“Really,” he teased, arching his brows. “That's nice.”
“Fuck you, not for that,” I rolled my eyes, turning to stare down the poorly lit entryway. This place never changed. It was dark and sweaty, reminding me of dusty old libraries. I peered at Wolfe’s door at the end of the hallway, then up the stairs.
For the most part, the layout was simple. To the right of the entryway, the living space opened up into one wide, uneven square, cluttered with mismatched chairs and random posters the boys dragged in and tacked to the walls with whatever sharp thing they could find: knives, forks…. gum. In the back sat a kitchen stocked to feed minor gods, along with a door that led to the basement. I never went down there.
To my left was an old, mahogany stairwell that twisted up through three levels, divided by rank. The newest members slept at the top with the recruits; the cleanup crew occupied the second; and the inner circle held the first: Nathem, Blade, Jessie, Kade, and Threx, while Wolfe took the lower chamber when he leveled up, just across from where I stood.
I attempted to move toward the door, but Nathem caught me and pulled me into him.
“There is puke,” he pointed at the floor, and I glanced down, making a face.
“Gross, Nathem. Why the hell hasn’t anyone cleaned it up?”
“Because Blade did it. And I am not fucking touching that shit,” he curled up his nose. “Here,” he ushered me to his back and hunkered down.
“A piggyback ride?” I laughed, nudging him in the spine. “Are we seven?”
“What, you prefer princess style?” he turned, whisking me into his arms and stomping over the mess in a single stride.
I let out a laugh at how massive these men were when he sat me down on my feet.
“Milady,” the accent made it worse.
“When did you get this one?” I asked, tracing the antlered creature spanning his neck. It was shadowy, evoking a sense of folklore that felt like home.
“Threx did it for me a few weeks ago.”
A warm feeling fell into my chest, and I couldn’t help but reach for it.
In another world, Thayor Milo Gavros would have been a tattoo artist. The only thing he loved more than fighting was art! Give him a black pen, a piece of steady paper, and a couple of untethered hours, and he was in heaven.
One year, when we only had ten dollars to our name, he spent three hours drawing a pair of wings on my back with body markers we found at a porn store for my birthday.
“Come on,” I snagged Nathem’s hand and led him into the galley kitchen, where four refrigerators lined the outer wall. Flinging it open, I sifted through the freezer-burned items, frozen burritos, and thousand-year-old chicken until I saw them: toaster waffles with a giant FUCK OFF written in black marker. Smiling, I held them in the air.
“He will end you!” Nathem laughed when I plopped two into the toaster.
“Don’t let him hit anyone,” I smiled, sitting on the counter. “Before telling him it was me.”
Nathem shrugged, taking a step closer.
“I make no promises!” He winked, grabbing the waffles and spreading butter and syrup into every square. I smiled when he pressed them together and handed them to me with a grin.
“You remembered!” I cheered.
“You’re difficult to forget,” he spoke quietly, shifting his gaze to the floor.
It was easy to pretend that crawling out of the Underworld was some personal act of greatness until you were forced to stare into the faces of those you left behind. This life was a cage, and I was among the few who knew the men inside as real, breathing humans who love, fuck, and cry. They trusted me with them, and I walked away.
“Eat it before it gets cold,” Nathem nudged, and I took a bite, allowing the syrup to drip down my chin. He thumbed it off, shaking his head. “When was the last time you ate food?”
“I eat food every day,” I lied.
“Not cookies,” his eyes telling me to chew. “Honestly, Daph. You can take care of everyone but yourself.”
He was not wrong.
I gave him a look, perhaps lingering too long on the corded way his neck stretched under the crease of all his chiseled features, and took a bite in the silence.