Chapter Text
Lyra sat on the floor of the living room with her back against the couch and her baby brother balanced carefully against her thighs. He was heavy and already reeked of iron, like it seeped through his pores. His small hand fisted the fabric of her shirt as he slept. Eveline lay on her stomach a few feet away, coloring with intense concentration, tongue caught between her teeth.
From the kitchen came the sound of a cabinet shutting too hard. Lyra’s shoulders tensed immediately. She didn’t look up. Looking up only made it worse. She adjusted Cassius, careful not to jostle him. Babies startled easily and so did fathers.
Her dad’s voice carried. It was crisp and clipped as he argued with someone on the phone—something about court. Lyra couldn’t hear the words, only the tone. It sounded like anger wrapped in restraint and to her that was the worst kind—the kind that pretended it was under control.
Eveline glanced up from a purple and blue page. “Is he mad?”
“No,” Lyra swallowed. “He’s just tired.”
The lie tasted familiar. She was always making excuses for him. Loving him made her feel guilty and even though she knew he was bad she defended him mentally like a reflex.
Cassius stirred, making a small, unhappy sound. Lyra felt it immediately, the way the tension in the room tightened something in her chest. Not now, she thought. Please.
She began to hum under her breath without meaning to. Not a song. Just a sound. He relaxed almost instantly, and his breath evened out as his body melted against hers.
Eveline’s shoulders dropped too.
“That’s nice,” she murmured with hazy eyes. “Do that again, Lyra.”
But she didn’t do it again. She stopped abruptly, allowing silence to rush in much too fast. Nobody else noticed it. Just her. It was painful to stop the sound so suddenly. It was like someone cutting a part of her body with a pair of scissors, as if the song itself was tethered to her nerves and it stung when severed.
Her father appeared in the doorway then, no longer on the phone and his facial expression was unreadable. She couldn’t gage him—didn’t know what emotion to expect from him today. His eyes fixed on Cassius for a long moment and then to her.
“What was that?” he asked.
Her stomach twisted. “Nothing daddy.”
He stepped closer. The air felt heavier with him in it, like the room had less oxygen. Lyra kept her eyes on the baby and her hands steady despite the way her pulse still pounded in her ears.
“I heard you. You were humming.”
“I was just calming him.”
Perpetua smiled, not kindly but as if he was interested. “You’ve got your mother’s voice. You should use it.”
The pressure in Lyra’s throat spiked, fear feeding something she didn’t want awake. Her sister shifted closer to her without realizing why, coloring forgotten. Cassius too whimpered softly, sensing the change.
“I don’t like it,” she admitted. The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Pepe’s smile faded then. His tone wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “That’s not how it works. You don’t get to decide what you are.”
Something slipped then. A single note. It caused the air around them to tilt. Even Perpetua felt dizzy from it and emotion leaked through the cracks. Her sister’s eyes filled suddenly with tears she didn’t understand, and Cassius began to cry.
Lyra clamped her mouth shut. “I’m sorry,” she said, to everyone. She rocked the baby frantically, trying to undo what she’d done, trying to pull herself back into her body. “I didn’t mean to.”
Her father watched closely, eyes bright with something that made her skin crawl. Curiosity, perhaps. Pride. Ownership.
“Careful,” he said softly. “You’ll hurt someone if you don’t learn control.”
Lyra nodded because that was what kept the peace. She lowered her gaze and focused on her breathing until the pressure in her throat receded, until the air felt normal again. Her sister wiped her face, still confused. Cassius’s cries softened back into hiccupping sobs.
She pressed her lips to her brother’s hair and whispered nothing at all, terrified that even love might come out wrong.
V stepped close enough that Lyra could smell him. It was the same copper-sweet scent that lingered on the baby in her arms. He reached out as if to brush a loose strand of hair from her face, but his fingers didn’t quite touch her. Instead, he traced the air beside her cheek, as though mapping her without needing contact.
