Chapter 11 Maeve
MAEVE
“Morning, princess,” Lucifer says from his spot against my counter.
He’s leaning back like he owns the house, ankle casually crossed over the other, a fork dangling from his fingers with a half-dead pancake speared on the end.
He beams when I walk past him. “You look terrifyingly powerful today.”
I gag, and he winks. “Don’t flirt with me before breakfast, or I’ll lose my appetite.”
Lies—I don’t even have one.
My kitchen is dim as always, the tiny window above the sink barely letting in enough light to make my snake plant look smug.
I knock the tap on, filling a glass up with some water. More to keep my hands busy than to actually drink.
All three Graves men watch every move I make, and the tension in the air is smothering.
“How did you sleep?” Lucifer asks as if this is all normal.
I shrug. “Perfect.”
“Bullshitter,” Hadrian snaps, but both the imp and I ignore him.
The overhead bulb flickers like it’s trying to opt out of this morning, and, honestly, same.
I didn’t come here to be called out on my shit. I came down to… well, I was mostly forced, but still.
I should’ve pretended to be asleep, again. I should’ve buried myself under my duvet and played corpse.
“Take a seat, and I’ll get you another cup of tea,” Julian offers, rising from the stool closest to the back door.
The island counter is long enough to fit eight seats, but they’re very rarely used. I don’t sit in them, and, before yesterday, Adrian and Sonia are the only people who have been in this house.
Well, and my creepy stalker when he was bringing me flowers.
“You clearly don’t know our mate well enough yet, brother,” Hades says dryly. “Maeve doesn’t sit unless she has to, and these stools are not to her liking.”
That’s too much of a pissing contest if I’ve ever heard one. Hadrian has absolutely no right to act as if he has claim to me, and especially not to his liar brother.
My spine prickles, but where mine is anger, the chromius is from excitement.
I don’t like either of them.
But he is correct about the stools not being good enough. The tall back covers far too much of my skin, and even if I tried to perch on them, being contained between it and the island comes with too much anxiety.
Especially when I’m in this mood.
Even more so with three pairs of eyes watching me like I’m something fragile or someone broken.
I narrow my eyes at him, though, not liking the way he’s spilled my secrets to one of my enemies.
“Why buy them, then?” Julian asks, ignoring his brother’s remarks as he sits back down on the very horrid stool.
“I didn’t.”
He frowns, but I catch Lucifer shaking his head, warning his cousin not to push. The imp gets it. He gets me.
Luc always has this uncanny way of stepping in right before I snap. It’s unsettling. It’s comforting.
But today, I hate it.
I flick the kettle on myself and look around the room with careful eyes, trying to get some insight into how they’re doing.
Julian looks frayed, Hadrian looks wired, and Lucifer looks like chaos dressed itself for brunch.
Lucifer’s the easiest to read—mostly because he looks like he stepped out of a magazine Julian would burn on sight for being too satanic.
But I can’t argue the fact that with his weapon-shaped pancakes and the dark energy to the otherwise pure-looking man is very enticing.
His light blonde hair is a chaotic halo, all artful fluff and defiant strands, and his blood-red shirt is unbuttoned far too low.
The silver chain resting against his chest catches the weak light every time he smirks, and, honestly, I wish I knew what it said.
And also how he can stand it rubbing against his chest when he moves. The sight makes me shiver.
The trousers he’s wearing definitely didn’t come from Julian’s wardrobe. Too tight. Too sinful. Too Lucifer.
I wonder who he’s dressing to impress—and, of course, by impress, I mean enrage.
“When did you get your shit?” I ask curiously.
“Nobody ever took it from me. Our bags were in Torin’s car, and we unpacked it once you went to bed.”
“Huh.”
“Where are yours?” Julian asks, but Hades once again answers for me.
“She didn’t bring anything outside of her phone since she has her stuff here,” he says.
I flinch when the kettle bubbles over because Hadrian immediately reaches for it. He doesn’t touch me, but, fuck, he’s close as he starts making my mug of tea.
His presence is a wall I can’t walk around. My chromius flattens herself low, torn between irritation and… something else.
Hadrian is harder to read than his twin and his cousin—not because he hides things well, but because he doesn’t have the emotional capacity to showcase emotions.
If Lucifer looks like a temptation, Hadrian looks like a warning. All dark edges and sharp silences, with that unkempt mess of black curls falling over his forehead as if even his hair refuses to be controlled.
His baby-blue eyes shouldn’t work with the rest of him, but somehow that intense, evil-leaning stare makes the colour almost… cold. Icy.
It brushes along my skin like frostbite, and I pretend I don’t notice.
