I'm not sure when breathing became such hard work. Will doesn't say anything–just watches me with that steady calm that makes me feel seen and exposed all at once. My chest tightens, and I half-expect him to laugh at how rattled I am. Instead, he gently takes my left hand, holding it like it's something fragile.
Then his lips brush my ring finger. Slow. Careful. His breath warms my skin, and my knees nearly buckle. I've never reacted to anyone like this before, and the realization makes my stomach flip. I don't even know him. We've only just met. This isn't me–I don't let people in like this.
So why does it feel right? Why does it feel like I've been waiting for this exact moment without even knowing it?
And then everything tilts.
Where his mouth touched me, a faint mark flickers, like something rising to the surface of my skin. I blink convinced I'm imagining it. But the symbol sharpens and glows, a soft blue that shouldn't exist outside of a dream. Will's hand tightens around mine. His own ring finger glows too–only his light burns hotter, fierce, a green so bright it almost hurts to look at.
I want to yank my hand back, to ask him what the hell is happening. But all I do is stare, heart hammering, pretending I'm not seconds from a complete panic attack. Because if I admit I saw it… then I'll have to admit what it might mean.
And I'm not ready for that.
Like he hears the question I don't dare ask, Will's voice is low and steady.
"It's an ancient symbol for eternity," he says, his thumb brushing over my hand as if to calm me. "On Earth, mortals wear rings to show the same promise. Ours… is more permanent. Once marked, we can't harm each other. And we can't walk away."
The words settle heavy in my chest, too big to swallow. My gaze drops to where the light pulses on my skin. The shape sharpens—clearer now that I really look at it. A diamond, arrow points stretching from its top and bottom, and through its center, a sideways triangle, cutting across like it belongs and doesn't all at once.
I turn my hand slightly, studying it, feeling the warmth thrumming beneath the glow. My throat is dry, but I can't stop staring.
Then I glance at his. His mark mirror mine, except for one difference–no arrow points. Just the diamond and the crossing triangle, steady and burning green.
It hits me harder than the glow itself. We're the same, but not identical. Tied together, yet marked differently. I don't know what it means, but I feel it deep in my chest, like my life has just been rewritten.
And for the first time, I wonder if he knew this would happen.
Something in me knows he isn't lying, and that alone pisses me off. The certainty sits in my gut like a weight I can't shake. But there's something else, too–something he isn't saying. I can feel it, the way you feel a storm before it breaks.
It started the moment we shook hands, that strange pull I couldn't explain. And now this kiss–soft, deliberate, too knowing. It's not just a gesture. It's a claim.
A thought keeps pressing at the back of my mind, like a splinter I can't dig out. The "repressed memories" he mentioned… is that what this is? Is that why every part of me reacts to him like I've lived this existence before?
The idea makes my chest tight. No. No, I'm not handing over that kind of power.
I yank my hand back and shake my head hard, anger flaring to cover the unease. "Whatever this is, it's not me," I snap, even as the mark on my skin burns like it knows better.
My explosive temper is boiling up. "Who are you?" He stares into my eyes.
"Did one of my friends put you up to this? Shelby? Evan?"
Will drags both hands down his face and lets out a laugh, the kind that sounds half-exasperated, half-amused. He scrubs at his jaw, still chuckling to himself. "Unbelievable," he mutters, like he's talking to the universe more than to me. The sound is almost infectious—almost—if only my chest wasn't tight and my head wasn't spinning.
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, blurring everything, and I hate how shaky my voice sounds when I force the words out. "I need real answers, Will."
He huffs out another laugh, tilting his head at me with a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "Real answers, huh? Alright. Next time—if there is a next time, and I really hope there's not—I'll be sure to start the conversation with, oh, I don't know… 'Hey, remember me? The guy you're supposed to know but don't?' Real smooth opener, right?"
He pushes back against the tree, arms crossing, one leg propped over the other like he's settling in for a show. His gaze flicks up through the branches, grin still tugging at his mouth. "It might not win me any points, but I warned you."
My laugh comes out harsh, almost bitter. "Points? You think this is some kind of game? You drop cryptic hints, kiss me like you've known me my whole life, and then laugh when I ask what the hell is going on. If this is your version of honesty, you're terrible at it."
His grin falters, just slightly, but I catch it.