Then he turned away, satisfied for now, and disappeared down the hall while Lyra stayed where she was, holding both children, every muscle aching with the effort of staying quiet. Of staying contained. Of being something dangerous in a place that pretended to be safe.
*
Frater sat at his desk with his sleeves rolled up. Papers were spread neatly before him while his pen moved in steady strokes across signature lines.
Mary hovered at his side like a shadow that had learned his shape. She had cried each night that he was in Miami but was overjoyed to have him home finally.
He didn’t look up when she moved closer. He never had to. He always seemed to know where she was because she would never let him forget.
She leaned against the edge of the desk, close enough that her knee brushed his thigh, and reached out to smooth her fingers through his hair. The gesture was slow and habitual, as if she’d done it a thousand times before. She separated a strand that had fallen into his face and tucked it back where she thought it belonged.
“You’ve been working too long, daddy,” she said with a happiness she didn’t offer easily to anyone else. “Your concentration face is back.”
He smiled without lifting his eyes from the page. “Is it that obvious, Marietta mia?”
“To me it is,” she replied, tracing the line of his part with her nail. “It looks like this,” she furrowed her brow and pursed her lips into a passable imitation of his face.
He laughed, of course. Then, he set the pen down at last and leaned back, granting her better access without ever directly asking for it. “And what would you have me do instead, my dear?”
She brightened at the invitation. “Take a break. Let me help you think.” She tilted her head, studying him closely, as if committing every detail of his face to memory. “Hmm, You work better when you’re relaxed.”
“Do I?”
“Yes,” she said immediately. “I’ve noticed.”
Mary shifted closer, standing between his knees now, close enough that the hem of her skirt brushed his shin. She combed her fingers through his hair again, slower this time, smoothing it back from his temples.
Frater closed his eyes for a moment, “You always were so attentive, young Mary.”
“You deserve it, daddy. You matter so much to me, you know?”
His hand came up briefly, resting at her wrist. “And you matter to me too,” he said, opening his eyes to look at her properly now.
She smiled at that, as though she’d been waiting for those words all day. She leaned down slightly, close enough that her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for him. “Am I your favorite, daddy?”
He didn’t hesitate. He cupped her cheek and answered just as quietly, “You’ve always been my favorite, little one.”
But then something in her shifted immediately. The warmth drained from her expression as quickly as it had come. Her grip tightened unconsciously, digging into his scalp now with her nails. “Then why did you tell Faith you were leaving, instead of me?”
"Your sister put herself in my path, Mary. And Miami was necessary."
From the time she was very young, her attachment to her father was never quite ordinary. She clung to him with a devotion that went beyond comfort and safety, and instead of gently redirecting it, he encouraged it.
He lingered too long when she sought his attention, rewarded her exclusivity with praise, and treated her need for him as something precious rather than something to be tempered. Over time, her sense of self narrowed until it revolved almost entirely around his approval.
She learned that closeness was something to compete for, that affection could be earned by devotion, and that being chosen mattered more than being protected.
What began as a child’s longing for reassurance slowly hardened into obsession, shaped and sustained by the very person who should have taught her where love ends and boundaries begin.
"You left me here alone! Do you have any idea how melancholy I was, without you?"
“I came back—"
“That’s not the point,” she snapped, the flash of anger brief but real. But, just as quickly, it softened into something wounded. “You always come back. But you never take me with you. You didn’t even say goodbye.”
Frater took the girl’s hand and let his thumb stroke once over the inside of her wrist. “It is only because I cannot bare goodbyes with you, darling Marietta.”
She stepped closer and placed both hands on his shoulders. It looked almost thoughtful, as though she were checking something for herself rather than asking him to confirm it. Her thumbs rested at the base of his neck. “Is that true?”
Frater didn’t answer immediately. Just inclined his head once and gave her hips a small, proud squeeze. “Yes. It’s true.”
She nodded at that, satisfied for now. Then a knock came at the door.
His eyes shifted toward the noise. “Come in.”
