Page 101 of Heir of Illusion

He shrugs. “If you say so.”

“But—But you’re a God,” I stammer.

His shoulders shake as he chuckles, rich and deep. “I’m afraid being centuries old isn’t a prerequisite. There’s only one requirement for the job.”

It’s what every Heir who ascends into Godhood has in common. Their parent, who held the title before them, must die.

“I’m sorry,” I say, unsure how to approach the subject of his father.

He waves his hand. “Don’t be.”

“The things you’ve told me about your father make him sound horrible.”

“He was.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him sincerely.

He glances sideways at me. “You said that already.”

“I know.” I dig my fingers into the sand, wishing one of the waves that splashes against my legs would drag me away. “I just… I really mean it. I understand what it’s like to hate your father.”

He’s silent for a few moments. “I suppose you do.”

“I saw mine last night for the first time in fifteen years.”

“How did that go?” he asks hesitantly.

“Surprisingly well.” Relief washes through me as I marvel at the truth of my confession. “I realized I truly don’t care what he thinks of me anymore. It was empowering.”

“Then I’m glad you had that experience,” he says, his tone earnest. “Still, I think if I ever meet him, I’ll likely do to him what I did to that man at the ball.”

“Lord Burgess?” I smile at the thought. “That was fun.”

His eyes widen, and I force a somber expression onto my features.

“Disturbing,” I correct myself quickly. “I meant that was disturbing. Personally, I didn’t enjoy it at all.”

“I’ll bet it was just terrible for you,” he murmurs, amusement filling his tone.

We sit in silence for a few moments, both of us staring at the water as the waves stretch toward us.

“Are you ready to talk about what happened this morning?” he asks finally.

Something ugly twists in my gut. “I don’t know.”

He swallows, and I can tell he’s gearing up to ask one of his pressing questions. “Has that sort of thing happened before?”

“Sometimes,” I admit in a small voice.

His jaw clenches, and his hands dig into the sand. It’s obvious he’s trying very hard to restrain himself.

“Does he—” He cuts himself off, taking a few deep breaths before finishing his question. “Does he force himself on you?”

I shake my head.

“It’s not me,” I whisper. “Not really.”

A puzzled expression crosses his face before his eyes go wide with understanding. “Theeidolon.”

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