Ch. 38 – Old Flames

Right on cue, the doorbell rang. Rhys and Lira walked to the foyer together to open the door. Standing on the porch was Darius, looking dapper in a tailored casual blazer, and Shula, looking breathtakingly regal in a flowing, deep crimson silk dress that subtly mirrored the latent, smoldering heat of her Ifrit heritage. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes flickered with a faint, amber ember-light, and her golden jewelry caught the porch light effortlessly.

“Rhys! Lira!” Darius boomed with a warm, genuine laugh, stepping forward to pull Rhys into a heavy, brotherly embrace before giving Lira a brief, respectful hug. “Man, it is good to see you two! The house looks incredible!”

“Welcome back, you two,” Lira smiled warmly, stepping up to embrace Shula. “We missed you so much!”

“As did we, Astraea,” Shula replied, her voice smooth, melodic, and carrying a faint, subtle warmth like a hearth fire on a cold night. She embraced Lira, and then turned her attention to Rhys.

“Rhys,” Shula said, stepping close. She offered a gracious, elegant smile, but as her golden-amber eyes locked onto his, Rhys felt a sudden, strange prickle along the nape of his neck. There was an intensity in her gaze—a sharp, calculating focus—that hadn’t been there before. She brushed her hand against his arm in greeting, her skin radiating a gentle, furnace-like warmth that reminded him, with a sudden pang of panic, of Rhea’s Genasi heat.

“It is wonderful to see you looking so well,” she added softly.

Rhys cleared his throat, maintaining his warm, friendly host persona. “Good to see you, Shula. Come on in, let’s get some drinks.”

The four of them moved into the formal dining room, settling around the dark mahogany table. For the first hour, the evening proceeded in flawless, heartwarming fashion. They poured aged red wine, served the lavish dinner, and caught up on everything that had happened over the past few months. Darius regaled them with stories of high-stakes international hero missions, while Lira shared updates on her league duties. Rhys laughed, drank, and enjoyed the easy, familiar camaraderie.

However, as the meal wound down and the wine glasses were refilled, Rhys began to notice an unsettling pattern.

Shula kept glancing at him. It wasn’t the casual, friendly eye contact of a dinner guest; it was a persistent, heavy, almost probing gaze. Every time Rhys looked up from his plate, he would catch her amber eyes already fixed on him, studying his posture, his hands, his facial expressions. Rhys tried to brush it off, telling himself he was just paranoid, hyper-vigilant, and overly jumpy because of the trauma of the past few days. You’re just reading too much into it, he told himself mentally. She’s an old friend.

Then, as the conversation paused, Shula casually shifted the topic.

“You know...” Shula began, her melodic voice drawing everyone’s attention as she set her crystal wine glass down on the mahogany table. “We always talk about the League, about Darius’s missions, and about Astraea’s cosmic battles. But we so rarely talk about you, Rhys.”

Rhys blinked, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Me?”

“Yes,” Shula continued, leaning forward slightly, her crimson silk dress rustling softy. Her dark, beautiful face was illuminated by the candlelight, a subtle, intriguing sparkle dancing in her eyes. “Your time as Omen. The shadow vigilante who brought down corrupt cartels, fought rogue warlords, and stood toe-to-toe with monsters without having a single divine power or cosmic blessing.”

Lira smiled warmly, resting her hand over Rhys’s knee under the table. “He really was amazing back then.”

“I want to hear about it,” Shula insisted, her gaze locking onto Rhys with a laser-like focus. She tilted her head, her smile turning coyly inquisitive. “Tell us your old tales, Rhys. The dark missions. The close calls. How you operated in the shadows before you retired to this quiet, suburban life.”

Rhys felt a strange hesitation flutter in his chest. He wasn’t entirely sure why she was suddenly thrusting him directly into the spotlight. As a long-time family friend who had known him for years, Shula already knew most of his background and public hero record. There was no real reason for her to ask him to recount his past like a storyteller at a tavern.

Still, wanting to be a good host and satisfy his long-time friend, Rhys offered a modest chuckle and relented. “Well... if you really want to hear the old war stories, I suppose I can share a few.”

Rhys began to speak. Supported by the smooth red wine, he began answering her questions, detailing his early days as Omen. He spoke of the brutal street-level battles, the grueling tactical preparations, the near-fatal encounters with super-villains, and the ruthless, unyielding mindset he had to adopt to survive in a city filled with god-like beings.

As he spoke, Rhys couldn’t help but notice Shula’s reaction. She was utterly, completely rapt. She didn’t look at her husband, she didn’t look at Lira—her entire world seemed to narrow down exclusively to Rhys. The amber sparkle in her eyes burned brighter, her lips parting slightly as she drank in every single word, every inflection of his voice, every detail of his past dominance and grit.