Hurricane stepped inside mid-thought with a folder tucked under his arm and his mouth already open to speak. Whatever he had planned stalled the moment he took in the room.
Frater’s hands remained on his daughter’s hips as Hurricane stood there, his imposing frame filling the doorway.
"Hurricane! Come in. Don't loiter there like a lost Ghoul.” He gradually, almost lazily, released his hold on Mary, giving her two firm pats on her rear to dismiss her.
She stepped back on her own time. She lingered for a moment, close enough that her presence still pressed against him, before withdrawing with unsettling composure. She gave a small bow and turned toward the door.
As she passed Hurricane, she looked him over—not sharply, not with open hostility. It was worse than that. It was measured. Appraising. Like she was deciding whether he mattered.
Then she was gone.
The door closed behind her with a soft, irritated click.
Hurricane stood there for a moment longer than necessary. He shifted his weight, glanced at the door, then back to Frater. “Uh... alright. So… I’ve got something new I think you’ll want to hear.”
Frater reached for the folder. “I’m sure I will.”
The Ghoul handed it over and waited, his shoulders loose but eyes intent, as though approval were something that might be physically placed in his hands. He leaned over the desk beside him, pointing at the page and then lifting his guitar to demonstrate.
“It’s kinda like this,” he said, already strumming, letting his fingers wander until he found something close enough to prove his point. He grinned, unapologetic about it.
Copia listened, correcting him with a tap of his finger here, and a quiet note there.
Outside the door, Elizabeth found Mary in the corridor creeping. “What are you doing you little twit?”
“Nothing,” she quickly spat, their voices already sharp with the kind of familiarity that only ever curdled. She changed the subject quickly, “You know Mummy’s pregnant again,” she said, chin tipped up as if daring Eliza to contradict it.
“I know that,” Elizabeth replied flatly.
“Do you think it’s Daddy’s?”
The eldest sister sighed, then shrugged. “I couldn’t say, Mary.”
“Ugh. I hate Mummy.”
“You only hate her because you’re jealous that she gets to ride daddy’s pole.”
“That’s not true! Take that back! Right now!”
Liz laughed. “You’re so strange. Get out of my face before I tell Father you’re out here spying.”
Mary took it as a dare, stepping closer instead. “I’m strange? You’re the one who let Uncle put a baby in you!”
The words hung there, poisonous and loud in the quiet hallway, just long enough to bruise before Elizabeth turned and pulled the door open with fury.
She slammed it behind her, stepping inside with a few pages held to her chest. She began to speak, then stopped when she noticed Hurricane. That’s when her mouth quirked into a soft chuckle. “Oh. Hello.”
He beamed at her like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Hi there.”
Copia caught the exchange immediately. “Eyes on the notes, Ghoul,” he said dryly, before turning to his daughter to take the pages from her.
“These are the lyrics to…” she paused, watching her father as he scanned the words, “the Ghoul’s sheet music.”
Frater’s brow lifted as he glanced up. “Ah. Did you work on it together, then?”
Hurricane answered too fast. “We corroborated a bit, yes Sir.”
Elizabeth nodded in quiet agreement. Frater motioned for Hurricane to play, then for Elizabeth to sing. Her voice threaded neatly through the guitar as they moved into the chorus, and by the time it ended, his expression had shifted. He leaned back, satisfied, clearly impressed, and very much pleased with what he’d just heard.
He dismissed his daughter then with a distracted flick of his hand, already turning back to the desk and the papers spread across it. She lingered just long enough to be sure she was truly excused, then slipped out into the corridor and leaned against the wall, pretending to study the floor while she waited.
The door stayed closed longer than she liked. Finally, it opened and Hurricane stepped out with his guitar slung over his shoulder.
He spotted her immediately and his grin widened. She laughed under her breath, pushed off the wall, and caught his hand before he could say anything. “Come!” she demanded, tugging him toward a narrow entryway just off the main corridor, tucked out of sight.
