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She studied her hands, the imposing ruby ring on one of her fingers. “I haven’t seen them since they were eighteen months old. Not even a picture.”
But she’d known them on sight today. Had known what grade they’d be in, remembered where the school was on this ship, and run directly there.
He lingered at his doorway. For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to look at her face. The impossible perfection of it, the light of her golden eyes, the glint of her hair. The most beautiful female he’d ever seen, and yet it didn’t even fucking matter. None of that had ever mattered when it came to her.
He asked, “What happened?”
“What difference does it make?” she asked, wary and sharp. “I thought you didn’t wish to hear my sob story, as you put it.”
Well, he’d earned that. “Look,” he said tightly, “you can’t expect me to learn who you are, what you are, and be immediately cool with it, okay? I’m still processing all this shit.”
“What is there to process? I am who I am, and I’ve done what I’ve done. The fact that I have children doesn’t erase that.”
All right. She was pissed off. “It’s almost like you want me to resent you.”
“I wanted you to listen,” she snapped, “but you wouldn’t. Yet now that I fit some sort of acceptably sad female backstory, you’re willing to hear me out.”
“That’s bullshit.” Fuck, she and Bryce would get along well. The fact that both of them were on this ship … Part of him wanted to run and hide.
Lidia went on, “Would you have listened if I had no backstory other than realizing what was right and wanting to fight for it? Of doing whatever it took to make sure that good prevailed against tyranny? Or does my being a mother somehow make my choices more palatable to you?”
“Most dudes run when they find out the female they’re into has kids.”
Her eyes flickered with cold fire. “That’s male strength for you.”
“You seemed to like my strength plenty, sweetheart.”
She snorted, turning back toward her door. Dismissing him.
His temper coiled. “So what’s the sob story, Lidia?”
Slowly, she looked back, her face a mask of utter contempt, and said before she shut the door in his face, “You don’t deserve to hear it.”
44
Ithan was carefully setting down a figurine of Cthona giving birth on all fours—the planet Midgard crowning between her legs—when Jesiba’s phone rang. The shrill sound shattered the silence, but Ithan’s sunball reflexes kept him from dropping the fragile marble.
“What.”
Even Ithan’s wolf-keen hearing couldn’t make out the person on the other end.
“Fine.”
She hung up, gaze instantly shooting to Ithan. He gently nestled the figurine into a crate, packing peanuts rustling. “What is it?” he asked carefully.
“Come with me.” She got to her feet and strode across the room with surprising speed considering her dark blue four-inch heels. She hadn’t bothered to change her hair back to its usual short length, and the sight of her swaying golden locks was … odd. So was the face free of its usual makeup. She might very well have been a few years older than Ithan for all she appeared.
She halted at the doorway and pointed to the wall adjacent to the bookshelf. “Bring that with you. It’s loaded.”
Ithan glanced over at the weapon mounted there. He’d heard what Bryce had done to Micah with it.
But Ithan didn’t hesitate as he crossed the room and grabbed the Godslayer Rifle off the wall.
* * *
Jesiba led Ithan through a dark-stoned warren, lit by simmering golden fires. The hallways were strangely quiet, and it occurred to him that he had no idea what time it was. Judging by the quiet, he guessed it was the middle of the night. But in the House of Flame and Shadow, where so many nocturnal predators dwelled, that might not have been accurate.
It didn’t matter, really.
