Page 47 of Bound By Blood and Lies

I slow slightly as a frown pulls at my brow. The light that’s usually there is duller today. There’s a tightness around her eyes that doesn’t belong and a faint shadow of exhaustion sitting beneath the smile she’s trying to hold in place. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it. It’s subtle enough to pass for nothing more than a long day. But my Highly Superior Autobigraphical Memory (HSAM) has always made things like that impossible for me to miss. It’s irritating in a lot of situations, but when it comes to the people I care about, it makes it impossible for them to hide when something’s wrong.

I close the distance between us and pull her into a hug before she can say anything else. She lets out a soft laugh against my chest as my arms wrap around her and her hands automatically come up around my back.

“Well hello to you too,” she murmurs as I press a kiss to the top of her head and hold her there longer than usual.

“You okay?” I ask quietly.

“Of course I am,” she answers, but the words come out a little too bright.

I lean back just enough to look at her properly, my hands still resting on her arms as I study her face.

“Mum…” I say, the single word carrying a warning she’s heard from me a hundred times before.

She exhales a sigh. “I’m fine, Roman,” she insists, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “You worry too much.”

“I learned from the best.”

She smiles at that, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You just caught me in the middle of baking,” she says, nodding toward the counter behind her.

I glance past her shoulder and sure enough there’s a mixing bowl sitting on the island, flour dusted lightly across the marble beside it like a small explosion. A wooden spoon rests inside the bowl and thick batter clings to the sides. I step around her and walk over before she can say anything, dipping a finger straight into the mixture and scooping up a bit to taste. She makes a soft noise of protest behind me but it’s already too late.

“Roman.”

“What?”

“You’re almost twenty-two.”

“And?”

“You can’t still eat cake batter.”

“It’s quality control,” I shrug, and she swats my arm lightly with the towel in her hand.

“You can help me then if you’re so desperate to eat it.”

“My pleasure.”

Her smile settles across her face this time, the warmth of it softening the tightness I noticed earlier. The kitchen feelsexactly the way it always has. Just a mother and her son standing in the middle of a flour-dusted counter. The soft guitar of ‘Bloom by The Paper Kites’drifts from the small speaker on the windowsill.

Mum turns toward the sink and turns the tap on as she starts rinsing out measuring cups and spoons. Water splashes against the basin whilst the scent of sugar hangs in the air and mixes with the faint citrus smell of the washing up liquid. I grab the wooden spoon and start stirring. The steady scrape of the spoon against ceramic joins the gentle music and the running water as the sounds layer together into the kind of calm that only seems to exist inside this kitchen.

“How are you holding up?” she asks.

A slow breath slips out of me but I don’t answer. I just keep stirring the batter, watching the thick mixture fold slowly over itself in the bowl whilst I try to choose my words carefully. Mum doesn’t need the truth in its rawest form. She doesn’t need to hear how often my mind goes to the worst places when I think about where Fae might be. It happens more than I like to admit. The questions always creep in during the quiet moments. The uncertainty is the part that grinds at me the most. It sits deep in my chest like pressure that never quite releases as a constant reminder that she’s out there somewhere and I haven’t reached her yet.

“I’m fine,” I say eventually.

Mum glances sideways at me. The look she gives me is so familiar I could recognise it with my eyes closed.

“Roman…” and my name carries the exact same warning I used on her earlier.

I sigh under my breath whilst I keep stirring the batter, “I’ll find her.”

“I know you will,” she replies gently. “That wasn’t what I asked, sweet boy.”

The wooden spoon slips from my hand and clatters against the side of the bowl as batter splashes up the edges and the tension creeping through my chest finally catches up with me. I drag a hand down my face before I lean forward and grip the edge of the marble counter. My fingers tighten against the cool surface as I stare down at the mess we’ve made.