Ch. 45 – Don’t Mention It

The post-coital haze vanished in a single, terrifying instant. As Rhys stood over the bed, watching the golden rays of the setting sun cut through the drawn curtains, the heavy fog in his mind cleared to reveal a solitary, burning beacon: Lira.

A sudden, visceral wave of panic slammed into his chest, freezing the blood in his veins. The realization of how much time had slipped away struck him like a physical blow. The morning sun was gone; the afternoon was spent. He had left his wife alone on her one, rare day off for hours—all to indulge in a reckless, ruinous indulgence with the woman across the street.

Rhys moved with terrifying, swift speed. He snatched his clothes off the floor, pulling his pants on, buttoning his shirt with trembling fingers, and shoving his feet into his shoes. Every second spent in this room felt like a stick of dynamite ticking down to total annihilation. He didn’t look in the mirror. He didn’t smooth his messy hair. He just wanted to escape.

He turned toward the heavy double doors, his hand reaching for the brass handle, when a soft, raspy voice drifted from the silk sheets behind him.

“Rhys...?”

He froze, his fingers tightening over the cold metal.

Rhea lay stretched across the bed, her golden skin flushed and glistening under the dying amber light. She rested her cheek against a velvet pillow, her dark eyes glittering with an unhinged, intoxicated warmth, dripping with a quiet, longing love that made Rhys’s stomach churn.

“Will you... come ‘cater’ me again soon?” she purred softly, her breath catching in her throat.

Rhys felt a sharp spike of nausea. He offered no response, no backwards glance, no nod. He simply twisted the handle, pulled the door open, and slipped silently out into the quiet, carpeted hallway, shutting the door behind him with a dull, echoing thud.

He practically bolted down the hall toward the grand staircase, his heart hammering violently against his ribs like a trapped beast. Just get out, he chanted silently to himself, taking the stairs two at a time. Just get down the stairs, out the front door, and across the street.

He hit the bottom landing, his eyes locked onto the heavy oak entrance, when a shadow shifted in the adjoining hallway.

“Rhys?”

Rhys’s boots skidded to a dead stop on the polished hardwood.

Durin stepped out from the shadows of the living room, holding his worn leather cap in his large, calloused hands. His knuckles were bone white as he gripped the material, twisting it back and forth in a frantic, nervous rhythm. His broad, dwarf frame looked strangely diminished, his shoulders stooped with an agonizing weight, and a deep, pained crease marred his brow.

He looked up at Rhys, his earthy brown eyes filled with an overwhelming, desperate worry.

“Is... is everything alright with Rhea?” Durin asked, his deep voice trembling slightly. “How is she?”

Rhys’s heart sank straight into his gut, hitting a floor that no longer existed. He stopped dead, his posture going utterly rigid. He couldn’t even bring himself to meet the dwarf’s gaze. He kept his eyes locked firmly on Durin’s white-knuckled hands, unable to face the sheer, honest pain radiating from the man.

Just a short month ago, Rhys would have proudly, easily called Durin a good friend. They were neighbors, men who respected each other, who shared quiet beers on sunny back patios. But standing here now, with the lingering scent of Rhea’s bedroom clinging to his skin, Rhys felt like no friend to this man. He felt like a disease. A thief. An enemy who had invaded his home, breached his sanctuary, and shattered his life from the inside out.

A heavy, suffocating silence hung between them, thick enough to choke on.

Then, with a now-habitual, terrifying grace, Rhys forced his expression to smooth over. He pulled the mask of suburban normalcy tight against his face and lied through his teeth.

He spun a cold, calculated tale—a narrative designed to give the poor, desperate husband just enough logic to hold onto.

“She’s resting now, Durin,” Rhys said, forcing his voice to sound remarkably steady, smooth, and full of professional reassurance. “We... we talked, and luckily, I’ve had some experience with what was really bothering her. It wasn’t a normal illness or a fever.”

Durin blinked, his brow furrowing deeper. “It... it wasn’t?”

“No,” Rhys continued, stepping forward, using his height and calm demeanor to dominate the interaction. “It was a severe, localized energy blockage—something common in elemental Genasi when their internal magic gets misaligned. I used an old, high-pressure acupuncture technique I learned during my traveling days. It’s intense, but it forces the trapped elemental heat out of the body’s pressure points. The worst of it is over. She’s completely spent, but she’s going to recover quickly now.”

Durin stood silent for a long, agonizing moment. He took in the lie like a bitter, poisonous medicine, his jaw working as he tried desperately to swallow it. He wanted to believe it. He needed to believe it.

Then, Durin’s eyes narrowed slightly, a darker, heavier shadow crossing his broad face.

