Japeth's smile wasn't cruel, nor smug, nor even sarcastic. It was soft, almost tender, the sort of expression one might expect from a weary farmer greeting his son after a long day in the fields, or a proud grandfather catching a glimpse of the family resemblance.
It sat ill upon his face, like a saint's mask strapped over the snout of a jackal, but the expression was unmistakably genuine. He looked at me not as a rival, not as prey, not even as a mistake he meant to rectify—he looked at me as though I belonged to him. As though I were his.
And that, dear saints above, was intolerable.
"My boy," Japeth said warmly, spreading his arms in welcome, the haze curling around his shoulders like obedient serpents. "Come here, give your old Pops a hug."
Pops.
