Page 173 of Discordant Cultivation

“Hey.” Kieran’s voice was warm, happy, and slightly breathless. “How’s the m-meeting?”

“Boring.” Vale stepped outside into gray city afternoon, away from the conference room fluorescents. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes, m-mom.” Kieran’s laugh was bright and made Vale want to drop everything he had planned so he could rush home and devour that laugh. “I made myself a s-sandwich. Took my meds at noon. I’m working on the th-thing.”

“How’s it coming?”

“Almost d-done. I think—I think it’s good, Vale. I think you’ll l-like it.”

The tentative pride in Kieran’s voice made Vale’s chest ache. Not with possession or satisfaction—just love, fierce and uncomplicated. It was just love. “I’m sure I will, sweetheart. I miss you.”

“I-I miss you t-too.” Kieran sighed, then added, softer: “The house feels empty without you.”

Marry me. Let me make sure you never feel empty again.

But he couldn’t say it over the phone. He couldn’t propose during a lunch break between tedious meetings. Kieran deserved better than that.

“I’ll be home in a few hours,” Vale promised, and meant it with every atom of his being.

After hanging up, he stared at his phone, his thumb brushing across the screen where Kieran’s contact photo smiled back at him. The photo was from their date—Kieran in the creamturtleneck, looking up at Vale with an expression that still made his breath catch.

You chose me. After everything, you chose me. And I will spend the rest of my life being worthy of that choice.

His phone buzzed:

Anderson

Heads up—Thayer’s been making noise about your “methods.” Might want to get ahead of it.

Vale’s good mood evaporated instantly.

Let him talk. No one will believe a failed artist with a grudge.

But tension settled into his shoulders anyway.

The afternoon brought more intrusions. An email from the concert venue manager about someone requesting backstage access, easily handled with explicit security instructions. His phone lit up with a new message:

Unknown

Enjoy your last peaceful day with him. After the concert, everyone will know what you really are.

Vale deleted it, but his hands were shaking with a rage that felt dangerous, close to the surface and uncontrolled.

You pathetic failure. You couldn’t create anything worth keeping, so you’re trying to destroy what I have. But Kieran isn’t yours to save. He doesn’t want saving.

“Valerian, you look positively murderous.” Nox’s voice cut through his spiral, smooth and amused as always. “Can I guess whose earned your special attention today?”

Vale returned from the bathroom, to find Nox sitting on the conference room table, wearing an expensive tailored red suit and that ever-present predatory smile. The last time they’d been this close, Vale had broken his nose.

“Why are you here?” Vale asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

“I made sure our schedules line up so I could check in on my favorite recluse.” Nox slid into the chair across from him. His nose had healed perfectly—of course it had, Nox would never tolerate visible damage. “Word on the street is that little miss Jericho has been poking around, asking questions about your boy. People are starting to talk. And you’re not helping matters by staying holed up like some lovesick Victorian with his beloved waiting to be taken by consumption.”

Lovesick. Is that what I am now?

“Let them talk,” Vale said. “Thorn is exactly where he wants to be.”

“Oh, I know that.” Nox’s smile widened, showing too many teeth. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. Like you hung the fucking moon and all the stars. It’s nauseating and beautiful.” He touched his nose absently—a tell, whether conscious or not. “I’m not here to relitigate our little disagreement. I’m here because I actually prefer you functional, and you’re being sloppy.”