Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

She hadn’t thought of what Silas’s clan would look like. Petra knew that many demons had close-knit family units, but for some reason, she never considered the fact that Silas might have one, too.

On top of every other uncertainty, Petra found herself listening to soft voices through the door of his bedroom and felt… odd. Out of place.

Through the open window, she swore she could hear the faint strains of a child’s laughter. Silas had ordered her to sleep, but she couldn’t stop herself from creeping out of bed after a short nap to peer out the window. A wild forest of trees insulated the home, but she thought she could just spy the shape of another house when the breeze moved the leaves just right.

Did that home belong to a member of his clan, too?

Petra’s stomach tightened with acute discomfort. Letting the curtains fall back into place, she wandered back over to the bed. She sank onto the mattress, hands on her knees, and tried to sort through the chaotic jumble of feelings that were making such a mess of her head.

Why was it so strange to think of Silas in a clan? With a dad? He’d mentioned them before, of course, but…

Maybe it was because somewhere deep down, she’d assumed that someone as bad as him could only come from a world like hers — one where a healthy family life was a luxury.

Of all the things that could have made her uncomfortable in her situation, it said something truly grim about her that it was the fact that Silas might actually come from a loving, crowded home that unsettled her most.

Petra put a hand to her forehead. Good gods. Maybe I’m the fucked up one in this relationship.

She choked on nothing but air and spit. Were they even in a relationship?

On the heels of that thought, a new realization stole her breath. Petra’s fingers moved to press hard against her lips.

That man is going to be my bondmate. Glory save me.

Her stomach did another uncomfortable convulsion. There were too many questions, too many unknowns. That was all her life was, apparently, now that her purpose had been more or less fulfilled.

Unable to dwell on that for any longer, Petra decided she needed to move around some more, Silas’s growling about bedrest be damned.

She didn’t exactly want to wander out into the middle of his clan — in fact, short of meeting Antonin again, she couldn’t imagine something more undesirable — but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel a little more human again.

The sun was setting, casting the room in a rosy glow as she went hunting for the clothing he’d apparently pilfered and brought with them in their escape. For once, she actually appreciated his lack of boundaries. It was a bone-deep relief to be able to don her own soft lounge pants and breezy shirt.

She picked through what he’d brought — little more than a backpack’s worth of her belongings, but that was almost everything she owned, anyway. The back of her nose stung with a fresh wave of emotion when she discovered her little makeup kit at the bottom of the bag and, below it, safely wrapped in one of her blouses…

Matvei. Max.

Of all the things he could have grabbed, the fact that he remembered her uncle’s ashes meant more to her than he could understand. Perhaps he hadn’t done it for any sentimental reasons — likely — but that didn’t make a difference to her. The thought of leaving her uncle’s ashes and maybe never being able to retrieve them would have been too painful to bear.

But she had them, and the fact that she did made the new, fragile thing between her and the demon a little bit stronger, a little more real in her mind.

Petra tenderly covered the box up with her blouse and set the backpack aside. She was just considering stealing a pair of thick socks from Silas’s bureau drawer when the door opened.

“I was gonna bring you dinner, but since you’re ignoring orders anyway, you might as well come downstairs.” Silas’s annoyed drawl wrapped around her, familiar and comforting even when he sounded like he was considering turning her over his knee.

Petra turned away from his sock drawer and faced him without shame. If he got to go through her things, she wasn’t going to feel self-conscious about stealing some of his comfy-looking, too-big socks.

“I’m not really hungry,” she protested.

“Tough shit. Dad should have another look at you and you need food.” He padded over, lambent eyes intent in a way that felt both predatory and something equally intense that she couldn’t quite identify. Cupping the side of her head, he scowled at her. “You look pale. You should have slept more.”

“I’m fine.” There were approximately a thousand reasons she might look a little wan, not least of which was the prospect of meeting Silas’s father.

“Little liar.” He tsked. “You’re coming downstairs, Petra. The only choice you have is whether you want to walk or be carried.”

“Silas, I really don’t think I’m in a good place to meet new people right now.” Recently shot was bad enough, but when she might be a fugitive murderer and maybe, possibly about to bond with their son? That was too much.

Silas’s eyes narrowed. “What is this?”

“What?”

“Are you nervous?”

Petra sputtered. “Nervous? Silas, I killed a man yesterday. You expect me to waltz downstairs, smile on my face, and make a good impression on your parents now?”

For a moment, Silas’s expression was the very picture of incredulity, but that only lasted for as long as it took for the amusement to really settle in. “Petra, baby,” he crooned, some of his old patronizing delight coming back. “You think this is the first time I’ve come home for supper after a murder? Please. You’re fine. Mama wants to meet you and Dad needs to make sure you healed right, so we’re going downstairs and enjoying a nice bowl of chili with cornbread together.”

Petra could only stare. A tiny flare of hope sputtered to life in her chest when she asked, “Are… are your parents as insane as you?”

