90 Hunger has no bounds

**Date = 8 August**
**Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)**

**POV - Aria**

The kitchen hums with low chatter and clattering pans — right up until Sky lifts her hand to her mouth and goes perfectly still. Her eyes lock on the doorway, and the warmth in the room drains like someone cracked a thermostat to freezing.

“Fock,” she breathes.

A shadow fills the entrance.

“I fucking told you to stay in bed and rest,” a deep voice growls.

My shoulders jump. My spine snaps straight. Sky just smirks at the storm walking straight toward her, slow and wicked, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

Slowly, I turn to look at him — I haven’t seen him up close since the crash. Not really seen him. Just a moment here, a second there, a brief blur at the funeral.

He looks like absolute shit. Well, as close to shit as a hunk like him can get.

Dark shadows bruise the skin beneath those scary eyes. His hair is a mess — more than usual — and he’s pale in that gray kind of way that comes from sleepless nights and too much grief.

But that infamous devilish glare? Still there. Scarier, even. And somehow … also more broken.

Sky lets out a dramatic sigh and swallows the bite she was holding, then tips her chin up to glare back at him — because of course she does. This girl doesn’t fear death — she keeps it as a pet.

I’m starting to think she might be the only girl on Earth who can actually handle a devil like him. Maybe the only person, period.

“And I told YOU — you are not my boss,” she snaps back. “I’m frickin hungry. And if my stiff-ass body has to lie horizontally on a bed for another minute, it’s going to fossilize. And then you can really panic.” They stare each other down like prizefighters. The entire kitchen freezes. Even the stew stops bubbling, like it knows better than to interrupt.

I hold my breath — and thank every higher power that he’s not the twin I’m destined to marry. I swear my intestines shrivel just imagining it. Hell, I’d be a nervous, constipated mess by our second anniversary, living off chamomile tea and prayer, with a chronic prescription for fiber supplements.

“There are literally tens of people you can order around to bring you food,” Jackson growls, sweeping a hand through the room.

Sky blinks at him, as if he’s glitching or has a personality disorder. “Accent on PEOPLE, Snookums. They’re not slaves.” And she definitely drops the pet name just to piss him off and watch his eye twitch.

“Or your little minions.”

He blinks at her, then at the kitchen, as if the concept that the workers are actually breathing human beings is brand-new information he’s processing in real time. The kitchen staff stares back, wide-eyed, frozen, flour-dusted witnesses to whatever this is.

Aunt Rosa slowly puts down her rolling pin. Someone crosses themselves in the corner. A girl near the sink whispers, “Alguém vai morrer (Portuguese = Someone will die),” and the others frantically shush her.

“Feed her so she can get back in bed,” Jackson barks, though his voice has that edge — the one that sounds less like anger and more like abject terror disguised as anger. He points at Rosa but glares at everyone, like the entire kitchen has personally wounded him.

Then he swings to Mathias, who protracts his chewing. “If she tries anything, tie her up. I mean it. She can’t be seen.”

Mathias nods like a hostage agreeing to demands.

And just like that, Jackson storms out — boots pounding the floorboards — muttering curses in two languages and probably inventing a third — leaving a trail of outrage and testosterone in his wake.

Sky tears off another piece of bread with her teeth like nothing happened. Like Jackson didn’t just explode and storm off into the ether.

“Dramatic,” she mutters, butter on her bottom lip. She chews, calm as a monk. Swallows. Shrugs. And then realizes the entire kitchen is frozen in limbo.

“What?” she says, deadpan. “I’m hungry. And I’ll die if I have to spend another minute in bed.”

Aunt Rosa pats her shoulder softly, like blessing a very brave but very doomed child.

Mathias winks and whispers, “You terrify him.” Hell, she terrifies me, too.

Sky smirks, still chewing. “Good. His ego needs a little terrifying.”

Someone finally exhales. Might’ve been me.

The kitchen erupts — an explosion of hushed whispers, snorts, and barely-contained giggles rippling through the staff like someone dropped a spark in dry grass. Pots clatter. Someone chokes on a laugh. The air fills with the wonderful scent of olive oil and roasted garlic again, warm and alive.

