Page 83 of His Eternal Claim

Perhaps that’s exactly what it is.

I look toward my Mother, and a fresh ache spreads through my chest.

She is dressed beautifully. Her hair is pinned back. The dress fits her perfectly. Yet none of that can hide the grief in her eyes. Or the fear. Especially not the fear.

A guard stands several feet away, and I know there are more. I begged Zagreus to remove them. He refused. Claimed it was for protection.

I stopped believing his definitions of words a long time ago. Protection.

Love.

Trust.

They mean something entirely different when they come from him.

My Mother catches my gaze. Tears shimmer in her eyes. My own throat tightens.

I wonder if my Father received a funeral.

The thought hits me so hard that I nearly lose my breath. Was there a burial?

Were there flowers? Was there a prayer?

Did anyone say goodbye? Or did the flames consume everything before anyone had a chance?

I don’t know.

And perhaps that is what hurts most. Not being there.

Not getting the chance. Not saying goodbye.

A thousand memories threaten to overwhelm me as my gaze returns to Zagreus.

He hasn’t stopped looking at me, not since I walked down the stairs. The intensity of it makes my skin crawl. Or maybe it hurts because once upon a time, I used to love the way he looked at me. Back when I thought I was precious to him.

Back when I thought I was safe. Now I know better.

The funny thing is that people will look at this situation and assume I chose him. That I forgave him. That I couldn’t stay away. That this is some grand love story.

It isn’t.

Love had nothing to do with this decision. Fear did. Reality did. The impossible weight of responsibility did. Because after the screaming stopped. After the crying stopped. After the hatred settled into something cold and permanent… I was forced to face the facts.

The Cosa Nostra had gone feral. Every alliance my Father had built was collapsing. Every enemy he had ever made smelled blood in the water. There was a bounty on Zagreus’s head.

There were whispers of war. Whispers of revenge. Whispers of people disappearing. And in the middle of it all stood my Mother.

A woman who had already lost her husband and could very easily become collateral damage in someone else’s vendetta.

I wanted to refuse Zagreus. God knows I wanted to.

I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to choose my pride, my anger, my grief, but pride doesn’t keep people alive. Anger doesn’t protect loved ones. And grief certainly doesn’t stop bullets. So I made a choice.

I chose this because every path in front of me led to suffering. This was the path that gave my Mother the highest chance of surviving.

That realization is perhaps the cruelest wound of all.

Because it means Zagreus won.