Chapter 115: _Four Emotionally Constipated Men And One Hybrid
Celeste’s POV
*****
Montecito, 4:10 pm
"Now..." Luther belched, talking with a full mouth. "... This... Is fantastic. Gods, Atlas."
Atlas merely grinned from where he sat, raising a glass of wine. "Glad you enjoy it."
His eyes then flicked to me, making my cheeks burn. I was halfway done with a chicken wing, some sauce staining my lips.
"Still no complaints, Celeste?" Atlas asked.
I sat at one end of the table while Azrael sat at the other. Atlas sat to my left, Silas to my right and Luther beside his brother.
It was clear Azrael was giving the rest of us space and that made eating feel like I was seconds away from experiencing World War III in real time.
"Of course, not." I beamed at Atlas, dropping what was left of the wing on my plate. "As I said before, it’s all delicious. I —"
"Here," Atlas passed a bowl of fruit salad. "Try this. I’m sure you’ll like it too."
Hesitant at first, I eventually grabbed a spoon. One scoop of the salad was enough to make my taste buds feel like they were melting in an exhilarating mix of sweetness and sourness.
"Mmhm." I placed a hand over my mouth, moaning despite myself. "It’s... Good. Is that syrup? Milk?"
All Atlas did was grin wider as he set the bowl directly in front of me. "I believe you’ve heard the phrase: ’a magician never tells his secrets’."
Luther scoffed, finally swallowing everything in his mouth. "It’s just a freaking salad."
"You make yours then, Alpha."
"I—"
"I can see where this is headed." I raised a finger, gesturing at both of them. "And I don’t like it. Come on, guys. Isn’t it nice that we’re all eating together? No drama. No need to overcompensate... Just existing with each other."
Silence.
Luther backed down, shrugging as he went back to eating his chicken.
Suddenly, Silas placed a spoonful of chocolate pie in front of my mouth. "You want to try this?"
I blinked at the spoon.
Silas didn’t smile playfully as Luther would have. Nor did he tease like Atlas.
He just looked at me softly. Like the act meant something.
Heat crept up my neck.
"Silas..." I muttered, glancing briefly around the table.
Luther rolled his eyes dramatically. Atlas leaned back, watching.
And Azrael—
He didn’t look at all.
He was cutting into his food with mechanical precision, gaze fixed on his plate.
I opened my mouth anyway.
The chocolate pie melted instantly on my tongue. It was rich but not overly sweet. My lashes fluttered before I could stop them.
"Gods," I breathed. "Atlas, you’re unfair."
Atlas raised an amused brow. "Why?"
"You cook like this and expect us to ever leave?"
A flicker passed through his golden eyes, his smirk shifting into something sharper. "I don’t."
Luther made a choking sound. "Oh, for— can we not flirt over pastry?"
"I’m not flirting," Atlas said calmly.
"You absolutely are."
Silas withdrew the spoon slowly, wiping it clean with his thumb before placing it down. Then his knee brushed mine under the table.
Not accidental in the slightest.
The bond pulsed between us, alive and warm.
I swallowed.
"This is nice," I said again, quieter this time. Maybe more to myself than to them. "It’s... peaceful."
The word lingered.
Peaceful.
A dangerous hope.
Azrael’s fork stilled just then.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible.
But I felt it.
He finally looked up, his face angling as he peered through his sunglasses.
His lips curved... But not into a smile. It was something slightly colder.
"Is that what this is?" He asked mildly.
The table cooled by several degrees.
Luther leaned back in his chair. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
Azrael dabbed his mouth with a napkin unhurriedly. "It means," he said evenly, "this feels less like peace and more like a performance."
Silence.
My stomach dropped.
"A performance?" Atlas echoed.
"Yes." Azrael’s gaze drifted between them. "Everyone is behaving. Playing domestic. Pretending the bonds aren’t frayed. Pretending we don’t resent one another."
"That’s not—" I started but then he looked back at me. Sharply.
And gods help me, there was no cruelty in his expression.
Just exhaustion.
"You asked for no drama," he continued softly. "But drama does not disappear simply because we decide to chew quietly."
Luther scoffed. "So what? You’d prefer we fight over brunch?"
"I’d prefer honesty."
The bond pulsed again.
Heavier this time.
Silas shifted beside me. "And what honesty are you offering, Azrael?"
There it was.
The edge.