“Still the same angry boy,” Rosa muses, shaking her head as she folds dough with hands that look like they’ve soothed half this house into adulthood. “Crazy, brave, stupid, and brilliant — all in one.”

“You left out demanding, bossy, and infuriating,” Sky snaps back, though her eyes glitter with something dangerously close to fondness.

“And hot,” one kitchen girl sighs, fanning herself with a dish towel.

The room dissolves into snickers again.

“Don’t forget, brooding, jealous, and psychotic,” Miguel declares as he strolls in like he owns the place. He kisses his mother on the cheek before swiping a piece of bread. Rosa smacks his hand without even looking up.

“Mom,” he protests, all wounded innocence. “I haven’t had a decent meal in days. That devil is killing me.”

His brother laughs at him, without any pity. Miguel snorts back and chomps into the bread anyway, crumbs dusting his shirt.

I soak everything in — the chaotic warmth, the laughter, the smells, the bickering that somehow feels like affection. I absorb every detail as if I can fold it inside my ribs. This kitchen feels like sunlight after too many winters. Like a home I didn’t know I was starving for. Like I somehow ended up exactly where I’m supposed to be. Not temporary. Not conditional. Just … home.

“Eat up, Ferozinha (Portuguese = little fierce one), ” Mathias says, flashing Sky a smug grin as he steals another roll. “I’m waiting to escort you back to your room like a good little girl. And I’ve got ropes, duct tape, and cable ties.”

“Sounds kinky,” Sky says with a snort, reaching for an apple like she’s entirely unbothered by the threat of restraints.

“Oh, if he can hear you now,” Miguel smirks.

“MIGUEL!” Jackson’s roar blasts down the hallway, sharp enough to vibrate the spoons.

Miguel spreads his arms like a martyr heading to his doom, muttering “Pray for me” under his breath — though the twinkle in his eyes says he actually enjoys poking the beast.

“Cause thanks to you,” he says, pointing at Sky with a handful of pie, “I now have to go tame the devil.”

“Just holler if you need help,” Sky calls, waving him off. “I know how to work his soul.” She pauses, smirks. “And all his other parts.”

Miguel throws his head back and groans. “I’ll keep that in mind!” he shouts, already jogging down the corridor, pie and bravado disappearing around the corner.

“You know, Auntie Rosa,” Sky says as she leans over the counter, practically climbing into the tray to get her hands on the cheese-and-sausage pastries. Heat still curls off them, buttery steam fogging up her lashes. “I still can’t believe that the pretty boy who follows me around … I can’t believe he’s your son.”

She moans dramatically as she licks melted cheese from her fingers. “Because he can’t cook for shit.”

“I can hear you,” Mathias smiles around a full mouth, crumbs falling like snow. He doesn’t stop eating for even a second. It’s as if everyone around here is having a secret competition to see who can devour the most food in a sitting.

“He can’t even boil an egg,” she adds with genuine offense. “Even makes bad coffee. Must be the stick up his ass.”

The laughter continues — hoots echoing off copper pots, giggles bouncing between the stone walls. Even the old wooden table rattles like it’s cackling along.

“And I’ve seen Marco too,” Sky continues mercilessly, tearing another pastry in half. “The young one. With my sister. Poor boy looks even more constipated than the other two.”

This time, I snort so hard I burp straight into my coffee. The kitchen howls louder.

“It’s because he might lose his balls if your sister gets hurt,” I say calmly, totally unfazed by the coughing fit someone has behind me. “And I’m sorry to say it, but she’s not the calmest little girl in the litter.”

“She gives you a run for your money, for sure,” Mathias gives a long, suffering sigh.

The truth is the truth.

Again, everyone folds over with laughter. They’re a rather jolly bunch, these kitchen ladies — round and warm like the dough they’re kneading.

“Yeah,” Sky sighs, propping her chin on her fist. “That’s true. Too much wild energy in that one.” She chews, thinking. “I don’t know where she gets that witty attitude.”

I think I know. “Might be a family trait,” I say, taking another sip.

She blinks. Blinks again. Then her eyes widen.

