She sips juice, folds her napkin, picks out slices of mango and pear. It's methodical, calculated. I watch her jaw work, as her gaze keeps drifting to the view beyond the glass. Trees swaying. Birds she's never seen before. A distant shimmer of something flying overhead.
Every movement is... careful.
At least there should be questions, panic. As far as she knows shes a human and this is an alien world, for fucks sake just hours ago I told her I was death.
Surely if she was dying I of all people would be able to fucking tell.
I speak low, testing her. "You're quiet this morning."
She hums in response, eyes still on the sky. "It's peaceful."
"Is that what you want?" I ask. "Peace?"
She doesn't look at me. "Isn't that what everyone wants?"
I watch her take another bite. She chews. Swallows. Wipes her mouth. Looks back out the window.
No, she doesn't want peace. This is a girl who would annihilate citites for her next meal, I watched her fight off a rogue Fae with only a broken bottle. She is redemption incarnate, peace is the last thing on her mind.
This is surrender, and not the good kind, it's waiting for death, for me to take her.
I wait until she finishes the last of her fruit. Until she gently places her fork down, folds her napkin, and rests her hands in her lap, a perfect little guest. Her eyes don't meet mine, but the corners of her mouth tip up in a small, practiced smile.
I rise. "Would you like to look around the grounds?"
She blinks once. "That's okay. Is there somewhere I can just sit?"
I don't answer immediately, just watch her.
The way her shoulders stay low and rounded. The way she doesn't fidget or challenge or even ask why. She's been here less than a day. The real her would've tried to kill me at least twice by now. This version, the one smiling gently and requesting a seat like a princess in a porcelain dollhouse, this version is a performance.
And I fucking hate not knowing the script.
I tilt my head. "Of course. Anywhere in particular?"
"No," she says, that soft smile never wavering. "It's just so peaceful here. I can't believe this is your home."
"Our," I correct. Sharply. Sharper than I mean to.
She doesn't flinch.
Just nods. "Right. Our home."
The words taste foreign in her mouth, I can hear the varnish on them.
I narrow my eyes, let the silence stretch between us. If she's pretending this hard, she's either terrified, or plotting. And I don't know which one I'd prefer.
I lead her to the south wing. The sunroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathe the space in warm, dappled light. The floor is tiled in soft cream stone, warmed from below, and the room is filled with soft chairs and thick blankets, oversized plants spilling out of ceramic pots.
She walks over to one of the chairs and settles in, curling her legs up beneath her like a fucking painting. Her hoodie sleeves fall over her fingers. Her head rests against the side of the chair. That same smile is still perched on her lips, a butterfly that's been nailed in place.
"If you need anything," I say slowly, "ring the bell." I gesture toward the brass pull cord tucked beside the door. "Someone will come."
She nods. "Thank you."
"Of course, pet."
I leave before I do something I'll regret. Like shake her until she cracks, until she looks me in the eye and feels something again.
The second the door closes behind me, I open a tear in the air, violent and jagged, and step through.
Emerging at the training fields, I'm hit with the smell of sweat, blood, and aggression. Good. I need something real.
The roar of combat greets me immediately. Recruits are paired off in brutal duels, most of them bleeding, grunting, already on the edge of collapse. One poor bastard is curled on the ground clutching his ribs, and above him.
Zarek.
Grinning like a lunatic, shirtless and splattered in red, his wings outstretched like a demon war god. Horns glinting in the sun, sweat running down his temple. He brings the heel of his boot down an inch from the recruit's groin, just enough to make him scream and scramble backward.
"Move faster, idiot!" he snarls, then spins, already clocking me.
"Well, well," he drawls, jogging over with the loose gait of someone who hasn't felt fear in a very long time. "Didn't peg you for a morning visitor. Finally get bored of staring at your prize while she sleeps?"
"Shut the fuck up," I growl.
He raises both hands, grinning. "That's the nerve to hit, noted."
He steps closer, peering over my shoulder like he half-expects her to be there. "Shit, she really is stunning though, huh? All that fire you told me about, I'm surprised she hasn't tried to skin you yet."
A growl moves from the souls of my feet, vibrating through my entire form, I can feel the moment my eyes start to change, no longer glowing violet, slowly turning red.
"Okay, okay! Damn. Didn't know she was off-limits even verbally."
"She's not herself," I grit out. "And I don't like it."
His smirk drops, now I've got his attention.
"I need to go to the archives," I tell him, already turning. "You watch her."
He whistles low. "Shit's escalating that fast, huh?"
"Just do it."
"Yeah, alright." He stretches his wings, shaking blood off his arms. "But if she tries to knife me, I'm not gonna be gentle."
"If she tries to knife you," I growl, stepping through another tear, "she's finally feeling like herself again. Let her."
And then I'm gone.
Straight to the archives.
Because whatever's wrong with her?
I'm going to cut it out at the root.