Chapter 12 Maeve #2
Am I really this pathetic? That I’d rather he have nobody who cares about him over his aunt?
I am.
I really fucking am.
Goodness, I’m a toxic bitch.
“I wish I had been,” he mutters. “Would’ve been far more interesting.”
“That’s not funny,” Helen says, her voice cracking the tiniest amount. Her shoulders drop as she stares at him, the kind of stare only someone who actually cares can manage. “You frighten me, sweetheart.”
Lucifer looks away. Not defensive, but guilty. Just for a blink, before he covers it with a cheeky grin. “Oh, Aunt, come on, you know it’s true.”
The familiar look of adoration on her face truly destroys me. I feel betrayed.
Little by little, I had grown to trust Lucifer, and now… well, now he’s proven that a Graves man will always side with a Graves—devil or not.
Fucker.
Julian shifts like he wants to be anywhere but in this conversation, and I don’t know if that’s because of jealousy at Lucifer’s ease with their aunt or because of his worry about what’s inside. Hadrian’s jaw has locked so tight I think he might grind a molar to dust.
Pity—I’d prefer his entire existence was ground to dust.
Helen clears her throat and forces brightness back into her expression, smoothing a hand over Lucifer’s cheek with the soft authority of someone who’s been doing it since he was in nappies.
“Anyway,” she says, voice steadying, “you are here now. And that is what matters.”
Lucifer mutters, “Your optimism is exhausting,” but he doesn’t pull away from her hand.
If anything… he leans closer, wanting the connection.
My chromius hisses, not pleased with the behaviour from the imp. It’s intriguing because I don’t think she’s feeling the same unhappiness that I am, more suspicious of his motives.
Either way, I have to tighten a lock over my heart, my connection with my chromius, and my shitty memories.
Helen looks at me next, eyebrows lifting with gentle expectation. “And you, my darling? Are my nephews treating you well? No arguments? No sulking?”
“And if they weren’t? Would you let Dear Old Ades stab one of them again?” I ask, poker-faced, as I use my best defence mechanism.
She flinches, her panicked brown eyes darting to Julian. “Absolutely not, darling. I was furious with my mate, and if I were there—”
“Let’s not pretend you’d have been able to stop him,” I say dryly. “You might have the Graves men fooled, Helen, but I’ve been a prisoner of this family for far too long to go trusting now.”
She sighs and doesn’t argue with me. Lucifer’s gaze is scrutinising, but I ignore the heat of it.
I’m a fool, and it’s clear to see.
“Come,” she says, gesturing down the hall. “Brunch is ready. I made sure everything you like is there. Well… everything I remember you liking. It’s been a while since you stayed with us.”
I stiffen, letting her jab wash over me.
Julian notices. His gaze flicks to mine for just a second, something quiet and sympathetic in it. Hadrian’s jaw ticks. Lucifer just watches me too closely like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway to solving and halfway to setting on fire.
Let’s hope it’s the fire—it would be nice to go out in a blaze of glory.
“Only if you’re hungry. No pressure,” she adds. Her heels click louder than mine do, and I know it’s a deliberate effort to warn her family that we’re coming.
I don’t doubt Adrian has heard every word we said in the foyer, but depending who else is inside, it may not have been shared.
“Maeve’s not had breakfast,” Hadrian says bitterly. Another betrayal that pisses me off. From him, though, I’m not surprised.
“I’m starving,” I lie, not letting him get one over me. I wish it were true because the caterers on staff here make the absolute best tarts, but my stomach is a pit of dread and bitterness.
As we follow her through the house to the more formal dining room, I keep my eyes firmly on her back, not wanting to let anything throw me back down memory lane.
Julian keeps glancing ahead like he’s anticipating an ambush. Hadrian stays behind me, slightly to the left, like he’s positioning himself between me and a threat only he can sense. It’s foolish, though, because, right now, both my chromius and I consider them to be the biggest threats.
Unsurprisingly, Lucifer walks like he owns the place, all swagger and aggression. Not an ounce of care despite the fact that he’s in a place that has been out of bounds for him in… well, probably what feels like a lifetime.
An unfamiliar voice cuts through the hall like a knife dipped in velvet. The tone might sway his political advisories, but it does nothing to me except cause an influx of panic.
Both Lucifer and Hades step closer to me, and I’m ashamed at my relief.
Resenting past me for placing even an ounce of trust in these men is going to be the newest spiral to keep me up at night.
“Well,” the unfamiliar man drawls, smooth and cold. “Look who finally decided to come home.”
We all stop. Helen’s scent curdles beside me as she steps forward as if it’s her job to protect the four of us.
As if it’s her job to protect me.
It pisses me off—her saviour routine, the way she positions herself between me and the world.
Doesn’t she realise that, to me, she’s just as bad as every man out there who broke me bit by bit?
