Page 122 of The Devil May Care

I cross the room before I can second-guess it.

Varo doesn’t look up. “If you’re here to reclaim your animal, you’ll have to pry him loose.”

“He’s mine.”

“Sure he is,” he says flatly. “He just doesn’t seem to care.”

George chirps and winds around Varo’s ankle like a traitor. I crouch, reaching for George, but Varo shifts his foot, blocking me. The move is not harsh, but precise.

“He’s not done,” he says simply.

“He’s my cat.”

“You left,” he says. “He stayed.”

Something in his voice needles. Not cruel. Not fond. Just… deliberate. George chirps and noses at Varo’s hand. The guy tears off a piece of his bread roll and flicks it toward him.

I straighten slowly. “You’re seriously feeding him table scraps?”

“He likes it.” A beat. “And you do it all the time.” My breath catches. Varo’s gaze sharpens. Just slightly. “Something is different about you.”

I fold my arms. “You’re not the first to say that.”

He sets his cup down. Still not looking at me.

“Don’t be cute. I don’t care what happened last night, but something left its teeth in you.”

I freeze. He finally looks up. Not smirking. Not mocking. Just… watching.

“Nyxen saw it too,” I say before I can stop myself.

Varo snorts. “Of course they did. Vale collects signs like others collect trinkets.”

“What do you collect?” I ask.

He leans back. “Survivors.”

I can’t tell if that’s a warning or an offer. His gaze lingers too long on my face. Not lecherous, analytical. Like he’s measuring a thing that shouldn’t be possible.

“Fascinating. It’s like standing near a sword that hasn’t been drawn yet.”

My spine goes rigid. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t know what cut through you, but something did. And whatever’s left is sharper.” He leans forward, elbows braced on the table, smirk twisting his lips.

“Wow,” I say. “Was that a threat, or just your version of a pep talk?”

“Neither.” His voice drops low, almost a rasp. “Just an observation.”

George climbs up into his lap like they’ve been bonded for years. Varo doesn’t smile. Doesn’t scowl. Just rests a hand lightly on George’s back.

“You’re not ready,” he says.

“For what?”

“The trials, the Rite. You are woefully unprepared.” He tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he’s already half-finished. “But that’s the thing about the Rite. Doesn’t care.” I flinch. He shrugs, like that’s all the conversation deserves, and turns back to his plate. “Take your cat if you want,” he says. “Or leave him. Either way, he’ll be fine.” The unsaid part hangs there:You might not be.

I don’t thank him. I don’t take George. I just walk away, spine straight, heart hammering and I don’t look back. I make it halfway back to the table before the sound hits. A bell—no, not a bell. A note. Low. Resonant. It doesn’t echo in the room. It echoes in me. In the hollow of my ribs, in the marrow of my bones. Every contender freezes. Forks still in hand. Cups raised. Like time itself took a breath. Another tone rises. Slightly higher. Somehow deeper. Not in volume, but in weight. Like the air just folded in half.