Before he could think better of it, she rose onto her toes and kissed him. He startled but then softened into it, kissing her back, letting his hands find her waist almost on instinct. The moment stretched, dangerous and sweet, before he pulled back with a quiet breathy laugh.
“Hey,” he said gently, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re makin’ it real hard for me to be smart about this.”
“Do you want me?”
“Huh? Now?” he blinked, then smiled.
“Yes. Now, silly.”
He glanced down the corridor, then back at her eyes. “Well… yeah. Of course. But—”
“Come to my room?”
“I mean—sounds nice, but… is that safe?”
“There’s no lock,” she said lightly. “But we could use the loo.”
He kissed her again, quick and warm, then shook his head. “Oh no, darlin’. I ain’t takin’ you in no bathroom. You deserve better than that.”
“Fine," she smirked. "But don’t say I didn’t offer.”
His smile turned thoughtful, almost earnest. “I got an offer for ya. How ’bout you let me take you out to dinner in the city tonight?”
She hesitated and her smile faltered while her gaze flicked down the corridor, as if she could already see the cameras waiting. “I don’t know. Being seen… I’m not sure I want that. Not tonight. I don’t want him to see us on the cover of some magazine. That wouldn’t be good for you.”
Hurricane’s brow furrowed, concern quick to replace the grin. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.” Then his face brightened again, an idea clearly landing. “What if I take you somewhere out of the city? Quiet. No photographers.” He squeezed her hand gently. “You could always wear that country-girl disguise of yours.”
She laughed at that, a real one this time and her shoulders eased. “You like that, do you?”
"I like you.”
"Hmm. The country boy has local knowledge outside of LA, does he?" She nodded then, a spark of excitement cutting through her earlier caution. “Yes. Alright.”
Hurricane’s smile turned soft and unmistakably fond. He stepped closer and let his hands settle at her waist. Then, he gently swayed her from side to side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Then I’ll take you somewhere proper. Someplace where we don’t have to rush.”
“You… you mean?”
“Oh yeah, darlin’,” he said with a soft laugh, clearly amused and a little undone by her enthusiasm. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
She let out a giddy breath, then pulled away before he could say anything else, laughing as she slipped down the hall. Just before turning the corner, she glanced back at him, grinning, and chuckled again before disappearing from view.
*
Mary came to his door long after the place had settled. She was unbothered by the dim and quiet hallways. She preferred it that way. She tapped once, easing the door open before he could answer.
“Daddy? May I come in?”
“Of course you may,” he replied, turning from the wardrobe. He was already loosening his cuffs, preparing for the night, moving with ease as she slipped inside and closed the door behind her.
She hovered near the threshold, fingers worrying the hem of her night gown. “Daddy,” she began, carefully, “how does a girl become with child?”
He stilled for just a moment, then smiled gently, as if smoothing the question away. “You do not need to worry about such things, Mary. You are my precious, innocent girl, sì?”
She nodded, obediently moving closer, but did not leave it there. “But… I’m about the age Eliza was when she fell pregnant. How can I stop myself from having a baby if I don’t know how it happens?”
He turned fully toward her then, “I can assure you, dear. It will not happen to you. I will not allow any boy to taint you.”
“So, there is a correlation with boys?” She frowned, then pushed on with the tone of a child’s bluntness, “Did you get Mummy pregnant? Is it because she rode your pole?”
He cut her off sharply, color now flashing across his face. “Rode my what? Sweet Lucifer, where did you learn such a word?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Dio mio,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “That girl.”
“I did not mean to anger you, daddy.”
He changed without haste, trading his shirt for a silk night blouse before reaching for Mary’s hand. “I am not angry with you,” he said. “But you must not take advice from your sister.”
"Oh, I would never dream of it.”
He inclined his head, satisfied, and released her.
Mary moved as though to leave, then stopped instead, remaining near the foot of the bed.
“May I stay a little while?” she asked lightly, as though it were nothing at all. “I don’t feel ready for sleep yet.”
Frater regarded her for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. A few minutes.”
She smiled, satisfied—already certain he would grant more than he meant to give.