Page 5

“You’re allowed to miss it,” was absolutely the last thing Orpheus needed to hear.

“And you’re allowed to be scared of tomorrow!”

Like a sail without wind, Fenrir went completely still.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Orpheus swallowed. “Fenrir, I’m s—”

“What are you two whispering about?”

Orpheus jerked up, face flaming red while Fenrir stared listlessly into the middle distance.

“You know the rules, no gossiping at the supper table.” Fenrir’s mother—Vera—pointed a spoon at them, a piece of wilted spinach dangling off the end, apron immaculate despite the amount of food she’d prepared.

Considering the rowdy band of humans she called a family, there was something undeniably rigid about Fenrir’s mother. Like a wet hide left out too long in the sun. Or steel forged in a bed of coals.

Orpheus swallowed and avoided her eyes.

Beside him, Fenrir came back to life, forcing a grin.

“Sorry, you’re right, mum. Won’t happen again.”

He didn’t say it meanly. If anything, Fenrir too easily acquiesced to Vera’s ridiculous demands. But something in his smile was enough for Orpheus to watch a fissure crack briefly through Vera’s face, and when she looked back to him—emotions immutable, the cast of her expression a careful neutrality—Orpheus looked away.

What in all hells was he supposed to do?

Beside him, Fenrir turned back to his plate, pushing food around until the golden sunset beyond the windows bled into violet twilight. Full bellies turned into sleepy yawns, the youngest of the children heading for bed while the rest helped the adults clean up.

“I’ll help with the dishes,” Fenrir offered before Vera could ask, meeting Orpheus’ eyes briefly while gathering up their dirty dishes and skulking off like a kicked puppy. Orpheus watched him go—would have chased after him if Astrid didn’t suddenly appear in Fenrir’s place.

“Mr. Fifi…”

Oh, for fucks sake. Orpheus lifted his chin, mouth pressed tight. If she thought he’d crumble to a pair of big doe eyes she had a hard lesson coming.

“Don’t bother, Astrid.” Roland appeared beside his sister, the hand he placed on her shoulder insistent. “His sign was dumb anyways. Who needs to be told where to take a piss?”

“Roland!” Vera snapped from across the table, “Watch your language!”

Roland glared—not at Vera, but at Orpheus. “Sorry, nan.”

Vera came around to where Orpheus sat, her sun-warmed hand sliding down Astrid’s curls to rest briefly on her shoulder. “Shouldn’t you two be washing up?”

Astrid’s pout was red and wet, but she obeyed. Slipping under Vera’s arm, eyes on the floor, she headed for the stairs.

Roland, meanwhile, continued to glare.

As if Orpheus was above glaring back.

Above them both, Vera scowled. “Roland! What did I say? Shoo!”

Finally, Roland rolled his eyes and turned away, heading for the stairs before pausing to look over his shoulder and stick out his tongue.

Oh, that little sh—

Footsteps pounded, Roland disappearing downstairs before Orpheus could so much as see red.