Page 42 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

He grabs my arm, tugging me down into the chair next to him before yanking my jacket off and tossing it carelessly over the back of the chair.

The bastard does it to get under my skin, to remind me he can invade my space whenever he pleases.

I clench my jaw, refusing to give him the reaction he’s looking for.

“Oh, Orin dear, won’t Katja get cold?” Irina’s voice is light, but I hear the edge beneath it. She knows exactly what he’s doing, trying to defuse the situation without escalating it.

I give her a subtle shake of my head, hoping she’ll let it go. I don’t need her stepping in—not when I can handle him myself.

Orin chuckles, the sound as grating as nails on a chalkboard. “This tough little Avid? She likes the cold.” His hand slides under the table, squeezing my knee hard enough to make a point.

The urge to fling the bowl of stew in his thick bearded face is strong, but I won’t let him get to me.

I pick up my spoon and take a bite, focusing on the warm, savory flavors.

The stew is good—chunks of tender steak, potatoes, carrots, and peas swimming in a rich broth.

I think this might even be real meat, and Irina must have a special greenhouse to grow vegetables that taste this fresh—or maybe they were cultivated in the Depths.

My stomach growls, and I focus on eating, hoping he’ll lose interest if I don’t engage.

Of course, it’s Orin, so that’s wishful thinking.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Kat,” he says.

His hand doesn’t move from my knee, the pressure a constant reminder of his presence.

“My aunt here has taken you into her home, treating you far better than you deserve and even letting you eat at her fucking dinner table. I don’t think I’ve heard a thank you yet. ”

And there it is. His power play. I set my spoon down gently, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. “Thank you, Irina,” I say, turning to her with genuine warmth. “The stew is lovely, and I’m very grateful you’re such a kind host.”

Irina gives me a small smile, but her attention shifts to Orin, her features hardening. “You’re very welcome, Katja,” she says before fixing her stern gaze on her nephew. “Orin, you know I don’t believe in mistreating Avids in this house. They’re like us. I’m not my brothers.”

I admire her for saying it so plainly. Irina might live out here in isolation, but she’s not afraid to stand her ground, even with Orin looming over her.

He snorts, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “Mistreating them?” he echoes. “I don’t think you believe in them at all, Auntie. That’s the problem. You want to sit out here in the middle of nowhere, playing house, pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

I take another slow bite, keeping my eyes on the bowl, refusing to engage. Let him argue with Irina if he wants. I’ve got no interest in playing his games tonight.

“You don’t have to believe in the world’s darkness to know it exists, Orin,” Irina says sharply. “But I also don’t have to invite it into my home.”

His laugh is cold, humorless. “And yet here I am. Since I’m here, maybe I can show you how entertaining an Avid can be. Consider it a token of my appreciation for this fine meal.” His tone is sharp, laced with the threat of something sinister. My chest tightens, my spoon hovering over the bowl.

“That won’t be necessary,” Irina cuts in quickly.

Orin waves her off like she’s said nothing of importance, the glint in his eyes sharpening. “Nonsense. If my father thought Kat should stay here, she might as well make herself useful.” His gaze slides to me. “You know, I miss Uncle Jamie. Why don’t we have Kat here translate a little chat for us?”

My stomach tightens as I glance toward Irina, catching the unease on her face. I didn’t even know she had a husband—let alone that he’d died. The sadness that tugs at my chest is immediate, the urge to help her strong. But the look she gives me isn’t one of someone asking for help. It’s a warning.

“Thank you, but I’ll pass for now,” Irina says tightly, her polite veneer cracking enough to show the tension simmering beneath.

Orin grouses, “Come on, Auntie, don’t be shy. Wouldn’t it be nice to hear from Jamie again? Or maybe you’re afraid of what he’d have to say.” His smile widens as he leans forward, and the room feels colder, the air heavier.

“I said no, Orin,” Irina yells, her voice like steel now. Her hand tightens slightly on her wine glass, and I can tell she’s barely holding herself back.

I clench my hands under the table, willing myself to stay calm, though everything inside me screams to tell him off. The tension between them feels like a lit fuse, and I can’t help but wonder how far Orin is willing to push tonight.

“Come on, Kat, give us a taste.” Orin says, turning to face me fully now in his chair.

