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My lips curl into a smirk. “Relax, baby girl. It’ll be fine.”

She chokes on air. “Excuse me, what?”

I narrow my eyes, brow furrowed. “I said I did not spend my evening researching⁠—”

“No!” she cuts in, a hysterical laugh bubbling in her throat. “Baby girl? Where did you even—no. Absolutely not. Never say that again.”

“The dating show,” I say, gesturing to the muted TV. “The male with the pumpkin-hued flesh and the gravity-defying hair tuft kept calling the female he was courting by that title. She seemed to enjoy it, and I found it rather fitting. Given the swaddling, and the fact that you leak saltwater at the slightest provocation…”

“It’s a reality show, Malachi. It’s trash. And you are not courting me.”

I pause, watching the flush of indignation crawl up her neck.

Well, she isn’t exactly wrong. As if I need to engage in the tedious, shuffling dance of mortal pleasantries. We passed the stage of flowers and shy glances the moment her blood hit the parchment and I tore through the Veil. Courting implies a question. It implies we have a choice. I don’t need to court her. I just need to be near her so I don’t feel like I’m being hollowed out with a rusted spoon.

“Hmm. Yes. Anyway.” I dismiss her outrage with a flick of my fingers. “You’ve been unconscious from sundown to sunup, which is abysmal hospitality, by the way. I’ve checked the cupboards. There is no sustenance here other than a stale loaf of bread and more tea. I fear that if an apocalypse was to strike, you would be one of the first ones to die based solely on your lack of preparedness.”

She looks toward the kitchen, and as if on cue, her stomach gives a hungry growl.

“Shall we go to one of your mortal stores?” I stand and stretch, leaning into the delicious pull with a groan. “I need sustenance before I starve to death and turn into a husk on your floor.”

“No! No, absolutely not,” she blurts out. “I... I’ll order something. I don’t know. I can get them to bring it up to the door. I’ll just tip extra—like, a lot extra—so they just leave it and go. I’ll just... I’ll handle it.”

“Hmm. Ordering to the door. Truly innovative, baby girl.”

“Stop that,” she snaps, pointing a trembling finger at me with the most adorable lack of conviction.

An hour later, the sun is streaming through the dusty blinds and I’m sitting across from her at her tiny kitchen table, confronted with the spoils of war—or at least the spoils of a delivery app—hunched over a stack of buttermilk circles.

The mortal seasonings are a riot on my tongue—too much salt, too much grease, a chaotic symphony of flavors compared to what I’m used to. My gaze flits to the yellow eye of the egg on my plate. I poke it with a finger, watching it burst.

I pick the remains of the orb up gingerly between two fingers and take a bite.

Oh, fuuuuck no.

It’s like swallowing a mouthful of wet sand and sulfur. I give the egg a disgusted look, and with a bored flick of my wrist, I toss it toward the floor like the piece of trash it is, right toward the House-Beast, who launches herself toward it with predatory grace and snaps it up, before trotting off to eat it in the corner.

My eyes flit to Eden. She isn’t eating. She’s merely picking at her toast, scrolling on her phone, and taking long, desperate sips of tea as if the liquid could wash away the reality of me sitting in her kitchen.

“You should eat, little summoner,” I drawl, leaning back until the chair creaks, letting my gaze wander over the cracked tiles on her kitchen walls, a look of faux-sympathy tugging at my mouth.

I hope she’s thinking of more interesting things to buy for me—perhaps a larger bed or a more comfortable throne or food that doesn’t make me want to vomit on her linoleum—and not trying to send me back home again. I’m only just starting to enjoy the lack of paperwork.

But her expression isn’t one of leisurely shopping; it’s one of desperation. Her teeth dig into her chapped lower lip, worrying the skin until the indents turn a stark, bloodless white.

My thumb moves of its own volition, landing in the center of her chin.

“Stop that,” I murmur, applying just enough pressure to force her jaw down, releasing the captive lip from her teeth. “You’re going to make yourself bleed.”

She swats me away, her attention still glued to the glowing rectangle in her palm.

I lean my forearms on the table, the wood groaning under the weight of my frame as I loom into her personal space. “What are you doing, little summoner?”

“Looking for a way to stop the sickness stuff,” she says. She turns the phone toward me, her finger pointing to a bright, glossy banner that reads The Bone Orchard. “I bought the kit from here, so I want to see if they do something to help with... this issue.”

“Baby girl,” I croon, my voice dripping with a mix of horror and dark amusement. “Are you telling me you opened the Veil with a... mass-produced ritual kit?”

The silence that follows is deafening.