The air between us tightens until it feels like a rope pulled taut. When he steps even a fraction away, a hollow ache opens inside me, and I hate myself for noticing it.
He extends his hand, eyes glinting with mischief. "I'm Enyalius," he says with a dramatic bow of his head. "Son of Ares. Also known as the God of Wat. Try to contain your awe."
I let out a short, sharp laugh. "Right. And I'm the Queen of England. Is Evan your cousin, or was that a lie too?" My arms cross over my chest like a shield.
"Evan?" Will tilts his head, considering the grins. "Technically, yes. Very, very distant cousin. On his mother's side. The blood's so diluted it's practically flavored water compared to ours."
My brows knot. "Funny, since Evan swears you're his first cousin. Why's that?"
Will leans one shoulder against the tree, casual as if this conversation isn't tearing my sanity apart. "That would be my aunt's handiwork. She likes playing with perception. She makes people believe whatever suits her mood. Siren tricks. You might remember her from your textbooks—Aphrodite." He smirks, clearly enjoying himself.
"Oh my god," I mutter, pressing a hand to my forehead. "I've officially fallen off the wagon into the nuthouse," I mutter, as his smile softens, though the playful glint doesn't fully fade. "I wish you remembered all of this. I really do. I'm sorry you don't, Angelia."
That name pierces my heart. I stiffen, clutching tighter at my crossed arms. "Suppose I believe even half of what you're saying. Who am I then, Angela? Angelia? Which one's real? My words come out clipped and sharp, daring him to give me something solid.
He just watches me, head tilted, lips quirking like he knows the answer will only shake me more.
"You're meant to be the greatest Fate who's ever lived," Will says, like he's rehearsed it between sips of coffee and fights with gods. "Clotho—the youngest of the three—gave birth to you. She hid you and raised you in secret until you were a teen. That's when your father found out and took you back with him to keep you safe."
I blink at him, because the sentencses sound like they belong in an old storybook, not coming out fo the mouth of the guy standing under the oak tree. "Clotho?" I repeat, tasting the name. "The Fates–daughters of Chaos. The ones no ones tells what to do. They had more power than the gods." My laugh starts soft and then becomes something else, sharp and incredulous. "So let me get this straight: I'm supposed to be this all-powerful Fate, and… I can't remember it, and I can't even–what–-lift a teacup with the force of destiny?"
The sound that escapes me is a half-laugh, half-sob. It's ridiculous, which is exactly why I keep laughing, because admitting I'm scared feels worse than sounding insane. I laugh until my ribs ache, until the oak leaves blur.
His face changes while I'm still laughing. The grin I caught earlier drains away and his blue eyes lock on me–hard, steady, the kind that makes your skin tighten. He doesn't look amused. He looks… furious and worreid at the same time, like someone who wants to shake you until your head clears.
"Don't laugh," he says quietly, and for once there's no joke in his voice. The words hit me harder than any myth.
"Angelia, you had better manners as a goddess.At least then, when you laughed at something not funny, you made them feel equal. Also, laughing at someone you think you just met isn't wise. However, with our long, extensive, passionate history, I'll take that over the zombie staring you were doing earlier."
I think I might lose it. This is all so ridiculous. Why am I even still here listening to this craziness? I can no longer be a part of this fantasy he is trying to live and wants me to be a part of.
"Will," I try to contain my pent-up anger, "we never met before today, and certainly not hundreds, thousands, or however many years before either. After dating a liar for years, I don't like liars. I will not put up with some new guy in town lying to my face."
Twisting and playing with my hair around my finger, I continue to glare at him. "Your cousin also forgot to mention you may have gotten released from a mental hospital. The story you are telling me sounds absurd. Do you expect me to believe all this hullabaloo?"
I throw my hands up in the air, I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now.
"Yes, Angelia," Will says, the name falling from his lips like it belongs to me more than my own. "We've been married a long, long time. You are my everything. I—we—have this sense. A tether. When one of us is in supernatural danger, the other can feel it and can find them. That's why I'm here. I had to reach you before the Keres did."
His eyes bore into mine, wide with desperation that feels raw, unguarded. He wants me to beleive him–-needs me to.
But all I can think is: if what he's saying is true, then danger isn't coming.
It's already here.