Page 57 of The Monster's Daughter

Kage doesn't say much these days, not really. He watches. His eyes follow me like he's trying to solve a puzzle he's missing pieces for, like maybe if he looks hard enough, long enough, the corners will snap into place and make sense. But they won’t. Not if I keep hiding them.

I hate it. I hate how sweet he is with her. I hate how he wears that stupid rainbow hat when she asks, like it’s a damn badge of honor. I hate how gentle his claws are when he helps brush out her hair because she likes the way they feel. I hate it because I love it. And that love is turning me inside out.

Every smile Natalie gives him twists the knife. Every time she runs into his arms squealing, “Daddy!” in her dreams—because yeah, I hear her sleep-talk—I feel like I’m breaking open. I can’t breathe under the weight of it.

So I start pulling away.

Little things at first. Sitting on the other side of the couch. Leaving the room to take calls that aren’t really calls. Pretending I’m too tired to help with bedtime, pretending I don’t see the way she clings to him now instead of me. He’s better at lullabies anyway.

He notices.

Of course he notices.

But he doesn’t say anything. Just watches me, quiet and sad and patient like he's waiting for a storm he knows is coming.

I can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t even look at myself in the mirror without seeing a liar. My arm aches—the metal one, the nanite one. Maybe it’s psychosomatic or it’s guilt. I don’t know anymore.

Then it happens.

Natalie spills her juice. Not even that much. Just a little splash across the table.

“Goddammit, Nat!” I snap. “Can’t you be more careful for once?”

She freezes. Her bottom lip wobbles. The juice puddle crawls across her coloring book, and it feels like the world is crawling with it.

“I—I didn’t mean to?—”

“I’m just so sick of—just clean it up, alright?”

She starts crying. Big, gut-wrenching sobs that make my ears ring.

Kage’s voice is low, dangerous. “Bella.”

I don’t even look at him. “I didn’t mean?—”

He scoops her up, murmuring to her in that deep, gravel-soft voice that turns to velvet when he talks to her. She buries her face in his neck, hiccupping. He doesn’t look at me. Not once. Just carries her down the hall.

The door to her room clicks shut.

I stare at the mess on the table. Sticky, red, innocent.

Just like her.

I go to Jexi’s. She doesn’t say anything when she opens the door, just yanks me inside and shoves a cup of steaming tea in my hands. It smells like earth and bitterness. Good.

“You look like crap,” she says.

“Thanks.”

She watches me. Waits.

“I yelled at her.”

“She’s a kid. It happens.”

“She cried. Kage…” I swallow. “Kage didn’t say a word. Just looked at me like I was some monster she needed protecting from.”

“Were you?”