Azrael’s gaze flicked to him. "The kind that doesn’t involve feeding her desserts to stake a claim."
Silas’s jaw tightened. "It wasn’t about that at all, Azrael."
"Everything is about that," Azrael replied.
My heart began pounding as the pressure in the room tripled within seconds.
"Stop," I whispered.
But they weren’t looking at me anymore.
Luther leaned forward, elbows on the table as he glared at Azrael. "You’re projecting."
The latter arched a brow. "Am I?"
"Yes," Luther snapped. "You isolate yourself, act like you’re above this, then criticise when the rest of us try to make something work."
When Atlas spoke, his voice was quieter. "He has a point though."
Luther turned. "You’re agreeing with him?"
"I’m saying," Atlas clarified, "we are pretending. At least partially."
I felt like the floor had tilted.
"I wasn’t pretending," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "I meant it. I do want this to work."
All heads finally swung to me.
Azrael’s expression softened beneath the glasses for a fraction of a second. "I know you do."
"Then why say all that?" I demanded.
"Because wanting something does not make it real, little miss."
The words landed heavy as the bonds pulsed again — but this time, it hurt.
A sharp ache throbbed in my chest, making me grit my teeth.
Silas sucked in a breath, whipping his head to me. "Did you feel that?"
"Yes," Atlas murmured.
Luther cursed under his breath.
Azrael spoke cautiously now. "Celeste."
Too late.
The ache twisted into something else.
Heat.
My pulse roared like war drums in my ears. The air felt too thick.
Then the glasses on the table began to tremble.
"Celeste," Silas said more firmly, reaching for my hand.
I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t.
But the chandelier above us flickered erratically.
Luther stood, his chair scraping against the marble floor. "Okay. Okay. Everyone breathe."
Azrael was already on his feet.
Not toward any of the others.
Toward me.
"Look at me," he said, voice steady and commanding.
"I am," I shot back, but the words cracked.
The bond felt like it was stretching —pulling in four directions at once.
Too many emotions.
Jealousy. Frustration. Fear. Desire. Resentment.
All tangled.
"I can’t—" I gasped when a plate shattered.
It exploded against the wall without anyone touching it.
A deafening silence followed.
My breathing sounded too loud.
Luther stared at the broken ceramic. "Well..."
Atlas heaved, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That’s new."
Silas gripped my shoulders gently. "Celeste. Focus on me."
Meanwhile, Azrael was still in front of me, close enough that I could feel the cold radiating from his skin.
"You’re absorbing us," he said quietly. "That’s what’s happening."
I blinked. "What?"
"Our emotions," he continued. "You’re not just feeling the bonds. You’re amplifying them. Taking in our emotions—which in turn affects your magic."
Atlas exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair as the last tremor left the chandelier.
"That explains a lot," he muttered. Then louder, "We can’t keep doing this."
Luther frowned. "Doing what? Existing?"
"No," Atlas said, golden eyes sharp now. "Bottling everything up. Snapping at each other in fragments. Pretending tension isn’t there and then acting surprised when it spills into her."
His gaze flicked to me. "If we don’t talk about how we feel—properly—it’ll keep overwhelming her through the bond."
Silas nodded once. "He’s right."
Luther dragged a hand down his face. "So what? Should we schedule it? ’Four emotionally constipated men and one hybrid walk into a room’?"
"A discussion," Atlas corrected. "A real one."
Luther snorted. "Ah. So a therapy session."
Despite everything, a breath of weak laughter left me.
But it faded quickly.
Because I was staring at my hands.
They looked normal. Harmless.
Yet moments ago, they’d shattered porcelain without a touch.
What if next time it wasn’t porcelain?
What if it was—
My magic hummed faintly under my skin. Restless.
Azrael must’ve noticed where my thoughts were heading because his voice softened. "You are not a weapon waiting to misfire."
Easy for him to say.
I flexed my fingers anyway.
The room was quiet now. For gods know how long.
Atlas leaned back slightly. "We’ll talk. We’ll let it out. No sarcasm. No posturing. Or this will keep happening."
Luther groaned. "Gods help us."
Silas squeezed my shoulder again as I looked at all of them. At the tension.
At the care buried beneath it.
And something in me snapped— decisively.
"Fuck it," I muttered.
Four pairs of eyes locked onto me.
"You’re right. We should talk about our feelings." I inhaled once. "I’ll start first."