“I... I heard noises, Rhys,” Durin murmured, his voice dropping into a low, raspy pitch. He looked down at his boots, a deep, painful flush creeping into his cheeks. “The house... the stone pillars down here, they conduct sound. I heard... cries. Shouts. Crying out in pain... or something else. I’ve... I’ve never heard Rhea sound like that in all the years we’ve been married.”

The air left Rhys’s lungs in a sudden, icy gasp. The world around him seemed to pause.

What the hell am I doing right now? the thought screamed inside his head, a sudden, blinding flash of absolute self-loathing ripping through his soul. Look at him. Look at what I’m doing to this man.

He was standing in his neighbor’s grand foyer, covering up the acoustic evidence of his own scandalous encounter with the man’s wife.

Suppressing the rising storm of horror inside him, Rhys put on a warm, placating, almost apologetic smile. He raised a hand in a gentle, reassuring gesture.

“I’m so sorry, Durin,” Rhys said softly, his voice dripping with smooth, fabricated sympathy. “I should have warned you before I went upstairs. That specific pressure-point release can cause extreme, involuntary vocal reactions as the raw tension leaves the body. It sounds distressing, I know, and I truly apologize for causing you any alarm down here. But I assure you, it was just the physical tension leaving her system.”

Durin stared at Rhys, searching his face for any sign of deceit. Rhys’s mask was absolute—impenetrable, cool, and undeniably convincing.

Slowly, agonizingly, the tension in Durin’s broad shoulders began to drain away. He let out a long, heavy exhale, looking like a man who was actively forcing himself to accept a reality that kept him sane.

“I... I see,” Durin rasped softly, nodding his head once, twice, trying to convince his own aching heart.

Rhys took a step toward the front door, eager to break the crushing weight of the interaction. “I should get back to Lira now. Let Rhea sleep for a few hours. She’ll be back to herself soon.”

As Rhys reached for the heavy oak handle and pulled the front door open, a tiny, barely audible whisper reached his ears from behind.

“...Thank you, Rhys.”

It was so quiet, so filled with raw, humble gratitude, that Rhys almost missed it entirely.

Rhys stopped dead on the threshold. A sharp, physical pain stabbed through his chest, cold and agonizing. He slowly turned his head back, looking over his shoulder at the stout dwarf standing alone in the grand hallway.

“Please, Durin...” Rhys rasped out, his voice dropping low, heavy with a guilt he couldn’t speak aloud. “...don’t mention it.”

Rhys stepped out onto the porch, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The cool evening air hit his face, but it offered no relief. The street stretched out before him, a simple fifty-yard expanse of smooth black asphalt separating Durin’s house from his own. Yet as Rhys stepped off the curb, every single footfall felt like a miles-long trek through deep, suffocating mud. His legs felt heavy as lead, his chest tight, his soul utterly drained.

He tried desperately to pull himself together, running a hand through his messy hair and taking deep, steadying breaths of the fresh twilight air.

Leave it behind, he told himself frantically as he approached his own front walkway. It’s over. You made her promise. Rhea is done. Ariadne is gone. Vespera is silent. You survived the day. Just go inside, hug your wife, and leave this nightmare buried.

He reached his front porch, placed his hand on the brass doorknob, and pushed the door open, stepping into the warm, familiar light of his home.

“Honey! You’re back!”

Lira’s sweet, melodious voice chimed instantly from the living room. She rounded the corner, wearing a cozy oversized sweater, her face lighting up with that pure, radiant beam that always made Rhys’s heart melt.

“How is Rhea doing?” Lira asked softly, stepping up to him and reaching out to adjust his collar. “Is she going to be okay?”

Rhys forced a gentle smile, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck for a brief, desperate second, letting her clean, comforting scent ground his spiraling mind. “Yeah,” he murmured into her skin. “She’s... she’s going to be fine. Just needed some... rest.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Lira beamed, leaning back and taking his hand. “Come on in, sweetie! We have company!”

Rhys’s heart instantly dropped into a cold, dark abyss. “Company...?”

He allowed Lira to pull him into the spacious, brightly lit living room—and froze dead in his tracks.

Sitting comfortably on the plush leather couches, sipping iced drinks and engaged in easy, low-toned conversation, were his two good friends: Darius and Shula.

Rhys’s mind reeled, his breath catching painfully in his throat as the serene domestic scene vanished under a wave of sudden, suffocating horror.

The bizarre, boundary-crossing nightmare from two nights ago came rushing back into his mind with violent clarity. The unsettling dinner party. The hidden motives. The strange, volatile tension brewing between them.

And sitting right there on the edge of the cushions, looking back at him with dark, calculating eyes, was the absolute epicenter of that second storm: Shula.