Darius, completely oblivious to his wife’s intense hyper-fixation, laughed along heartily. He tried to chime in at several points, adding his own commentary as a fellow hero. “Oh, man! I remember reading the League reports on that warehouse raid! You took down twelve armed mercenaries with just—”

“Darius, dear,” Shula cut in abruptly, her voice dropping into a sharp, cool tone without her eyes ever leaving Rhys. She didn’t even turn her head toward her husband. “Please do not interrupt Rhys while he is speaking. I want to hear his recollection.”

Darius blinked, caught off guard by his wife’s unusually sharp dismissal. He let out a slightly sheepish, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah... right. Sorry, sweetie. Go ahead, Rhys.”

Rhys felt a sudden spike of awkwardness ripple through the room. He laughed it off quickly to smooth over the tension, offering Darius an apologetic nod before continuing his answers. By the time the hour was up, Rhys had answered every single one of her probing questions, practically laying out his entire history as Omen on the dining table.

When he finally finished, a heavy silence settled over the room.

Rhys leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his water. A strange, hollow ache opened up in his chest. Talking about his old life—about the raw power, the control, and the dangerous edge he used to possess—made his current, domestic existence feel distant, almost foreign. It brought back dark echoes of the commanding, dominant persona he had briefly unleashed in the sedan and the bathroom stall with Ariadne, Dione, and Rhea.

“And... well, that’s pretty much everything,” Rhys said softly, offering a weak smile. “It all feels so far away now.”

He raised his eyes to look at Shula, expecting to see her usual warm, friendly expression.

Instead, Rhys was met with a gaze that sent a sudden, bone-chilling cold straight down his spine.

Shula was staring at him with an utterly indecipherable expression—a complex, volatile cocktail of intense, awe-filled fascination mixed with a deep, smoldering dissatisfaction. Her eyes swept over his relaxed, domestic posture, his simple clothes, and his soft smile, as if she were deeply offended that a legendary, dark predator like Omen was currently playing the role of a quiet, apron-wearing house husband.

Is she... mad at me? Rhys thought frantically, his mind racing. What did I say?!

“So...” Shula said finally, her voice low, flat, and carrying a heavy weight, serving more as a dark statement than a question. “...that is everything.”

Lira, apparently picking up on the thick, bizarre tension that had suddenly materialized in the room like heavy fog, quickly cleared her throat and stood up from her chair.

“Well!” Lira said, breaking the spell as she began gathering the empty dinner plates. “That was incredible to hear again. Who is ready for dessert? I made a fresh berry tart!”

Rhys instantly seized the opportunity to escape the suffocating intensity of Shula’s gaze. He stood up from his chair, placing his hands on the table. “I’ll help you in the kitchen, honey. Let me grab the dessert plates—”

“Oh, sweetie, no, stay seated!” Lira smiled, giving his shoulder a loving, tender squeeze as she passed by. “You did more than enough by cooking that fantastic dinner. Sit down, relax, and entertain our guests. I can manage dessert entirely on my own.”

Rhys stood frozen for a second, looking at Lira’s warm, loving eyes, before reluctantly sinking back down into his leather dining chair. “Alright... thank you, honey.”

Lira disappeared into the kitchen, the swinging door closing behind her.

The moment the kitchen door shut, leaving Rhys alone at the table with Darius and Shula, Rhys’s sharp hero senses screamed a loud, deafening warning. The strange, odd debacle was far from over.

Dammit, Rhys cursed silently, his heart beginning to beat a rapid rhythm against his ribs. This was supposed to be a regular, peaceful dinner with old friends. What the hell is going on?!

The casual table talk resumed, but within seconds, Shula expertly hijacked the conversation once again. Under the guise of innocent, friendly catching-up, her questions began taking a dark, boundary-pushing, almost predatory turn. It quickly evolved from a friendly chat into a subtle, ruthless interrogation.

“You know, Rhys...” Shula murmured, swirling the dark crimson wine in her glass, her amber eyes burning into his. “...it must be quite a transition. Going from a high-adrenaline, dangerous vigilante lifestyle to sitting at home all day.”

“I enjoy the peace, Shula,” Rhys replied guardedly, keeping his voice strictly neutral. “It’s a good life.”

“Is it?” Shula countered softly, a dangerous, coy smile playing on her lips. “A man of your caliber, built for action, containment, and control... I often wonder if a quiet domestic life truly satisfies all your... needs.”

Darius shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his brow furrowing as he looked at his wife. “Shula, honey, what kind of question is—”

Shula completely ignored her husband, pressing forward without missing a beat. “I mean, look at Astraea,” she continued, her voice dropping into a velvety, dangerously intimate register. “She is a top-tier cosmic hero. She is away on galactic missions for days, sometimes weeks at a time. Her energy, her focus, her body... it is constantly dedicated to saving the world.”

Shula leaned across the table, her golden-amber eyes locking onto Rhys’s with an unblinking, suffocating intensity.

“It makes me wonder about your private life, Rhys,” Shula purred softly, her tone dripping with subtle, inappropriate intrigue. “When she comes home exhausted from saving galaxies... is your sex life still active? Are you two even intimate anymore? Or has the spark of passion been replaced by mere domestic convenience?”

The room went dead, terrifyingly silent.