My chromius rips through my chest with white-hot rage at the fear rolling off the twins.
Not for me… but for them.
Lucifer’s smile sharpens, and I know he’s preparing for the verbal warfare. He’ll only be gutted it’s not going to be physical.
Hadrian goes rigid. Julian steps half in front of me without fully realising he’s doing it. I lift my chin, dead inside and ready to battle.
I’m not doing it for them, no matter what my chromius believes, I’m doing it for me.
I’m fighting because I refuse to let another pathetic excuse for a Graves man think he can intimidate me into silence—especially one who isn’t even really a Graves.
“Who even are you?” I say, brow cocked in perfect, icy boredom.
Helen shifts her stance, and that gives me a clear view of him. Considering I know that Lucifer’s dad is a white stag and that Bharlo, Tarun’s dad, is an elephorian it’s very obvious who this man is.
A light pegasus shifter, pale hair, pale eyes, pale everything—like someone tried to paint Julian and Hadrian with watercolour but forgot to add pigment.
Gavin Graves.
Of course.
Ridiculous that he carries their surname. Though I suppose trash likes to decorate itself with shiny labels.
He’s dressed like a princeling from a fairytale propaganda poster—flowing robe, tailored suit, all pristine and pastel.
With his pale blonde hair and light blue dress robes, he genuinely looks ridiculous. Sure, the suit underneath his large cape-like robes is expensive, tailored perfectly to his lean form, and actually quite pretty, the expression of scorn on his face ruins it.
He has the same shaped face as the twins, and he’s clearly where they get their baby blue eyes, but, honestly, I see more of his entitled personality in Julian than I do his looks.
The twins are both a little broader than their father, and taller, too. Hadrian’s black pepper and vetiver scent is alluring, Julian’s white leather and grapefruit is comforting. Like danger and warmth and something I hate to acknowledge but my chromius is obsessed with.
Gavin, though, smells like polished silver and white musk. At first, it’s smooth. Shiny, even.
But as soon as it enters your lungs, the scent reveals its true nature—slippery, snake-like, and vile.
This is a man who cannot be trusted. He lies with a smile and hides venom behind etiquette.
No matter how pretty the bow on the box is, he’s rotten to the core.
He stares at me—assessing, calculating, underestimating. I don’t blame him considering I did the same thing.
I smile back.
“Don’t waste your breath answering,” I say sweetly. “With cowardice like that, it’s pretty easy to place you among the… in-laws.”
“In-laws?” he scoffs. “I am more family than you ever—”
“Careful, Gavin,” Adrian warns from behind him, stepping out of the shadows like he thinks they belong to him.
They move with him—like even the light bends to kiss his ring.
Idiots.
Can I really be annoyed at shadows? At displaced light behaving like loyal fucking guard dogs?
Yes. Yes I can.
I don’t flinch. Gavin does, though.
It’s amusing watching the colour drain from his face when Adrian claps him on the shoulder. While Gavin’s the one being handled like a trembling show pony, the performance isn’t for him.
It’s for me.
My own little private theatre. My own private warning.
The lord and master of this home—and my life, if he had even one inch more control—staking his claim in silence.
He’s playing king again. Standing tall in a game he thinks he designed.
But he underestimates me. He always has.
I’m not a pawn he can move.
I’m not a queen he can polish and parade.
Hell, I’m not even the opposing king he needs to defeat.
I’m not a player on his board, and for a man like Adrian Graves, that’s a much worse reality.
You can’t control those who refuse to play.
“And your silence, Gavin,” I murmur, stepping past my useless guards, “is exactly why I’m already more liked than you.”
I stop right in front of Adrian and look him dead in the eye, despite still speaking to his brother-by-mating.
“Unlike you,” I say softly, “I don’t cower at his feet.”
With that, I stride past the two of them, leaving behind Helen, Adrian, and Gavin.
Julian is being tugged along by Hadrian, but my two bodyguards are eagerly following me. One excited at the chaos I’m already causing, the other as if it’s his duty to save me from his bloodline.
Shame he couldn’t have done that all those years ago.
“Careful, little starlet, you’re playing with fire,” Hadrian murmurs as we near the dining area.
The hum of voices bleeds through the door, and I have to brace myself for what is coming. Inside, I know for a fact that there’s more than just family here—I can feel the familiar tendrils of power from the politicians I’ve encountered.
How fun. Who doesn’t enjoy political battlefields disguised as brunch?
I glance up at him, a slow smile curling my lips. “No, Hades,” I say sweetly, “it’s so much better than that.”
His brows lift, and this time, the glee pouring through me isn’t just mine—it’s my chameleon’s too.
“I’m not playing with fire.” I lean in, voice low enough to cut. “I’m playing with the fragile egos of men. Fire only burns. Egos explode.”