The kitchen stank of soap, steam, and regret. I was halfway through scrubbing the last greasy pot when it struck me like a dagger to the ribs.
"The fountain!"
The rag slipped from my hand and splashed into the suds. I froze, arms dripping, brain stuttering.
Nyx, stretched out across the counter like a loaf of midnight fur, cracked open one golden eye. "What is it now? Did you finally notice you're not cut out for manual labor?"
"No," I said, gripping the pot like it had betrayed me. "Worse. I forgot."
"Forgot what?" His tail flicked lazily, amusement already sharpening in his voice.
"Alaric."
Nyx purred. "Ah. The boy with shoes shinier than his future. You left him?"
"Not left," I said quickly. "Delayed. Strategically."
The door swung open. Freya stepped in balancing a tray of cups. She stopped mid-step when she saw my face. "What did you do?"
"Nothing." My smile was instant, flawless, untrustworthy. "Everything is under control."