“You’re right,” she declares, pointing upward as if she’s cracked the Da Vinci Code. “She must get it from Storm. He’s equally exhausting.” Not what I meant, but sure.

She shakes her head gravely. “And he’s male … makes it worse.” Great. Another one.

“Your sister can outrun a hurricane on espresso,” Mathias flicks a crumb at her. “Hard call. Marco’s got River … but I’ve got you. Equal suffering, I’d say.”

“We’re not that bad,” Sky mumbles.

“Gmf,” he snorts, “I’m trying not to die every time you do something stupid … I genuinely don’t know which one of us brothers God hates more.”

“Miguel,” I say. “Jackson is the worst.”

“Nah,” Mathias replies, waving dismissively. “I don’t feel sorry for him. He picked that job. Signed up willingly. That’s what makes him the dumbest.”

A ripple of giggles moves through the room like wind through wheat.

“You know Diabo can cook,” Rosa says, converting the conversation again, ladling bowls of the thick stew from the cauldron with the flailing chicken feet. It’s smoky, herbal, and rich enough to crack open a cold heart. Like a hug you didn’t know you needed.

“So can Lucio,” she adds, sliding a bowl under my nose. Her tone shifts, proud and fond as she stirs. It’s strange — and a little reverent — the way she uses their second names. As if invoking saints or warning spirits.

She lifts her chin knowingly. “And you know what they say about men who know their way around a kitchen …”

I blink. No, I don’t.

Everyone goes quiet. Waiting. Grinning. Rosa’s eyes sparkle like she’s about to hand out gossip wrapped in gold foil.

She clucks her tongue. “They know how to HANDLE a woman.”

She pats Sky’s shoulder. “And you, menina (Portuguese = girl), need handling.”

Sky scoffs, grabbing another pastry. “Please. Anyone trying to handle me better bring backup.”

She takes a bite, then adds around it — “Because I don’t do tame.”

Mathias mumbles, “That’s for sure.” The girls chuckle. Rosa nearly drops her ladle.

“You’re lucky,” Rosa says as she sets a steaming bowl of stew in front of Sky, the rich aroma swirling up like a warm, comforting blanket. “Most people don’t get second chances. Not from death. Not from men like Jackson either.” Her voice is stern, almost accusing.

Even the girls quiet down.

Sky doesn’t meet her eyes, but I catch the subtle clench of her jaw — a silent battle waging beneath the surface. What’s behind that? Regret? Fear? I want to ask, but the weight in the room tells me I won’t get an answer.

I lift a spoonful, the stew’s hearty warmth spreading through me like a balm. It’s thick and savory, with tender chunks of meat swimming in a broth that tastes like home and forgiveness. I can’t help but moan softly in pleasure, and Rosa beams like I just gave her a five-star Yelp review in orgasmic tones.

“Okay,” I say mid-bite, “this stew is insane.”

“Secret recipe,” Rosa replies. “Passed down by brujas who stole men’s hearts and made them beg for more.” There’s a playful lilt in her voice, as if daring the kitchen’s ghosts to prove her wrong.

I grin, savoring another spoonful. Then, I glance over at Sky. “So … now what?”

“With?”

“Everything. Us. You. That.” I motion vaguely toward the doorway Jackson stormed out of.

Sky shrugs, a slow, uncertain motion. “I don’t know. It’s unfamiliar. I’ve never had … this many feelings. I mean, I know I’m weird. And I know he is broken. But for some twisted reason, I feel better being weird near him than trying to be normal anywhere else.”

Her honesty settles over us, heavy but real. And damn if it doesn’t make sense.

I hate that I get it.

“That poor boy has always been like a haunted house,” Rosa murmurs.

Sky finally looks at her. “He might be a haunted house. But I think I want to live there.”

Rosa crosses herself dramatically. “Ó, meu Deus (Portuguese = O’ my God).”

“Don’t worry,” Sky says with a cheeky smile. “I’m bringing sage.”

The room erupts in laughter, the kind that shakes out the tension and stitches everyone a little closer.

