It’s my father, dressed impeccably and ready to assist Abraham for the day. Sliding my phone into my back pocket, I give him a smile.
“Hey, Dad. Good morning.”
“Hey, son.” His dark eyes trace me wearily, lingering over the lines on my cheeks that are nothing more than faint, pink lines now and will soon fade to nothing.
They were not deep enough to scar.
His dark hair is slicked back, which makes him appear older and more worn out.
“You alright?” I ask him, and the air around us suddenly feels charged.
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I just… are you doing okay? Are you ready to talk about it? The scratches, I mean.”
“Dad,” I sigh.
“Listen, Julie. I can protect you. You’re my son! Tell me who has hurt you, and I can fix this.Please.” The begging tone of his voice makes me feel a bit guilty, a bit nauseous.
The fact of the matter is that hecan’tfix this. Jeremy Walsh cannot defeat an incubus—something he probably wouldn’t even believe in if I told him. He’d think I’m lying to him, covering up a truth. And I refuse to involve him, to put him in danger.
“It’s over now, Dad. There’s no point in talking about this. I promise you, I’m fine.” I give him a pointed look, the same one he gave me as a child when he was done arguing over what we would have for dinner or if I could stay at Landon’s house on a school night.
Dad shakes his head but doesn’t press me further. Instead, he says, “Master Abraham told me to let you know that there will be a new cook in the kitchen for the next few days.”
“What? A new cook? What happened to Barfred?” Visions of the man making us lunch circle my mind; visions of him pinning Landon to the kitchen island.
“He took a small vacation to visit some family. He’ll be back in a few days. But don’t freak out when you see a new face.”
“Ah,” I sound, and I realize that I was feeling a bit anxious for the handsome cook. Why, I do not know. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Dad steps into my space and places a hand on the back of my neck, squeezing lightly.
“I’m always here for you, Julian,” he murmurs, his eyes slightly sad.
As if he knows there is something else bothering me. As if he can sense that I’m holding a secret bigger than myself. Bigger than him. Bigger than the life we’ve cultivated here.
“Thanks, Dad,” I respond just as quietly.
I spend my day with Abigail: braiding hair, drinking tea, dusting various rooms, and listening to her play the piano. At some point, we play with dolls for what feels like hours.
It’s a nice break from the grueling translating I’ve been doing for the past five days once the sun sets. Though I think I’d take this tedious work any day if it meant I got to keep spending time with Atlas.
By the time Abigail excuses herself for dinner, I’m already tense with excitement. Only a few more hours until I can sneak down to the altar room and spend more alone time with the sweet boy whom I, unfortunately, haven’t been able to taste since that first night.
A part of me wonders if he despised it—if there is a reason he hasn’t called me back to his bed. But I guess that with the exertion he experiences with the incubus, he wouldn’t want to be fucked by me every night as well.
I’m making my way back to my room, passing through the main foyer, when I run into Atticus. His narrowed hazel eyes meet mine, and he stops short.
Atticus is always dressed impeccably. In a pair of dress pants and a white button-up, with his back straight and posture stiff, he takes a step toward me.
“Attendee,” he begins, voice low and uninterested. “I have a question for you.”
I do not understand where Atticus’s distaste comes from, but I figure his love and affection for Atlas are part of the source. He feels protective of him and doesn’t like outsiders. But at this point, I can’t be considered anoutsider, can I?
All that to say, his attitude is becoming more annoying every day.
“Sure, Young Master Atticus. What can I do for you?” I ask.
He watches me for a moment, gaze pointed and unrelenting in his dislike.