“Nah. They’re normal, just used to my bullshit.” He cupped the other side of her head and gently tilted it back, allowing him to press a skimming kiss to her lips. “Don’t be nervous, baby. They already love you.”

“Do they know?—”

He shrugged. “Not everything, but the broad strokes.”

So they’re insane. Got it. Maybe her assumption that they were normal had been a bit premature.

Shoulders rounding, Petra admitted, “I don’t want to meet them when I feel like roadkill, Silas.”

She could barely comprehend the fact that she might actually, truly bond with this man, but if she was going to, then she didn’t want to meet the people who would essentially be her in-laws when she looked like someone who’d had most of their right side blown off by plasma twenty-four hours prior. It was a little vain, but compared to all the other more serious reasons she didn’t want to meet them, it was the one that she could articulate the best.

And really, it was easier than explaining the fact that she was insecure, uncertain about her ability to function in or around a family unit of any kind. She was suddenly painfully conscious of her background. Would she do or say something that would tip them off to the fact that she was a criminal’s orphan, that she’d been institutionalized? It wouldn’t be the first time.

Silas pulled back enough to give her a dark look from beneath his slashing brows. “Petra, are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

“What?” she asked, her spine straightening with defensiveness.

Letting out a gusty sigh, Silas guided her toward what she assumed was a closet door. Pulling it open revealed a mirror on the inside. Placing himself behind her, he settled his hands on her shoulders and asked, “What do you see?”

Petra’s sweeping gaze took in her mussed hair and comfortable, baggy clothing she never wore outside of her suite in the cathedral. Her face looked pale and strained, but not as sickly as she thought. What really drew her attention, however, was not any of that.

It was the slowly swirling band of shadow around her throat.

Reaching up to touch it, she felt nothing more than the suggestion of something there — easily missed if she wasn’t paying attention. As she watched, the swirls curled around the tips of her fingers, almost as if the shadows sought to stick to her skin. The band itself was no thicker than her index finger and could have been mistaken for a choker if not for the unnatural movement.

Her throat bobbed. The shadow was his, and something about seeing it cling to her flesh made her feel... claimed.

He gave her a look of such profound satisfaction, it actually took her breath away. “You know what I see when I look at you — what my parents will see?”

She swallowed hard. “What?”

Baritone dropping even lower, he announced, “A powerful witch who belongs to me. ”

Petra could hardly speak around the lump in her throat. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

“That’s not true. You’re a survivor, Petra. My survivor.”

She shook her head, more out of a lack of response than a true wish to deny it.

Smoothing his palms over her shoulders and down to band his fingers around her arms, he met her gaze in the mirror. Standing together like this, he looked every inch the malicious force of nature he could be. That didn’t bother her as much as the fact she looked… right there, too, standing in the circle of his arms.

“When I look at you,” he murmured, “I see a powerful, beautiful witch with a cunt that tastes like honey and magic that can burn a man alive in seconds. I see what I almost lost. I see you, Petra.”

A shiver ran down her spine when he leaned over just enough to whisper in her ear, “Now let’s have supper, baby.”

It was another shock, one of many to come, for Petra to discover that Silas’s parents weren’t both demons.

She felt foolish the moment she stepped into the kitchen, where a slim, graying man in a plain button down was setting a tray of perfectly square slices of cornbread on the table. He wore slightly over-sized wire-rimmed glasses and had a dense mat of freckles across his forehead, the tops of his cheeks, and the bridge of his nose. Beneath the freckles, his skin was deeply tanned.

There were no horns, no amber-on-black eyes. In fact, his eyes were a warm brown that crinkled at the corners when he looked up from his task to offer them a smile.

“Look who’s up on her feet already,” he praised, straightening to put his hands on his hips. His accent was faint, giving the impression that he’d acquired it late in life, but still very present. He turned his head a bit to address the woman who stood a little ways behind him at the stove, ladling chili into shallow earthenware bowls.

She turned, bowl and ladle in hand. A wide grin showed off laugh lines and pearly fangs — a smile that looked remarkably like Silas’s. “Oh, look at that! Si, get her a seat. She looks fit to faint.”

He was already guiding her, rather forcefully, into a wooden chair. Petra sank into it heavily. She was unaccountably nervous. Not even the tantalizing smell of a perfectly seasoned and spicy chili with a side of sweet cornbread could make her stomach unclench as she took in the scene with wide eyes.

Silas’s mother was a whole head taller than his father. Her shoulders were broad, her limbs long and graceful. Her hair was a graying auburn pulled into a loose braid behind black horns that curled into tight spirals. She was pale and boasted prominent, rosy cheeks. When she went to set the bowls on the placemats around the table, she made time to lean over and press a kiss to the crown of her mate’s head.

Petra felt like she was caught in another dream state. The tableau was too bizarre for her to make sense of. Not only was Silas’s father not a demon, but his parents seemed…

Nice.

It set her teeth on edge. In her experience, very few people were truly nice. It seemed patently outrageous that Silas’s parents, of all people, would be in that number, too.