Page 12 of Love the Way You Lion
“No!” Her shriek pierces the air, her gaze locking onto mine with a desperation that roots me to the spot. “You can’t leave. You can’t.” She is almost breathless, each word a plea, a command, a tether anchoring me to her side. “You’re—you’re the only tie left to him, and it makes me feel safe.”
Of course, she said exactly the right thing to tie me down yet again.
A palpable silence ensues, its sound unbearably loud now in the aftermath of her outcry. Finally, I give in. “If it makes you feel better,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper, betraying the inner turmoil that tugs at the frayed edges of my resolve, “I’ll stay.” The words feel like stones in my mouth, heavy with the weight of the sacrifice they represent.
I muster the strength to stand. “I need to go shower and clean up a little. May I borrow Callista’s room for a bit?” My question hangs in the air like a fragile bridge between duty and the faintest hope of solitude.
Like magic, the droid appears, carrying a tray with more coffee. She smiles at me, but the warmth she’s trying to give off doesn’t make me feel any better. “You may. I am honored.” Her voice, a melodic blend of artificiality and warmth, offered a comfort that felt strangely genuine despite its origins. “If you like, I can burn some herbs and oils to help soothe and relax you. The couch can’t be comfortable.”
“No, no. I’m very particular about my exposure to other people’s magick.” My words come out more brusque than intended, a defense mechanism against a world that seems intent on chipping away at my sanity. “Thank you for the offer,” I add, softening the refusal with an effort to appear grateful.
Turning away from them, I navigate towards the promise of solitude offered by the shower. The water will wash away the grime of the day, but not the invisible stains that mar my spirit.
No matter what happens at this meeting, I have to go home today. There’s simply no other option if I want to survive this mess.
The Socialite Plans An Exfiltration
PHILOMENA
The rhythmic tapping on the table syncs with my pounding heart. I watch Sandrine’s fingers drum an urgent beat, each tap a silent echo of our collective resolve. Her eyes, usually so calm and calculating, burn with a fierceness that could ignite the very air we breathe.
“We have to pull her out,” she declares, her voice slicing through the tension in the room. “We need to go over there for a visit and insist she come home when we leave.”
I don’t miss the subtle tremor in her hand, as it pauses momentarily above the polished wood. It’s unlike Sandrine to show any hint of uncertainty, yet her concern is palpable. We all feel it—a visceral need to act, to protect one of our own from the suffocating grasp of emotional captivity.
I nod, silently reinforcing her words with my own unyielding determination. Sandrine’s plan isn’t just about confrontation; it’s about liberation. And I can see in the eyes of those around me, we’re ready to fight for it.
The cat is too kind for her own good and it’s got to be harming her by now.
Leaning over the table, I squint at the intricate lines and scribbles that detail every nook and cranny of the Den. It’s a blueprint for our audacious plan, but my gut twists with unease. Hex stands beside me, his gaze fixed on the diagram, as if he can will it to reveal the perfect strategy.
“We can say that we’re there to pay our respects, yeah? Then we snatch her up.” He nods, more to himself than anyone else, a look of conviction etched onto his face. His fingers trace a path through the hallways marked on paper, plotting a course as if it were that simple.
Across from us, the lounger shifts in his seat, a pensive silhouette against the dim light. The room is hushed, save for the soft creak of leather as he leans forward, his features shadowed. When he finally looks up, there’s a weight in his eyes, a darkness that seems to pull at the very air around him.
“It won’t work,” he sighs, voice barely louder than a whisper, yet it cuts through the silence like a knife. “They’ll make a stink and she’ll refuse to leave. We’ll have to force it.”
His words hang between us, heavy and undeniable. The simplicity of Hex’s suggestion crumbles with the complexity of reality. My throat tightens; I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but the thought of forcing her leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. We’re trapped in a game of chess where every move we contemplate feels like hurtling towards a checkmate—against us. And the cat has been forced to do enough, even by us, in the past few months.
I don’t like it.
The tension in the room coils tighter, a serpent ready to strike. I run a hand through my hair, feeling the prickle of frustration riselike static electricity. It’s there, at the edge of my thoughts, when Hex speaks up, his voice brimming with barely restrained aggression.
“I’m not opposed to a snatch and grab,” Taurus grunts, the words slipping from him like they’re coated in gravel.
Before anyone can respond, a presence asserts itself at the threshold of the dining area. We all turn, a collective swivel of heads, as two figures appear framed by the doorway. The bird and the fighter stand side by side, their postures rigid, anger radiating off them like heat from the pavement on a scorching day. Each is dressed with lethal precision, the kind that makes you take a step back even if you’re already at a distance.
They look infuriated, and it’s clear from their entrance that they’ve been listening—perhaps longer than we’ve realized—and have something dire to add to the pot already boiling over with opinions and schemes.
My nail file hovers mid-stroke as I glance up, locking eyes with the assassin. “Now, now. A forcible extraction will only exacerbate the problem. We don’t want them applying more pressure,” I caution, my voice as smooth as the emery board in my hand. The steeliness in my gaze belies the casualness of my manicure.
Talia’s boots thud on the hardwood as she advances, a tempest in human form. The knife she’s twirling—a blur of silver moments ago—slams down onto the table with a resounding crack, pinning the diagram at its center. “That knobby bitch is holding her hostage emotionally, and we all know it.” Her words are a snarl, sharp and biting, echoing the dangerous edge of her blade.
The lounger’s head lifts, a subtle shift from the map sprawled with potential strategies to the tension thickening the surrounding air. Talia is a shadow slipping through our ranks, a silent guardian whose presence is as calming as it is deadly. She reaches him, herhands finding his shoulders with an ease that speaks of countless moments like this one—moments of solace in our ongoing storm.
His body relaxes under her touch, the hard lines of resistance softening. I catch his eye for a split second and my nod bridges the distance between us. It’s an unspoken acknowledgment of the care she provides, the bond they share. He’s a fortress of self-reliance, yet within those walls, he battles grief—a tempest over the writer’s death that rages in bursts of rage and waves of sorrow.
Taurus snarls, his frame rigid as a steel beam, and his voice cuts through the room like a siren call to arms. “No one—I mean,no one—holds my wife hostage. Got it?”