“Eh, Aunt Rosa,” Sky says sweetly, batting her lashes like she’s trying to hypnotize a snake. “You know the boys since birth … right?”

“Yeah.” Rosa waves a hand, removing the chicken guts like she’s talking about the weather. “Miranda — bless her soul — hired me right after her wedding. Wonderful woman. Did her best …” Her eyes scan the kitchen, and I see them blurring, burying the past.

“Eh … I need to check on the chicken stock.” She clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Oh, Auntie Rosa —” Sky purrs like a villain in a soap opera, “— we’re going to have a very long conversation soon. I have so many questions about the devil.” Her gaze sharpens like she’s about to throw a knife. “I just hope you’re more cooperative THAN YOUR BLOODY SON,” she hollers, turning her head so the words carry right across the room.

A round of muffled laughter bursts from Mathias’ chest. Rosa snorts but says nothing.

“Make sure to invite me,” I chime in, taking the chance. “Maybe I’ll get instructions on how to reprogram my robot. He’s emotionally unavailable.”

“Hah, girlfriend,” Sky grunts with a scowl, whipping the butter knife at me as if she’s flicking a magic wand, “They all are — comes with the testicles.”

I blink at her like she’s speaking in tongues.

Then I start laughing. One of those belly-born cackles that starts deep inside your stomach — usually right in the middle of a church service — and you’re not sure what exactly is so funny, but you just can’t stop. The kind that always ends in tears, a weird hiccup, or — heaven forbid — a fart.

Some of the staff start laughing at me … definitely not with me. My laughter fades into some hiccup snickers. I focus on Sky’s face.

But when I see her confused, vaguely alarmed expression — it sets me off again.

This time, Rosa joins in, chuckling like she’s been waiting years for this moment. Even Sky cracks a grin and shakes her head. Eventually, I wipe my eyes, breathless. “Wow,” I gasp. “That was medicinal.”

“Yeah,” Rosa chirps, then she purses her lips like she’s about to drop wisdom — “I can sum up their problems in one word — Alexander.”

A few hisses and swears fly around the kitchen like popcorn. Clearly, Alexander wasn’t anybody’s favorite.

“That man broke those boys,” she sneers. “They all walked away with scars.”

“Lucio,” she adds, and I sit up straight. She pauses, then leans in a little, voice softer. “Well, he’s got some guilt gnawing at him. Maybe a phobia or two tangled up in there.”

“But the dark twin? Oh, Alexander hated him most. He tried to break that boy into pieces. And when he didn’t succeed … he tried to drive him mad.” She blinks as if trying to force back some tears.

“You’ll need a spiritual exorcism and possibly a therapist with nerves of steel to get through to him.”

She eyes Sky, eyebrows raised. “You sure you can handle that?”

Sky leans forward, fierce and unyielding, eyes flashing gold like a lioness ready to pounce. “My mama doesn’t raise cowards.” I can’t help but smile.

“Well, good. Because to find the gem in that boy, you’re going to have to dig through a million layers of trauma, drama, and fucked up shit.” Sky’s face twitches, shocked by either her language or her words.

“A million?” she says dryly. “Cool. Then I’m like a quarter of the way there.” Rosa smiles dearly as if she approves.

Hopefully, I’m somewhere near the glittery middle of my robot.

Just then, a balding man lumbers into the doorway, head down, flipping through a few sheets of paper as if they’re the only things keeping him alive.

“Eh, Rosa?” he mutters. “Someone from the police came. Diabo wants —”

“Barry! Manners.” Rosa’s voice bursts out, but soft, like she’s scolding a stubborn child. He jerks his head up, startled as if he got tasered. His eyes flick to me and Sky.

“Ah,” he says, swallowing hard, voice dropping an octave as if trying to seduce a loaf of bread. “Sorry, girls, didn’t see you. Sky, dear, welcome home.”

“N o w … w h a t … m u s t … I … d o?” Rosa grins like she’s in a badly dubbed telenovela, her eyes widening in cartoonish suspicion.

Barry looks like a man who’s been slowly dragged through every season of life. He has that haunted, burnt-out look some of the boys sometimes wear — the kind that says I’ve-seen-too-much-and-none-of-it-was-cute.

