I turn a deaf ear to Danick's curses. There's no point in listening to the bullshit coming out of his mouth, anyway. It's always the same thing with him: vulgar words of hatred that make no sense whatsoever.
His vocabulary is kinda limited, too. Maybe he should read more.
Oh, my bad, that would require using his brain, and that's an organ he's missing since birth.
Alright, to be fair, I still prefer handling that brainless fool to the iceberg who serves as my father. At least, one of them has emotions, making his motives easier to comprehend, while the other… He might as well be a statue, and I wouldn't see the difference.
And said statue is standing there, beside Melissa's coffin, wearing a neat three pieces, his long hair combed, and his beard trimmed. Like always, the guy's holding his back so straight that it looks like he has a rod up his ass.
Hm, sorry, Sir? What the hell are you doing here…?
Shit, even after rubbing my eyes, my father is still there. Dafuq, man!
Not even in my wildest dreams would I have ever imagined my father would come to Melissa's funeral, not with his packed schedule and heartless personality. That jerk couldn't care less if one of his hunters dies. Countless newbies are buried every year, and for as long as I can remember, this block of ice has never once attended any of these poor souls' burials.
So, how come he's here? Can someone enlighten me, please? 'Cause I feel like my brain is about to go pouf.
Sadly, no one gives me an explanation, and when my gaze meets my father's piercing eyes, I gotta resist the desire to veer on my heels and get the fuck away. I can't leave now. Melissa won't be buried twice. Today is my only chance to bid her farewell in due form, and that's the least I can do for a friend I'll never see again.
Still, my steps falter.
Something akin to anger twists my bowels as I stare at the man who didn't even bother to attend his own son's wedding. He didn't send me off, either, too busy to take the time to accompany me to the car.
Even though that would have taken him less than five minutes.
In a way, it's somehow baffling that he didn't come to the wedding, even for him, due to the political aspect of my marriage to Jordan. Although at the same time, it's not. Miria is the one among the two who attends events, as the figurehead of the clan, while my father is the one working in the shadows, taking care of running the clan and quelling the more urgent requests.
Not everyone in the clan can handle high-ranked otherworldly beings, after all. My father is one of the few who can go toe-to-toe with beings like Oliver and James.
The day of my wedding, there had been such a request, and my father was dispatched.
There's one thing I must concede: my father doesn't hide behind a desk like Miria or Danick. He's always the first to step up when needed, regardless of the dangers ahead. That also means the one who's been running the household in his absence is Miria, the second wife who became the main wife after my mother's death.
At the time, the wrench took the opportunity to demand to be regarded as the stepmother of the official heirs, aka Bryan and me, and be treated as such.
Power grab in all of its glory, yep.
But, well, no one likes to be seen as a backup plan. That's what she and her children are, and that has never settled well with her inflated ego.
Political polygamy is not the best practice, but it's commonplace in the hunter world, and it's kinda surprising my father only had two wives, considering his duty as the clan head is also to procreate strong descendants, or whatever bullshit the elders say.
Not gonna complain, though.
I've got enough of three half-siblings and a devil stepmother. No need to add a third or fourth one to the lot, thank you.
A gentle pat on my hand, and I take a deep breath. Jordan is always quick to bring me back down to Earth whenever I lose it.
I lift my eyes to meet his. Again, he's looking at me with worry. He's going to get a stomach ulcer by the end of the day if this goes on. Pal, relax. I'm fine. It's just always hard not to get angry when I see my father's goddamn impassive face.
"Scott?"
My father's cold voice makes me gnash my teeth, but I force a smile out. Getting annoyed at him is a useless endeavor. A waste of energy, too, so I push the feelings aside.
"Yes, that's me."
My father narrows his eyes, and after a few seconds, shifts his attention to Jordan. My father is taller than me, but still half a head shorter than my husband. It doesn't matter to him, though, and he unceremoniously sizes Jordan up, scrutinizing him with the gaze of an experienced hunter.
I wonder if he's noticed something is amiss. As I said, unlike Miria and most of the cowards who attended the wedding, my father goes on dangerous hunts all the time, and he's developed the instinct that goes with decades of deadly encounters.
He has met all kinds of otherworldly beings over the years, so I wouldn't be all that surprised if he realized Jordan wasn't exactly your run-of-the-mill lesser demon.
Even if Jordan is hiding his aura, he's still a patriarch at the end of the day, and he can't change the essence of what he truly is.
So, people with especially keen instincts might notice something isn't quite right.
My heart drums at my temples.
Why is my father staying quiet?
I know he's closer to a block of ice than a human, but he was speaking just fine a moment ago! Come on, open that mouth and say something—
"As for you, I presume you are my son's husband?"
Well, no shit, Sherlock.
"Yes." Jordan nods politely, offering his free hand for a handshake. "Nice to meet you, Sir."
My father eyes Jordan's hand and ever so slowly shakes it.
"Damien Banker."
Then, he quickly releases his grip and gestures toward Caroline, my half-sister. She's standing beside him with a straight back and a deadpan face that mirrors our father's.
Yeah, she's his spitting image. Among all of his kids, she's the one who looks the most like him, both physically and mentally, and that's despite being the youngest—she's barely fifteen and already goes on hunts with our father, just to say.
Like Melissa, she's talented, a promising hunter who people are showering with endless praise.
Being the clan head's daughter also helps gather the goodwill of the wolves in sheep's clothing. Talent and status? Of course, the hyenas are salivating over her, and Miria loves how it elevates her own status as the birth mother. She never misses the opportunity to remind everyone that she's the one who brought Caroline into this world.
And not the main wife.
The main wife only gave birth to defective twins, or so she says.
Anyway, the funny thing is, Caroline is down-to-earth, her two feet rooted on the ground, when she's the one who should be allowed to prance around with the big head, not her siblings or her mother.
"—Say hi, Caroline."
"Hello." The teenager looks at us with dead-fish-like eyes. Girl, you're as creepy as ever. "Caroline Banker. Nice to meet you."
From the corner of my eye, I can see Jordan's smile soften as he takes Caroline's hand to shake it. Damn, he can wrap his fingers around it at least thrice. My half-sister is so tiny compared to him.
Or me, for all that matters.
And yet, this frail-looking girl is going on hunts all the time. Scars already litter her arms.
Her face, too, hasn't been spared.
There's a ghastly gash crossing her face, from her brow up to her jaw.
…I've never felt heartache for her before, so why the hell do I right now? What's wrong with me—ah, never mind, I guess I know why.
I didn't have to care for children before. No, only my little person mattered when I lived in that hellhole. Not dying was my primary goal back then.
But nowadays, I have two kids under my wings. No, wait, three, if I count Jonathan in the lot. Who cares if he's older than me by over a millennium? Elois and Ellena are older by a few decades, too, and they still call me Dad.
For an instant, I can't help but glare at my father. What kind of asshole are you to bring your underage daughter on the battlefield, huh?
His answer? Well, a blank face.