Page 148 of The Fake Divination Offense
But he settles with a heavy sigh and bites that lip again.
I tug it free. His smile is small and reticent, and he leans across the center console to brush a chaste kiss to my mouth.
He holds there, just the gentle rub of thin skin, the taste of his berry lip gloss.
“Okay,” he murmurs. He pulls back, checks his makeup in the dropdown mirror, and straightens his cropped white tank. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
We climb out of the car.
I round the hood and stand next to where Bel stops on the sidewalk, palms scraping against his jeans again. He still sometimes chooses to use the illusion spray, but more often than not—like today—he’s in his demon form. His tail’s tucked away, but he’s letting his horns grow back, two rose-gold knobs at the front of his pink curls.
Mila’s house is a small ranch with eggshell-blue siding and a little porch where a swing rocks in the breeze. Bel’s gold-black eyes shift over the door, the windows with frilly curtains.
One of those curtains moves.
A face appears, then it’s gone, and before either of us can do anything, the front door opens.
Two women dash out. Both have waves of brown hair and pale skin, one’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the other a floral dress.
I expect them to hesitate, stop and gape like Bel’s doing, but they don’t slow down. I catch tear-stained cheeks and a chokedoh my godsbefore they’re hurling themselves around Bel, a chaotic, clustered hug.
For a moment, he stands there, stiff and shocked.
But only for a moment.
He melts, looping his arms around them as they stroke his hair, exclaiming and sobbing and smiling. He’s crying, too, messy and raw, and in their arms, unwinding like this, he looks so young. The fifteen-year-old version of him who was forced to run, who barely got a chance to say goodbye.
The woman in the floral dress notices me first. She pulls away from Bel and scrubs at her eyes, blows out a self-conscious laugh. “Who’s this?”
Bel turns to me; his joy is the sun.
“This is Orok,” he says, voice choked in tears. “My—mine.”
My cheeks hurt with my smile.His.
I hold out my hand, and the woman shakes it.
“I’m Jemma,” she says. “And that’s—”
The other woman, Mila presumably, is already turning from Bel to throw her arms around me.
“Thank you,” she whispers into my shoulder.
I return her hug. “It’s my pleasure. Truly.”
“Oh my gods, my manners!” Mila yanks back from me and grabs Bel’s hand. “Come inside, both of you! We want to heareverything!”
She hauls Bel for the house, Jemma following and peppering Bel with questions about the rawball championship ritual and if he’s really okay from it, though it was months ago. She promises to see him perform next season, and Mila adds how they’ll come to as many games as they can.
Bel looks back at me. He’s dazed, his face red from crying and laughter.
I trail them and mouth,You good?
He nods immediately. And says,I love you.
People aim too far out when they think they need to belong to a god.
All I ever needed was to belong to this one man.