“Uh … coffee. Nine cups. For the terrace.” He nods, then disappears like a badly written subplot.

Sky shoots up. “Come on, I want to hear what the police have to say.”

Mathias blocks her way like a hired goon. He swings his index finger in front of her nose.

“You can’t go out. You’re dead, remember?”

She sinks back onto the bench with the enthusiasm of a melting candle. “Ugh. Being dead sucks.”

There are footsteps behind me in the hallway — quick, uneven ones, like someone who hasn’t quite decided whether they’re walking or storming.

River appears first, hair in a chaotic ponytail that looks like it lost a fight with a pillow, mismatched socks shoved halfway into the obnoxiously pink combat boots she scored from the boutique. She looks like a fairy who raided a thrift store and won.

Behind her, Mel shuffles in — glowing and exhausted all at once. She’s wearing one of Damion’s gigantic shirts over stretched-to-their-limit leggings, and somehow she still looks like a sad, pregnant beauty on a path of determination. Her eyes sweep the room as if she’s reading everyone’s emotional temperature.

Guess she’s finished peeing.

“Okay,” she announces, voice gravelly with grief and fatigue. “Who made Jackson swear so loud the baby kicked?”

Sky raises her hand like she’s volunteering for detention.

“Of course,” Mel sighs, rubbing her temple. “And you’re working on his nerves, why?”

“Because I can,” Sky sniggers. “And because I am hungry.”

Mel inspects the spread on the table, nostrils flaring at the smell of fresh stew and toasted nuts. She licks her lips.

“I can understand that,” she says, “Hunger is no laughing matter.”

River leans her hip against the counter, eyeing Sky with the kind of admiration only a little sister can master — equal parts awe and concern. Then she turns to Rosa, narrowing her eyes with mock suspicion.

“So what … we’re just like … feeding her now?” She plucks a strawberry from her pocket as if it grew there. “Like a stray? After all the emotional trauma she’s put us through?”

“Aw,” Sky says, a crooked smile on her face. “You’re such a peach.”

River shrugs. “You still look like poop.”

Sky lifts her chin with regal defiance. “You still look like you bite.”

River sticks out her tongue and hops onto the bench, snagging half of Sky’s roll like it’s communal property and dunks it into Sky’s stew. She swallows and licks her fingers. Sky glares but doesn’t object.

Watching them, I realize their sisterly rhythm is nothing like mine and Leyla’s — different jokes, different silences, a different brand of crazy altogether.

But underneath it all, the bond is the same. Steady. Loyal. Unshakable.

“Hell, I missed this,” Sky snubs, hugging her sister.

“I’m glad you’re still alive,” River beams, soft for once. And I recognize it instantly — the quiet terror of nearly losing someone, the louder relief of getting them back. It echoes my own bond with Leyla perfectly.

“Me too, Gremlin,” Sky whispers, nudging her head against River’s.

“And I’m glad Jackson didn’t strangle you.”

“Oh, he might still try,” Sky says cheerfully — as if the possibility excites her.

Mel groans deeply, the sound of a woman physically done with everything. “I’m too pregnant for this conversation.” She lowers herself onto the bench beside me as if she’s in pain. “I came for food. Everything hurts. My ribs, my back, my vagina.”

River’s eyes widen, and she lifts a finger.

“Don’t even ask …” Mel wails before the girl can open her mouth.

“I can’t not ask.” The entire kitchen leans forward, waiting.

“Here.” Aunt Rosa swoops in like a guardian angel of boundaries. She sets steaming bowls in front of Mel and River. “Eat,” she commands, rescuing Mel from her own oversharing.

Mel stares at River through the steam rising from her stew. “Don’t get pregnant, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Don’t worry,” she mutters while slurping up some broth. “I’m never falling in love.”

Sky raises a brow. “Sure, sweetie.”

River shoots her sister a look. “I’m serious. Love sucks. I think I’m going to die alone with a bunch of frogs. Or maybe pigeons. Or one really smart raccoon.”

Mel chuckles and rubs her belly. “Yeah, to me right now that actually tracks.”