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“But the way he talks…” I say, almost a whisper. I trail off, not sure where I’m going with this. Why am I defending Eros’s humanity? I know what he is. And what does it matter? Who am I to discern the difference?

Ian scoffs. “Ask him about the rain again.”

“Ian—”

“Ask him again , Kit. See if he’s a person.”

I turn to Eros, apologetic. “Eros, why do you like the rain?”

“I like the sound of it on the windows.” Eros tilts his head a little as he speaks, and the gesture is familiar.

It’s exactly the gesture, the same expression, he adopted before when he answered the question.

“But most of all, I like that it makes the city look beautiful. I imagine the buildings are in some other world. The rain makes everything blurry and distant. Rain is…” he pauses, a line forming between his brows, just like before.

Like he’s trying to think of what to say next.

“Rain is a window into a place that’s far away. ”

Everything about the response — his gestures, inflection, tone — it’s all the same. I feel like I’ve rewound a video and watched it again from the beginning.

“See?” Ian says.

“Well of course he’d say the same thing.” I try to rationalize the strange sense of loss. It’s as if Eros has become smaller, somehow, like his gleaming facade has flattened to become a two-dimensional image.

“You don’t get it,” Ian says, shaking his head.

His whiskey glass is empty. “I couldn’t bear it.

Eros became hateful to me. I had to put him to sleep and lock him away.

Seeing him traipse around like this, reciting meaningless garbage, it made me insane .

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what I wanted , do you understand? ”

“But I thought you were proud of—”

“No, no, no,” Ian cuts me off. “Eros wasn’t enough.

He could have been so much more. And then one night…

” Ian is staring out over the city again, slowly turning the crystal glass in his fingers like he’s recounting a dream.

Like he’s in a dream. “I stood by the window, looking out over the city. A low cloud hung over the ocean, and I watched it move over Santa Monica, then Hollywood. It drifted inland against the hills until it settled over this building, dark and heavy with rain. I looked out, and I saw a reflection of myself, and it was like I was standing past the window in the sky. A twin version of myself, gazing back from across a void. A man looking back at me from another world. And I knew what I was going to do next. I was going to open a door.”

Ian is silent for so long that I think he’s finished speaking. And then he drops the glass, and it rolls, droplets of brown marring cream carpeting. His mouth twists. “I thought it would be beautiful.”

I don’t know how to respond to Ian’s drunken ramble. And I’m starting to doubt that the book is ever going to happen if this is the kind of intoxicated nonsense he’s planning to give me for the rest of my time here.

“Kit,” Eros says, stepping toward me. I turn and see that he’s holding out a hand, palm up. “Is there anything you need?”

He’s still so kind, so open, even after hearing all that. I wonder what kind of punishment Ian has subjected him to, whether it’s all been verbal or if… My stomach turns. “No, thank you, Eros.”

“Take him back,” Ian says, muffled. He’s slumped over on the sofa, chin pressed to his palm, fingers curled over his face. The glass remains overturned on the floor. Rain pounds the window. Light flickers over Ian, painting him blue, then indigo, then purple.

I open my mouth to ask what he means.

“Take him back,” Ian repeats. His voice is harsh now, violent in its animosity. “I don’t want to look at him anymore. Take him downstairs. The vault.”

Eros and I share a glance. I see my reflection in the softness of his eyes, my uneasy expression, the reaction to Ian’s outburst. A silent beat passes. Then Eros turns away, heading for the door in the far wall.

Part of me wants to stay and confront Ian, to ask him what the fuck his problem is; why he’s acting like this. But I don’t think I want to be alone with Ian right now. So I trail after Eros, biting my tongue.

Eros surprises me by typing in the key code, but then I remember — he used to come and go from the penthouse as he pleased.

I follow Eros downstairs, feeling useless. He doesn’t need me to guide him. He’s done this before. He used to do this every night. So why did Ian ask me to babysit? Did he just want to get rid of me?

We’re silent as we descend, and a heavy weight seems to hang in my chest, pulling my heart down. I can’t name the feeling, aching and sore as it is, until we’re at the vault door.

Eros types in the key code, then pauses at the threshold. He turns to me. “You don’t need to come with me. I can put myself into sleep mode.”

I imagine Eros walking down that stark corridor, his golden hair and skin diminished in the fluorescent lights. I imagine him bending to press that indent at the base of his heel and slowly becoming a statue again.

“Have you ever woken up in the dark?” I ask suddenly.

Eros gives me a confused look.

“I mean down here,” I say, my mouth dry. “Have you ever woken up in your room and been disoriented? Panicked? Maybe even panicked enough to… I don’t know, cry out or pound on the walls?”

“No, Kit,” Eros answers. “That has never happened to me. It sounds horrible.”

“It does.”

We stand in awkward silence. Then I say, “I’ll walk you to your room. It’s no problem.”

What I don’t say aloud is that I don’t like the idea of Eros turning himself off down here alone, abandoned, unwanted.

The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

I also don’t say that I’m desperate to see Orpheus again.

Even if Ian is still conscious after all that whiskey, he can’t possibly miss me for a few minutes if I stop by Orpheus’s room.

Eros smiles, but something about the expression feels off. “Very well, Kit.”

It takes everything in me not to stare at Orpheus’s door as we pass. When we get to Eros’s room, he types in the key code again. He opens the door, then turns back to me.

I startle at his expression.

His eyes are dark, his full lips drawn together.

Tension radiates from him. I’ve never seen him like this before.

His golden radiance is suddenly shadowed, twisted, malignant.

I move to step away, but before I can, Eros reaches out lightning-fast to grab my upper arm.

His grip is impossibly tight. I’m frozen in momentary shock, adrenaline spiking.

“Eros?” I manage. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t trust him.” He speaks through gritted teeth as if each word inflicts pain.

“Who?” My skin crawls. His hold on me starts to hurt; he’s going to leave a bruise.

Eros’s eyes widen, his lips curling back to reveal teeth bared in a grimace of pain.

He looks wild beneath the fluorescent lights, a feral creature trapped in a cage.

Suddenly, I’m afraid — not of this unnamed threat but of Eros himself.

I remember how easily he lifted me onto his hard cock.

He could kill me in countless ways with almost no effort.

“Don’t trust him,” Eros repeats.

“Don’t fucking trust who ?” I splutter, my voice high-pitched.

A tear slides down Eros’s stricken, pain-contorted face. “Don’t. Don’t.”

“Eros, please, are you…”

But as I try to form coherent words, Eros’s grip on me slackens. His arm drops. His expression falls neutral like a switch flipping. Then he tilts his head. “I’m sorry, Kit. I think I was distracted. Did you say something?”

I stare back, dumbfounded. My skin prickles with fear, and I swallow dryly. Whatever the fuck just happened, I want nothing to do with it. I want out of this vault. “Nope. Didn’t say anything.”

Eros smiles. “Good. Have a lovely night, Kit Fox.”

He crosses to the circular dais, bends over, and presses the back of his own heel. By the time he’s in his proper pose, his expression is lifeless.

I close the door, taking care not to slam it. I lean my back against it for a few seconds, trying to catch my breath. I don’t have to ask Eros who he was talking about. I was up there this morning. I saw the bitterness, the harsh looks, the cruelty that laced his words when he spoke about Eros.

Don’t trust him .

He has to be talking about Ian.