“Rude?” Everett gawks in disbelief.
“Everybody knows there can only be one woman per friend group. Duh.” I’m totally lying, but hopefully they don’t know that.
By the looks on their faces, they totally do.
“You’re a vicious little thing, aren’t you?” Krystian’s fingers lower to absently fiddle with a few loose strands of my hair.
“I would be less vicious if I were in clothes that actually fit me.” Quickly, I try to change the conversation.
Before I can come up with something, however, Everett speaks.
“So what did you mean before? When you claimed you were a reaper?”
“Exactly what I meant.” I shrug. “I’m a reaper.”
“How do you know?” he presses.
“How do you know you’re a shifter?” I counter, then I turn towards Rafael. “How do you know you’re a blood fae?” I look at Krystian next. “Or you’re an elf?” I face Zaid. “Or you’re a wraith?”
“And you said when you’re not reaping souls, you’re kept in a prison?” Zaid asks gently.
It’s evident he’s taking over the interrogation. I don’t mind, though. Anything is better than being yelled at by Everett.
“I don’t really know what to tell you guys. I woke up in a room with no windows or doors. No way for me to escape. Sporadically, my chest will begin to ache, and I’ll be transported to a death scene. I’ll reap the soul then return to my room. I’ve never been able to communicate or touch the living world before.” A pang lights along my heart, more vicious than ever before.
I really, really don’t want to go back to that existence.
The guys exchange eloquent glances with each other.
“That’s… That’s not normal,” Zaid confesses, and I don’t know if he’s speaking to me or the others.
“No, it isn’t,” Everett agrees with a growl.
“Do we talk to Ares about this?” Krystian asks.
Ares? As in…the God of War?
“What would he know about it?” Everett scoffs. “We’d be better off talking to Hades.”
“You want to talk to the god who imprisoned Thea for who knows what reason?” Zaid deadpans, giving Everett a cold stare. “How the fuck would that help us? He’ll probably just send her away again.”
Panic rakes down my spine, and I tighten my grip on the table, my knuckles bleaching white.
“Please.” I can barely get the word out past my numb lips. “I don’t want to go back there. Please.”
Zaid’s expression softens. “You won’t.”
“But if she was locked away, then it was probably for a reason—” Everett cuts off with a pained hiss, his gaze darting to his hand.
Which now has a butter knife protruding from it.
“She won’t go back there,” Rafael tells Everett, each word soft and concise.
Violence swirls in his brown gaze—the color so dark it almost appears obsidian.
“Motherfucker.” Everett reaches for the blade.
Before he can grab it, however, the waitress returns to our table with plate after plate of food that four other staff members have to help her carry. Quickly, Everett lowers his hand so it’s out of sight.
