Page 104 of Lana Pecherczyk

The question hung between them like a blade. Manfri’s throat tightened around a truth he rarely admitted.

“Yeah, they think it’s worth it. But look where love got them. Banished. Ostracized. Treated like shit by their own kind.” His claw dug into a crack in the table, deepening it. “Maybe love conquers all, but it leaves a fucking mess.”

Silence stretched until it threatened to break him. Cielo stared into his stein with a long face. Nikan flicked the edgeof his book, eyes distant and empty. Manfri couldn’t stand knowing he’d caused either of his friends to give up the hunt for the ultimate prize. He still wanted it himself. He was only afraid. So he summoned his courage and admitted, “They still dance under the moonlight. My parents. Even with nothing, they dance like the mess can’t touch them.”

The admission burned his tongue, too raw, too honest. He reached for a crude joke to cover the exposure, but Nikan surprised him by murmuring, “I’d like to see that. A love like that.”

The air between them thickened. Maybe Manfri hadn’t ruined everything, after all.

Cielo reached for the pitcher and poured himself another drink, ale cascading too quickly, foam spilling over the rim. “Don’t get too sentimental on us. You’ll ruin the ale.”

“Fuck your ale,” Nikan returned, scowling.

“Look at us,” Manfri joked, “talking feelings and shit. Better look out, or we’ll start laying eggs.”

Cielo raised his stein as if to toast their brotherhood. Instead, with his eyes never leaving Manfri’s, he blew a raspberry and tipped it slowly, deliberately. Ale spread across the wood grain, racing toward their new gifts—two distinct rivulets splitting from a single source. Manfri snatched the bundle while Nikan dabbed at the book with his cloak.

“The fuck?” he growled.

“Bad birdy!” Manfri inspected the wet implements, which were now dripping with sticky, sour liquid. He glanced down at his breeches, at the wet spot around his crotch. “Fuck’sake. It looks like I pissed myself.” He waggled his finger at Cielo. “No triad tattoo for you!”

Their laughter scattered between them like fallen feathers, and for the next few minutes, they cracked jokes and tried unsuccessfully to wipe away the sticky brown liquid oozing intoall the cracks. Cielo bellowed for another pitcher. When it came, he poured another stein for everyone and then raised his to his lips.

“Yeah,” he murmured into the cup. “You’re not ready for the mess.”

Manfri strained to catch the words. “What?”

But Cielo had already leaned back, lazy smile fixed, gaze distant once more.

Chapter

Thirty-Three

When Blake was twelve, a particularly territorial magpie had claimed their front yard eucalyptus as his domain. The neighborhood kids called it “Scarface” and gave the tree a wide berth during swooping season, racing past with schoolbags held over their heads like makeshift helmets.

“Mad as a cut snake, that one,” her dad had muttered one Sunday afternoon, nursing his beer as the one-eyed bird dive-bombed Mick, who dared to venture too close to the tree. “Bloody menace needs putting down.”

Her brothers agreed and plotted revenge with their cricket bats. But Blake, still grieving her mum and feeling isolated, saw something different when she watched the magpie from her window.

It wasn’t aggression driving those territorial swoops. The bird guarded something precious—a nest without a mother.

She’d started leaving scraps of mincemeat on the porch steps and sitting quietly nearby with her sketch pad. For weeks, themagpie watched from a distance, its head tilting suspiciously, that damaged eye assessing Blake’s intentions.

One quiet afternoon, when everyone else was at Johnno’s footy match, the magpie landed beside her. Up close, his scar wasn’t frightening. It reminded her that he’d once fought for what mattered and lived to tell the tale. It was proof that he didn’t need two feet to have a heartbeat.

“You’re not scary,” she’d whispered. “You’ve just been hurt, haven’t you?”

Over that summer, Scarface became her unlikely friend. Her brothers thought she was mental. Her dad barely noticed, but Blake recognized that beneath the battle scars was something beautiful and fiercely loyal.

Now, as Blake stared into River’s eyes in the caravan, processing his words, she recognized that same damaged beauty. His hands could destroy, but instead, they treated her with gentleness. Everyone else might see the scars, the broken wings, the facetious Guardian. But she saw the loyal heart beneath … even if he couldn’t.

Blake had trouble breathing.

River no longer leaned into her space, but he still consumed the air around her. He still had his hand in her hair. Still looked at her like he would die if he couldn’t kiss her.

“So … just to be clear,” she said slowly, deliberately. “You’re not avoiding being with me because you’re not into this.”

She gestured down her body.