The dark shirt he’s wearing is creased from his poor packing job. Unless he slept in it, which is typical for him.
It clings enough to show the lean muscle under all that brooding, and as he nudges my tea to me, I get a sharp waft of his black pepper and vetiver scent.
It’s a sharp spice in the dim kitchen, warm in a way that makes my chromius lift her head even though she’s sat sulking.
So desperate.
I think our lack of form is only because she’d send me to the grave in embarrassment if she could actually move.
Now that I have my tea, he stands there like a bad omen—arms crossed, attention pinned to me in small, exacting doses.
Like he’s counting my breaths and waiting to see which one breaks me first.
Despite the few feet between Lucifer, Hades, and I, I still feel trapped. Julian’s the only one giving me actual space, and I get the feeling it’s not by choice.
He keeps glancing at his brother like he’s bracing for an earthquake.
“So, you’ve all made yourselves at home,” I comment.
“I read between the lines of ‘don’t touch anything, don’t breathe on anything, and please feel free to die in your sleep’,” Lucifer says, still very bright and cheery, as he continues eating.
I scowl, and he smirks. He has no right to look so… mesmerising when he’s clearly insane.
“What do you want for breakfast, Maeve?” Hades asks, striding over to the fridge.
I spin on the tips of my toes, my dress flaring out around me before settling, and I smile at the flash of fear in Hadrian’s eyes.
Fucker can’t handle watching me balance in heels longer than his dick. Quite embarrassing for his masculinity that they’re only a few inches tall.
“Where did the food come from?” I ask.
Julian yawns before gesturing to Hadrian. “Dickhead here went out as me and got what we needed.”
“I can’t imagine anyone believed that,” I say pointedly.
“I was actually nice—” Hadrian starts.
“He can pretend—” Julian cuts in, talking right over him.
They devolve instantly into complaints and lies about Hadrian’s performance, and I let the noise wash over me.
This… it’s almost normal.
“I wasn’t saying Hadrian did a bad job acting as you. I meant nobody would expect such an entitled, privilege-soaked man to ever do his own grocery shopping.”
Lucifer cackles, and I wink at him.
This is our morning routine—the pair of us insulting Hadrian, and usually Alvie, while teasing Ari about her plans for the day.
I also insult him, too, and it normally gets a good laugh out of Ari.
It feels weirdly good to slip back into something familiar.
Even if the familiarity is biting and sharp and a little mean, it’s still mine.
Even though we’re in hell.
“Julian mentioned we’d see Draven soon.”
“Stop avoiding the topic of food,” Hadrian commands. “You ate fuck all yesterday, and I can’t have you passing out again.”
Aw, he noticed? Fucking creep.
My stomach twists—not with hunger but with the raw embarrassment of being noticed despite everything else that happened.
I smooth out the expression on my face, burying the feelings I want to unleash. “You’re really going to make digs about the fact that I struggled with everything that happened yesterday and try and what… threaten me into eating?”
“No, he’s not.” Lucifer’s sharp but deadly tone silences his cousin. Even the air seems to pause. “Without Daddy D here—”
“Daddy D?” Julian says, looking between his brother and I. “Your dad is called—”
“Don’t utter his name in my presence. I’ll die.”
Or at least my bravery will. Talking about him, hearing about him… I won’t survive the flood of memories that will rise.
“And they call me dramatic,” Julian mutters.
“Two things can be true at the same time,” I point out. “But Daddy D is Luc’s name for Draven.”
“Yes. You’ll see when you meet him, Jules, but he gives off big daddy dick energy.”
I groan, and Julian’s eyes widen. He looks both violated and intrigued.
“Are you… are you… gay?”
“And if I was?” Lucifer asks.
“Your parents would quite literally die,” Hadrian says with a grin. It falters very quickly. “Ugh, don’t even tease them with it. I can’t do the family funeral gathering.”
“Skip it.”
“Not everyone has the ‘Adrian will give me a get out of jail free card’ that you have, little starlet,” Hadrian mutters. “It wouldn’t be worth my life.”
“Is your life even worth much?”
“Fuck me, you’re on sharp form today,” Lucifer says, as Hadrian mimes holding his broken heart. “Deflecting from the fun of yesterday, it seems. Did you want to chat with Dr Abbott before—”
“Do not even dare mention the idea of therapy around your uncle, or I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” I warn, a shiver racing up my spine at the thought of being forced into a session with Dr Jones.
With everything I’ve learnt about the heats… and with how nice George is…
I don’t know how well I could restrain myself.
And the idea of losing control in front of her sickens me in a way I can’t voice.