Chapter 125
My grandmother’s study is impossibly pristine, with whitewashed walls and soft pastel accents that make it feel like it’s been plucked straight from a magazine spread.
Sunlight filters in through gauzy curtains, highlighting every perfectly placed flower arrangement and polished silver tray. It smells faintly of lavender and lemon, clean but lived-in, almost comforting. It’s obvious that she spends a lot of time on this ship if she put so much effort into making it cozy.
And there, perched on a white linen armchair with a steaming teacup in his massive hands, is Wake. I stop dead in my tracks, my mind struggling to process the absurdity of it.
Wake. Drinking tea.
The man who once ripped a door clean off its hinges is sitting like some posh aristocrat in a room that looks allergic to dirt, sipping from a dainty porcelain cup. From the faint scowl on his face, though, it’s not exactly his favorite human experience.
“Wake?” My voice cracks, and his eyes snap to mine. Relief floods his face, and he’s on his feet in an instant.
“Phoebe.”
I rush to him, throwing my arms around his neck as he catches me in his strong embrace. The world feels steady again, even if only for a moment.
But then the memory of what happened hits me like a slap to the face, and I pull back sharply to look him in the eye. “You shot me!”
Wake nods without hesitation or remorse. “I did, yes.”
I gape at him, completely dumbfounded. “You shot me.” My voice pitches higher with each word.
My grandmother—no, Cora—sighs from behind me, the sound heavy with resignation. “I’ll take responsibility for that.”
I whirl around, fury bubbling up. “Your people attacked us? You sent them?”
Cora doesn’t flinch, her calm demeanor maddeningly intact. “Yes, it was my people,” she admits. “When word reached me that strangers were asking for me by name—using your name—I was certain it had to be a trap set by Enigma.”
“Then why not simply ask us our intentions?” Wake growls, hdis voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Why an ambush in the dead of night?”
From the corner of the room, the hulking man with dark hair and piercing green eyes—Khale—snorts, clearly unimpressed. I glare at him, but Cora waves a hand dismissively.
“Our reports indicated an Enkian might be among you,” Cora explains. “We couldn’t afford to take that risk.”
I open my mouth to argue further, but Cora cuts me off with a gesture toward the pristine white sofa. “Please, sit. Phoebe, darling, would you like something to eat?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I snap, ignoring her offer entirely. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”
Cora exhales, her expression softening. “You may not believe me, but I wanted to protect you. And your mother.”
“Protect us?” I laugh bitterly. “You did a terrible job. It make have taken some time, but I walked right into the lion’s den and handed them an Enkian on a silver platter because I was completely unprepared for the hand I was playing into.”
“There are worse things in this world than Enigma,” Cora replies, her tone grave.
I open my mouth to argue, but Wake raises a hand, silencing me before the words can leave my lips. “Might we start again with cooler heads?” His sharp gaze flicks between me and Cora until we both nod begrudgingly.
Wake steps forward, his posture straight and regal. “Anthozoa, daughter of Electra. I am Wake, son of Dagon, Prince of the Abyssinian Deep, Mate to the Heir of the Eastern Twilight, sea of your birth.”
Cora’s lips curl into a small smile. “It has been a long time since I last parlayed with royalty, and even longer since I last heard my given name.” Her voice softens. “I acknowledge you, son of the Abyss, and welcome you as a keeper of the Twilight… for all the weight my blessing may hold.” She laughs wryly. “Please, my friends, and what family I have left, know me as Cora.”
Because you never told us your name, I think bitterly but hold my tongue.
Cora folds her hands in her lap, her composure unshakable. “I can only imagine what you’ve learned and how. It makes it difficult to know where to start, really.”
I cross my arms, refusing to sit. “How about at the beginning. We know about Felix Becker.”
The mention of the name pulls a shadow across Cora’s face. Her shoulders slump ever so slightly, and her gaze grows distant, her deep blue eyes clouded with sadness. “What he did to you was unconscionable,” I continue, my voice trembling with emotion. “If he weren’t already dead, I would—”
“Phoebe, please,” she interrupts, placing a gentle hand on mine. Her touch is warm but firm. “Until you know the full story… I won’t hear a word against your grandfather. I can’t.”
Her words knock the wind out of me, leaving me reeling. Felix Becker, the man who betrayed her, the man whose actions shaped so much of what I’ve uncovered—she’s defending him? My anger boils beneath the surface, but I bite my tongue, knowing this is just the beginning of a much larger conversation.
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