Page 134 of Terror at the Gates

Fuck me, and maybe I will.

Zahariev

“I love you like a brother,” said Gabriel once the door was closed. “Which is why I am telling you this. Lilith deserves commitment.”

“I know what she deserves,” I said. “I’m just not sure she wants it.”

You act like this has to mean something, she’d said the night Esther died.Sex can just be sex.

“Maybe she doesn’t think that’s possible with you,” said Gabriel.

I ground my teeth. That was exactly what she thought, because it was true, but I would break every rule for her if she said she wanted more.

Chapter Sixteen

Dr. Mor cleaned and dressed the burn on my wrist.

“If it swells or you develop a fever, call me,” he said. “Take something over-the-counter for the pain.”

It was raining hard when I left his office, so I made a couple stops on my way home to have a break from the downpour, dropping by Sons for a to-go order of mozzarella sticks and a pharmacy for a bottle of painkillers.

By the time I returned to the apartment, it was around two. Esther’s funeral would be over. I tried not to think about what that meant. I realized she was gone the moment she passed at the hospital, but with her body buried in the cemetery, it felt final.

I took off my jacket and holster before returning to the kitchen to warm a couple of mozzarella sticks in the microwave. Cherub was purring loudly and rubbing against my legs.

I gave her a treat while I waited for my food. When it was done, I carried it into my room and sat in the middle of my bed. I didn’t eat in here often, but today, I felt like it. WhenI first moved to Nineveh, it felt rebellious.

Growing up, my mother planned three meals a day—two when I was in school—and they were all to be taken in the dining room. It was the one rule even my father wasn’t allowed to break.

It wasn’t until I came to Nineveh that I learned some people actually ate in their living room while watching TV.

I bit into my first mozzarella stick, and hot cheese exploded in my mouth. I’d left them in the microwave too long. After managing to cool the bite enough to chew and swallow, I was more careful with the second, though I couldn’t really taste it since I burnt my mouth all to hell.

When I was finished, I set my plate aside. I had a couple of hours before I had to start getting ready for the gala. I hadn’t even decided what I was going to wear, though I only had two choices: one that would please my father and one that would please me. Neither would please my mother.

But I wasn’t going for her.

I sighed, got to my feet, and made a path through my clothes to the closet, where I pulled out both dresses. One was black with a square neckline. The other was a red silk gown with a plunging neckline and thigh-high slit.

“Which one, Cherub? This one that says I’m going to the morgue orthisone that says I’m going to hell?”

As soon as I asked, the lights flickered. I stared up at my ceiling light and then at the lamp.

“I didn’t mean literal hell,” I muttered. I crossed the room, nearly tripping on a tank top I hadn’t pushed far enough out of the way. I tossed both dresses on the bed and then turned and looked at my floor.

My room was a direct reflection of what had been going on in my life. Things were messy, chaotic, and a littleembarrassing. I decided I should probably clean since I had the time and didn’t feel sleepy enough to nap.

I never intended to be someone who didn’t keep up with laundry. It had just happened over time as our washer and dryer became more and more unreliable. To keep from having to go to the laundromat, I’d gotten in the habit of wearing everything—sometimes multiple times—before I made time to wash my clothes.

I dragged my overstuffed basket of clothes into the hallway. Once I had a load in the washer, I returned to my bedroom to collect more clothes from the floor. In the process, I found a pair of heels I’d lost a few weeks ago and decided to wear them tonight.

They were gold and had straps that wrapped around my calf. They were a favorite of mine, though my mother would disapprove and say they were ugly. She liked to comment on my appearance as often as she could, even when I dressed according to her wishes.

I hated that after all this time and distance, I still let her judgment give me doubt, but it was that anger, that resentment that fueled most of my decision-making and why I would wear what pleased me to the gala.

It seemed Cherub agreed, because when I was finished cleaning, I found her curled up on the black dress, sleeping.

“Glad we both agree,” I said, and then my phone buzzed loudly against the nightstand where I’d left it. My father messaged me with what I would consider a warning:

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