“You know I can’t without knowing what he looks like,” I say, hoping he can’t procure anything.

Orin’s chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he stands, his hand clamping into my hair before I have a chance to react. Pain radiates across my scalp as he pulls me up and forces me forward. I stumble, catching my balance, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

“Goddamn it, Orin, not in my house!” Irina gets to her feet, her hands braced on the table, her expression thunderous. “I won’t tolerate this behavior.”

Orin doesn’t even glance at her. His grip tightens as he drags me out of the room, the chill of the hallway air making me acutely aware of how exposed I feel.

My boots scrape against the wooden floor, and my pulse pounds in my ears, but I don’t fight back.

Not yet. Not when I need to pick my moment.

He stops in front of a long table lined with framed photos, their glossy surfaces catching the faint overhead light. Without ceremony, he snatches one up and shoves it in my face, his fingers practically pressing the glass to my nose.

“Here. Take a good look.”

I blink at the image of a younger Irina standing beside an older man, at least ten, maybe fifteen years her senior.

His dark suit is tailored to perfection, his posture radiating control, his hand resting on her shoulder possessively.

Irina’s smile is faint, almost forced, her body tilted slightly away from him.

The man’s face is sharp and cold, a charisma that borders on menace. He looks like the kind of man Marco or Viktor would consider an equal—an ally, perhaps.

“That’s your memory now,” Orin sneers, pressing a finger to my temple. “Seared into your pretty little head. Now, summon him.”

He yanks me back toward the dining room, the photo clattering onto the table as we go.

My pulse quickens as I glance back, catching a fleeting glimpse of Irina’s face, her lips pressed into a thin line, her hands clenched at her sides.

There’s something there—something she isn’t saying.

But whatever it is, I don’t have time to dwell on it.

Orin drags me through the doorway and shoves me down into the same chair as before.

The room is silent except for the rustle of Orin’s jacket as he leans over me, his fingers pressing into the back of my chair.

“Well?” he says, daring me.

I glance at Irina her eyes locked on Orin. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and the silence presses heavier than Orin’s grip. Whatever this is, it’s not about me. A darker, bigger conflict than I can see has been brewing, and I want to know what the history is here.

“She clearly doesn’t want this. I won’t do it. I won’t summon him. You’re not the boss of me, Orin. Marco is, and I don’t see him here right now,” I say.

Orin’s eyes narrow, sharp as daggers, and if looks could kill, I’d already be dead. His hand tightens on my thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Summon him now, demon,” he growls, his voice low and venomous. “Or I swear to god, you will not like what happens when I drag you back home.”

The threat sends a cold shiver down my spine, the phantom burn of the brand on my back flaring to life as if it remembers. My fingers curl into the edge of the chair, knuckles white, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.

My gaze flicks to Irina, and her expression softens enough to tell me it’s okay, though the tight set of her jaw tells me she hates this as much as I do. Her small nod feels like permission, like a lifeline, and I cling to it.

I close my eyes, inhaling slowly, trying to steady the storm raging inside me.

The photo of Jamie is burned into my memory now, his sharp features etched in perfect clarity.

I focus on them, on every line and shadow of his face, on the way he stood beside Irina with an air of control.

I reach for the energy I know is there, lingering beyond the veil.

It starts as a faint chill, an ache in the air that slowly grows heavier, colder, until it wraps around me like a second skin. The room hums with something electric, the pressure thickening until my breath feels caught in my chest.

I open my eyes, and there he is.

Jamie stands before us, his presence commanding even in death. The air around him ripples like heat waves on asphalt, his sharp features as they were in the photo. His dark eyes sweep the room, and it feels like he’s truly alive.

“He’s here. What do you want to say?” My pulse pounds in my ears as I watch Jamie.

His gaze lingers on Irina first, softening before sliding over to me.

His head tilts slightly, an expression of curiosity crossing his face, like he’s surprised I can see him at all.

It’s a reaction I’ve seen before, but it doesn’t make it any less unsettling.

Orin shifts beside me, impatient. “Tell him to say something only I would know, so I know you’re not making this up.”

I glance at Orin then back at Jamie, who’s now watching Orin with an almost amused expression. “He can hear you. I don’t need to repeat it.”

