Mara doesn't like Ettore's presence, at all

The Incubus’ Feast

Mara froze when she saw him.

The old man had always been a splinter under her skin—the way his watery hazel eyes would linger too long on the swell of her J-cup tits whenever she bent to pick up a dropped napkin, the way his sausage-like fingers "accidentally" grazed her ass during family dinners while Zeno’s mother pretended not to notice. But tonight? Tonight, something was different.

"M-Mr. Pausini?" Mara’s voice cracked like thin ice. Her fingers instinctively clutched at the hem of her oversized sweater, pulling it down over the curve of her hips as if the fabric could shield her from that look—the one that made her skin prickle with goosebumps.

Ettore stood framed in the doorway, his shadow stretching too long across their new apartment’s threshold. The usual reek of cigars and cheap cologne had been replaced by something darker—a musk that coiled in the back of her throat like spoiled wine.

Zeno fidgeted beside her, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Dad and Mom are having... trouble. So he needs—"

"A place to stay," Ettore finished, his voice smoother than Mara remembered, the gravelly edge polished to a serpent’s purr. His gaze never left hers. "Just for a night or two."

A lie.

Mara felt it in her bones.

The Raven’s Resistance

She whirled on Zeno in the hallway, her nails biting into his forearm. "You knew this was our night," she hissed, the words trembling with betrayal. The bedroom behind them still smelled of lavender candles and the lingerie she’d bought just for him—black lace now stuffed hastily in a drawer.

Zeno’s eyes darted toward the living room where his father’s heavy footsteps creaked across their hardwood floors. "Mara, please—"

"He looks at me," she whispered, her throat tight. "You know he does. And now you’re letting him sleep on our couch?"

Zeno’s shoulders hunched. The cowardice was physical, a visible weight bending his spine. "He’s my dad," he pleaded, as if blood alone excused everything. "He gave me a roof for eighteen years. I can’t just—"

Mara’s rage crystallized into something colder.

Then—

A pulse.

Like a tuning fork struck against her skull, the vibration traveled down her spine, settling low in her belly.

Ettore’s voice drifted from the living room, murmuring something too low to hear.

Mara’s vision wavered.

The First Thread

"Okay," she heard herself say. The word fell from her lips like a stone into deep water. "He can stay."

Zeno’s face lit with pathetic gratitude. "Really?"

Mara blinked. Why had she agreed? The anger was still there, simmering, but... distant. Like watching a storm through thick glass.

"I love you," Zeno breathed, pressing a clumsy kiss to her forehead.

Mara’s fingers twitched at her sides.

Something’s wrong.

But the thought slipped away as she turned toward the kitchen, her hips swaying under Zeno’s adoring gaze.