared paperback in her hand. On the cover, a woman arches dramatically against a shirtless dude with long hair, the top of her dress half undone.
“Good book?” I ask.
Sarah jumps, then looks at me, her mouth curving into a warm smile. “All my boys are home,” she says. “Everything feels pretty good right now.”
I open my mouth to tease her about the book, make a joke, anything, but my throat has a knot in it. The damn thing bobs, and I struggle to swallow around it. When my fingers spasm at my side, I stare down at them, frustrated.
Sarah pushes to her feet, rounds the table, and wraps her arms around me. I sag into her hug. I’m a kid again, running to the shifter wing for comfort.
“Everything sucks,” I mutter. She tightens her hold, one hand cradling the back of my head. “I had something, Sarah. For once—or the start of something at least—and Dad couldn’t stand it, so he took it from me.”
“You can’t control his actions, sweetie,” she murmurs, leading me to the table.
“You can only control how you react to them.” I sit down—in the same chair I used to hoist myself into when I needed my scraped knees bandaged—and watch as she pours me a glass of milk, then pushes the plate of cookies toward me.
“But there’s nothing I can do,” I tell her. “I’m not Ciprian to them anymore. I’m Ciprian Casanell, and that name isn’t opening any doors on the Fringes.”
Sarah tilts her head. “Would you want it to?”
I open my mouth and close it. Do I wish my last name made things easier? I’m not sure, but neutrality would be nice.
“The performance . . .” I throw my hands up, then let them fall as exhaustion crashes over me. “I’m fucking tired.”
“Ciprian”—Sarah grabs my hand, squeezing gently. I look up and meet her warm brown eyes. “Have you tried being yourself?”
For a moment, with the smell of sugar and home all around us and no one to judge or criticize, I let myself imagine what she’s suggesting. Can I be myself? Drop the act . . . open myself up to the possibility that they hate not only my last name but who I actually am?
It’s exhilarating and terrifying. It’s also impossible.
“It won’t matter,” I say, my heart sinking. “Their minds are made up. It won’t change things for them, so why bother?”
“Because it might change everything for you.” Sarah pushes away from the table and pats my hair as she scoops up the tattered paperback.
“Take the time you need to think it over, sweetie, but remember: the Ciprian Casanell I know is creative and brave. The edge of other people’s comfort zones is where he thrives.
You can’t expect anyone else to see that unless you show them. ”
She leaves me alone in the kitchen to think. It’s exactly what I need, and I stuff my face with cookies until my stomach hurts. It’s the best I’ve felt in weeks.