Page 49 of Quiet Burn

“Is that...?” Kit begins, his brows knitting together as he pieces it together.

“Jasper’s father,” I confirm, my voice low and steady despite the fluttering in my chest. There’s history there, etched into every gemstone and bone fragment adorning the man’s head—a history none of us are keen to revisit.

Kit’s frown deepens, a hint of concern lacing his words. “Trouble or just a headache?”

“Both,” I reply, keeping my tone even as I study the man’s imperious stance. “But nothing we can’t handle.”

“Maybe,” Zavida mumbles as he hides even more. “It depends on what comes next.”

Thanks, dude.

The King’s voice booms through the cavernous space, a self-satisfied purr that grates on my ears. His words are a stream of grandeur and victory, painting Hell as a realm reborn through conquest and glory. I can’t help but roll my eyes at the irony; the Hell I know is less about glory and more about surviving the next backstabbing scheme. Anyone who lives here knows the old traitor is just wanking himself while we all have to watch him get off on it.

Beside him, Lucian stands rigid, his discomfort palpable even from this distance. He nods along with the King’s monologue, his feigned admiration so thick it could choke a lesser demon. I snicker under my breath, knowing full well the façade Lucian wears will have its own price later. The Headmaster is no fan of the King, and him having to listen to him ramble on about his achievements and glories is almost worth having to attend this stupid event.

As the King’s droning finally wanes, a relieved sigh vibrates over our table. We’ve all endured enough of Jasper’s dad’s speeches to last several eternities, especially if he’s full of liquor. Yet, we straighten up when he begins the roll call of honor—a parade of Hell’s nobility that were his team for the last Games held in our realm. These people are his personal friends and bonded caliphate members, and he cannot brag about their prowess without giving them the shared glory because of that bond.

Sucks for him, I’m sure, because he’s a raging narcissist.

“Scrums!” he bellows, and Slash’s father rises from his seat, an imposing figure who looks as though he’s been carved from battle itself. The eyepatch and scars are badges of his relentless pursuit of gluttony—consuming conflict as others would fine cuisine.

“General Scrum,” the King acknowledges with a nod, while Slash subtly shifts in his chair, a testament to the weight of his lineage.

My gaze flickers over the crowd as the King continues, summoning the Strykers next. Salem’s father, a bear of a man whose fierce lumberjack appearance belies his slothful nature, gives a gruff nod to the monarch. The tiny figure beside him, Salem’s mother, seems almost comical in contrast, yet her presence is undeniable.

“Aldarics,” the King calls, prompting Anton’s parents to stand. They’re a tapestry of pride, their attire screaming high art and higher standards. They don’t glance at Anton, but then again, why would they? Recognition isn’t something easily earned in their eyes.

“Zenobes,” the King announces, and Xerxes’ parents slink into view, their serpentine grace a shimmering display of jewels and seduction. They are the embodiment of lust, untouched by the need for parental warmth or the recognition of their offspring.

I catch Kit’s scowl as the Aldarics and Zenobes return to the shadows, his sense of camaraderie flaring in silent protest.

But there’s no time to dwell on the slight; the King has moved on to my family.

“Bloodstones.” My heart stutters, a crow’s instinct to flee rising within me. My parents stand, their dark Gothic aura a stark contrast to the surrounding opulence. Mother’s sneer cutsacross the room, directed at me—her disappointment made clear without a single word. Father merely stands in her shadow, as always.

No surprise there. They feel I haven’t pulled a feat of heist or espionage worthy of our name yet.

“Revens,” the King concludes, and instead of the expected matriarch or patriarch, a girl not much older than my caliphate steps forward. Kit’s frown deepens, confusion and concern mingling in his expression. It deviates from the norm, one that hints at stories untold within the Revens’ line.

“Let’s hope the rest of the night unfolds with no familial fireworks,” I whisper to Kit, trying to infuse some levity into the moment.

The grumbles around the table are a symphony of dread as we push back our chairs, each movement echoing our collective reluctance. X glances at Anton, a silent exchange passing between them—an agreement to endure the pleasantries before losing themselves in the doom band’s mournful laments.

“We have to go kiss the rings,” Jasper grunts as he looks at Slash. “A large group is better than anyone getting caught alone, I believe.”

“Agreed.” The shark shifter cuts his gaze to Kit, and he looks back at his Prince. “Kit is not to be alone with any of them.”

“Then we should see Zavida’s sister first,” I murmur, and they nod with grim determination. “She’s the least threatening, and it will help Kit get acclimated to the questions.”

At least, I hope so.

Kit’s hand is a vise around mine, his grip tightening with each step into the throng of demons and their diverse revelry. The Samhain Ball’s chaos should’ve been a break for us, yet it feels like swimming against the current—each ripple bringing us closer to inevitable encounters with bloodlines and expectations.

We barely make it a few steps when a flock of glamazons from Brimstone intercepts us, their towering presences casting shadows over Zav and Kit. Their leader—a mass of curves and wicked smiles—fixates on Jasper, who seems torn between flattery and annoyance.

“Looking dashing as ever, Jasper,” Billie purrs, her voice laced with a challenge. Billie is short for Wilhelmina von Heinrich, and her parents are part of the courts in Xerxes’ line. Her dismissive glance at X makes my blood boil, but I know it’s simply because she’s aware they have zero interest in what she’s selling.

Our smallest member’s fingers constrict further around my hand, and I can sense the battle within him: engage or escape. Zav, always the most sensitive among us, retreats behind his protective tails, eyes darting nervously. I stay rooted next to Kit, ready to steer him away from conflict, while Salem positions himself as a solid barrier on his other side.

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