Page 28 of Beasts of Shadows #1

He buries his face in her shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt people.”

She hums a soft lullaby under her breath, the tune old, mournful, salt-soaked.

“You won’t always have a choice, my heart.”

“I don’t want to be this,” he says. “I want to be something else.”

She draws back just enough to cup his face in both hands.

“Oh, my brave little sea-glass,” she whispers. “You don’t have to want it. You only have to carry it.”

His chin wobbles. “I’m tired.”

“I know.” She presses her forehead to his. “But you are not weak.”

A pause.

“You are the storm they tried to bottle,” she says. “And one day, you will break the glass.”

He doesn’t answer.

She presses a kiss to his brow and wraps her arms around him again, rocking slowly.

“You won’t escape your fate, Nikolai,” she says. “But you will make it yours.”

The hallway fades—not in silence, but to the sound of her humming again, soft and steady, as if keeping the tide at bay.

Then…

The vision snaps.

I’m back in the library, the candle dancing like nothing happened.

My breath comes in short bursts.

That was real.

Not a metaphor. Not a glimpse of possibility. A memory.

Something buried so deep I don’t think Nikolai would ever show it willingly.

I press my palms flat against the table, grounding myself.

He was a child.

Afraid. Soft-spoken. Held.

Not by a monster, but by someone who loved him—and still told him he couldn’t escape the path laid before him.

You won’t escape your fate, Nikolai. But you will make it yours.

And her face—impossible to forget. That same cutting bone structure. That moon-pale skin, shocking eyes. The way her mouth tilted when she spoke. The same tilt his has when he’s trying not to smile.

I frown.

If that was the goddess who adopted him, it’s uncanny how much they look alike.

Too uncanny.

I shake the thought away—but it lingers. Gnaws.

The way he speaks now. The way he walks through this school like it belongs to him. It’s not just bravado. It’s armor. Carefully fitted. Lovingly fastened.

It wasn’t forged in cruelty.

It was gifted in love.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because love shouldn’t sound like surrender.

I lean back in the chair, heart thudding hard.

For the first time, I wonder if I’m the only one in our duel still trying to rewrite her fate—while he’s already surrendered to his.

But it’s also something more.

It’s a crack.

Not the kind that weakens.

The kind that reveals.

And cracks, I’ve learned, are how the truth gets in.

Or where everything finally breaks apart.

#

It’s late afternoon in town, and the clouds over Nowhere are a dull slate, heavy with rain that hasn’t made up its mind.

The Seawitch Café is half-full, the usual mix of off-duty faculty and townspeople hiding from the wind.

Reema, Geneir, and Cat are crammed into a booth by the fireplace, locked in a card game that’s starting to look aggressive.

I end up at the two-seater by the front window with Cody, and neither of us offers to move.

We sit in silence.

The table between us is sticky. The beer’s warm—uncomfortably so. Like it’s been sitting too long, waiting for someone to spill something.

He drums his fingers—bare. The gloves are gone. It feels like something private he forgot to shield.

I watch him for a beat. His eyes drift to Reema and Geneir now and then—features softening at a laugh, then hardening when she drapes her head on Geneir’s shoulder.

I wonder what it must feel like, to hold the attention of so many men.

I want to ask him about his journal. But it doesn’t feel like the right time.

So I rise instead, weaving between the tables toward the counter.

That’s when I see him.

Ravi.

Leaning against the paneled wall near the café’s back exit, a book half-open in one hand and a mug of something too dark to be coffee in the other.

His shirt’s undone at the collar, sleeves rolled, godlike nonchalance practically radiating from his skin—but it’s an illusion.

The coil of tension in his jaw gives him away.

His eyes meet mine. They don’t flicker. They never do.

I cross to him slowly.

“You’re following me,” I say.

He lifts a shoulder, casual on the surface. “Or maybe I just wanted a break from watching gods play poker over your life.”

There’s an edge to his voice. Not just ancient weariness—something else. Something almost petty. It digs under my ribs.

“I had a vision,” I say.

His brow lifts. “Of Nikolai?”

I blink. “How did you—?”

He snaps the book shut, already irritated. “Because lately, that’s the only name that gets that look on your face.”

I reel back slightly. “What look?”

His smile is faint, cold. “Curious. Intrigued. Reckless.”

I narrow my eyes, refusing to take the bait.

“It was a woman. With Nikolai. She looked like him.”

That wipes the smirk from his face.

“They were somewhere cold. Marble halls. Silver tile. It felt… royal.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just gestures to the bench by the fogged window. When I sit, he follows—shoulder to shoulder, like he doesn’t trust me not to wander.

“You saw Ais Chrona. Matholwch’s island,” he says eventually. “Probably Roz. I heard she raised Nikolai.”

He lets the silence hang between us like bait.

I nod, arms crossing tightly over my chest. “He called her Mother.”

“I’m sure he did.”

That answer is too sharp. It cuts before I can ask why.

“I told you about King Matholwch and Bea. About Bran, and what was done to his daughter. Eventually, after all that, Matholwch found a new wife. Roz. A goddess of fate from Albania. They lived quietly on their island until Matholwch died. Seventeen years ago.”

“Gods don’t just die,” I murmur.

“It is rare, but not unheard of.” He studies my face. “But no one questioned it too hard. Roz said he passed, and she was fate. That was enough.”

“And then she found Nikolai?”

He looks away. “She told the pantheon she took in a boy. Abandoned. Sea-born. No allegiance. She named him Nikolai Matholwch, after the king she lost.”

I stare out at the rain-spattered window. “But he looks like her.”

Ravi’s voice turns brittle. “Yes. He does.”

“That doesn’t happen with adoption.”

“Interesting, isn’t it?” he agrees, the word clipped.

The implication hovers between us like a curse.

“Are you saying—?”

“I’m saying,” he cuts in, “that Roz has always known how to write destiny. And if she wanted a son who looked like her, who served her purposes, who carried her dead husband’s name like a fucking banner—she would make it happen.”

There it is again. That fray at the edge of his composure. That jealousy.

“You don’t like him,” I say carefully.

Ravi laughs—low and humorless. “He’s a pawn who thinks he’s a king. And he’s too damn proud to know when he’s being played.”

I study him. “Or maybe he knows, and he plays anyway.”

His jaw flexes.

“You think I don’t see it?” Ravi asks, voice softening, but no less dangerous. “The way you look at him. The way he looks at you. Like he’s already figured out what he wants from you and is just waiting for you to realize it.”

My breath catches.

“I think you know me better than that.” I’m not sure I want the answer.

He doesn’t respond immediately.

When he does, it’s quieter. Older. But still that boy underneath.

“I remember what it felt like to have your eyes on me like.”

I go still.

“And then I remember what it cost me,” he adds, gaze dragging down to the table.

We don’t speak for a long moment.

Outside, the rain falls harder now—sharp against the window, drowning the café’s low chatter.

“You said gods are playing poker with my life,” I whisper.

“I did.”

“And his?”

Ravi’s gaze lifts again. It pins me in place.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s not being gambled too.”

I look down at my hands, fists curled tight in my lap.

“And what if I’m the one holding the wildcard?”

Ravi’s mouth twitches. “Then I hope—for both your sakes—you know when to fold.”