The ghostly man glares at us, piecing together what’s happening in front of him. He doesn’t like what he sees.

“Tell this little prick I should have taken more than the belt to him when I caught him stealing that nice bourbon out of my office as a young chap,” Jamie says with dry amusement. I stare at him for a beat before turning to Orin, repeating the words verbatim.

Orin’s grin widens, his hand lifting to rub his chin as if mulling over his next move. Irina shifts in her chair. Her gaze darts to where I’m staring, her expression torn between disbelief and dread, like she’s teetering on the edge of speaking but can’t quite bring herself to.

I don’t blame her. The energy in the room is suffocating.

“Anything else you’d like to add?” Orin finally says, his voice smooth but sharp, like he’s trying to bait Jamie—or me. “Or are we here to relive my rebellious youth? Why don’t we talk about the day you died, Uncle?”

Jamie chuckles, his translucent form tilting his head toward me. “I’ve got plenty to say, girl, but only if you’re smart enough to keep it to yourself.”

I raise an eyebrow at him, my lips pressing into a tight line. Of course he’d drop some cryptic shit and expect me to pick up the pieces. Typical.

“I don’t think your uncle’s a fan of yours,” I say, hoping to rattle Orin enough to end this charade.

Orin’s grin falters, and his fingers twitch against the table before he forces the smirk back into place.

“Tell my wife I love her,” Jamie says. I glance at Irina, repeating it, and watch as her eyes well with tears.

She looks surprised, almost disbelieving.

I wish I knew the story there—what kind of history lies tangled between these two.

There’s pain in her expression, yes, but there’s something else I can’t name.

Jamie steps closer. “Don’t repeat what I’m about to say unless you’re absolutely certain who you can trust. My wife—you can trust her. She has a good heart.” His gaze locks with mine, and I nod ever so slightly.

“What’s happening?” Orin snaps, leaning closer, his fingers tightening on my leg like a vice.

I don’t dare look at him. “Nothing,” I lie, keeping my gaze fixed on Jamie. “He keeps fading in and out. I think he’s trying to hug his wife or something.” It’s the best excuse I can conjure under pressure.

Jamie’s expression hardens, his translucent form flickering slightly.

“You’re looking for answers in all the wrong places.

The truth you need to survive what’s coming can be found where the wolves prowl.

” His voice lingers in my ears, even as he begins to dim.

I blink at him, wanting to scream What does that mean?

But Orin is right here, watching me like a hawk.

The sound of the front door opening echoes down the hallway, heavy footsteps approaching. Irina’s shoulders visibly relax, though her hands tremble slightly as she adjusts the tablecloth.

Jamie flickers once more, his form beginning to dissolve. His gaze shifts toward Irina one last time. “When you’re alone, tell her I’m sorry. I regret my actions, and all is well with us now...and forever.”

I nod as his image fades entirely. Malachi’s voice cuts through the room as he turns the corner. “What the fuck is going on here?”

He strides into the dining room, his dark eyes immediately zeroing in on Orin’s hand still resting on my leg. Tension radiates from him in waves, and Orin, of course, doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans back leisurely, as smarmy as ever.

“Family bonding,” Orin drawls, giving my leg a condescending pat before finally removing his hand. “You know, making the most of this precious time together. I even reunited Aunt Irina with Uncle Jamie.”

Malachi’s jaw tightens, his glare shifting to me briefly, likely checking for any signs that something’s wrong. I don’t say a word, but the way his eyes flicker over me is enough to send a calming ripple through my nerves.

“Outside. We need to talk,” Malachi orders as he stands rigid in the doorway. Orin lets out a low laugh, putting his hands up in mock surrender like this is all some kind of joke.

“I’ll see you soon, demon,” he whispers in my ear, his breath brushing against my skin, and I fight the urge to recoil. His words hang in the air like a threat, and I glare at him, refusing to let him see me flinch.

Orin rises from his chair, taking his time as if savoring the tension he’s created.

He adjusts his jacket and flashes that contemptuous smile as he saunters toward Malachi.

“It was great seeing you, Auntie,” he calls callously.

Irina doesn’t respond, her hand clenching the edge of the table as she watches him go.

The front door slams shut behind them, and I spring to my feet, eager to see what happens next.