As much as I appreciated not spending the entire day alone, I was at my wit’s end with Charon. He was more than a little peculiar. He had an obsession and stopping him from it was impossible. If I moved one thing out of place, he moved it back. The mere suggestion of dust made him squirm. It became a source of entertainment for a while until he insisted I help him fix the apparent problem, dragging out entire basins packed with cleaning supplies. I'd laughed at first, but much to my chagrin, he was profoundly serious. At lunch, he was careful his food didn’t touch and the perspiration from his glass didn't puddle. I’d noticed it before, but it was glaring when he’d made certain not even the sliced edges of his sandwich met. When he seemed content with the arrangement on his plate, I'd made it a point to stare him down as I mixed everything on mine into a lumpy mound of food. While it made the entire meal less appealing, I knew I’d made my point: I didn't care one iota about his obsessive habits. He could follow me all day, look down at his nose at me, and even get me to help him clean the already clean house, but I wasn’t his to control. Besides, I was sure he was holding his breath the entire time. Watching his restrained squirm and the subtle curl of his lip brought me a sort of satisfaction I couldn’t put into words, but felt with my entire being.

Charon, though, was anything but dissuaded from irritating me regardless of my dark glares, sneers, and antics to make his skin crawl. He'd made it a point to stay on my heels, following me like a shadow, and deny me so much as a moment's peace. He followed me as if expecting something to happen. Sometimes he was conversational, but mostly he stayed buried in his book, peeking over the pages only when it suited him or it seemed I was about to leave his immediate sight. He liked to pretend he wasn’t paying attention. I realized as much after I tripped over the ridiculous length of my borrowed pajama pants and almost hit my face off the table as I fell, bringing a chair and a stack of metal bowls down with me. Charon cackled from where he sat, momentarily setting aside his book as his laughter rolled into a roar. I glared at him from the floor. He did his best to regain his composure, feigning restored interest in his book. He patiently waited until I was upright again.

With a minimal lift of his fingers as he turned the page and a lazy wave, he said, “Wipe the hand marks off of the chair and bowls.”

“Where?” I stared at him in disbelief. I didn’t see any damned hand marks. Charon vaguely gestured without looking up. There was no sense in arguing with him. Huffing in frustration, I gathered up the bowls and cleaned them off, grumbling under my breath every wicked indignation I could think of, but he paid me no further mind, and he was happier for it.

That was how the day went. I entertained myself by wandering through the house with nothing to do but examine the decor and shelves of books between naps and staring out the window curiously at the people strolling the street carefree, and that seemed to entertain Charon. At every turn, my oversized shirt snagged on corners and banisters and caught in the fast-snapping door to the porch at least twice. I tried to twist it out of the way, but it was too dense. It unraveled at the first jostle of movement. There was no good way to fix it and by the afternoon, I'd given up and thrown myself onto my bed, screaming into my pillow in frustration. Charon had stretched out beside me, laughing, and it was all because I’d tripped again, knocking myself unconscious long enough for him to have realized it had happened, and not hard enough to have done any real damage. The seam of the pants had torn halfway up my leg and the stitching I'd done to fix them left them crooked and even more awkward than they were before. From his perspective, I might have laughed, too, but from mine, it left me with a pounding headache and wells of frustration.

It had been days, and they'd still not managed to find me a half-decent set of clothes that fit. If Charon hadn’t refused to tell me where he kept the scissors, it wouldn't have been as much of a problem, and I would have been able to make do for a while longer, but after the crack to the head, I'd had enough. I tried for a knife, but he took it from me, complaining for almost an hour about how much damage that would do to the quality of the blade. Not that I particularly cared; I was tired of falling and the ensuing injuries, mostly to my pride. Still, the constant stream of mishaps was abhorrent. I wasn’t a clumsy person, and this was excessive. I screamed into the pillow again as Charon’s laugh turned into a low chuckle. At least someone found joy in my suffering. I rolled over, glowering at his mirth. His lips parted as if he meant to say something, but as I reached for the pillow to silence him, the sound of the front door caught my attention. My eyes rounded, and I sat up. Charon groaned, pushing himself from the comfort of the bedding. One step, two, then the slow rhythmic walk down the hall echoed against the walls. I chucked my pillow off my lap, smacking it against Charon’s chest. He recoiled and hissed as if it hurt. Ignoring his complaint, I threw my legs over the side of the bed. With a sharp bite to my bottom lip, I jumped from the bed and made for the door.

I didn’t need to check behind me to know Charon was quick on my heels as I took to the stairs. I raced down and swung around the banister. My feet slipped and slid on the uneven hem of my pants as I whirled around the corner. I wobbled, arms out, as I regained my balance. Scrunching up the sides of my pants, I stomped my way down the hall to the living room. I came to a stop with a huff, tossing the length to the floor in the middle of the living room area lined with two couches and two handsome chairs. Callan, without bothering to look up, flipped through a handful of papers and discarded the ones he didn’t care about on the seat of the gray couch behind him. He didn’t so much as flinch as I dared to stomp up to him, fury blazing in my stare.

“Callan,” I snapped.

“Asherah.”

“Get your guard dog to back off!” I pointed at Charon. He gasped as if offended, only having made it a few feet into the room.

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Callan glanced for a fleeting second at me and then at Charon before returning to what he was doing. He flipped the page over and then tossed it down. Sighing, he looked at Charon again. “You heard her.”

“I didn’t hear anything.” Charon folded his arms in defiance.

“Indirect order,” Callan stated.

“Tch.” Charon dropped onto the far end of the couch and acted as though there was something much more interesting happening out the window.

“Also,” I lifted my chin and drew a quick breath, feeling a little more confident with Callan's quick response. He'd listen, I was sure of it. “I need clothes.”

For a moment, his eyes remained on the letter in hand, scanning the details, but then he set it aside, looking me over from head to toe. His face twisted in a strange, almost confused manner, and he turned slowly to Charon. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my room? It’s clean.”

Charon tilted his head, shooting daggers with his cold blue eyes. “The dust bunnies disagree.”

With an exasperated sigh, Callan came back around and looked me over a second time. “You’re dressed, and unless that changes in the immediate future, I’m not all that concerned. It can wait.”

I narrowed my eyes as I bit back on rising anger. Callan was the clear authority between the two, but that didn’t mean I had to like any of his decisions, and I needed some damn clothes that fit. He had no idea how many times I came close to kissing the floor, only to add insult to injury by cleaning the floor afterward. Knocking myself out once already was bad enough, I didn't need to spend another day more risking it happening again. “Fine," I said, folding my arms. "Where are the scissors?”

“You’re not cutting up my clothes.”

“They’re my clothes. I’m the one wearing them, and they’re the only things I have to wear.”

“They’re still mine.” The corner of his lips twitched up in a hidden smirk.

My jaw tensed, and I snorted, annoyed and aggravated by the indifference. I wanted out of the house, away from Charon, and wearing clothes that fit! How was that too much to ask? Whatever Callan thought was more important could wait. I had had more than my fair share of tripping and falling because I was swimming in clothes too big. His clothes, because of course, Charon wouldn’t have offered me any from his wardrobe. Not only was he entirely too tall, but he couldn’t risk me soiling them, either. That decided it. Hell or high water, I’d get my way. I wasn’t going to wear someone else’s oversized clothes for a moment longer. I reached under the shirt and glared at the floor as I untied the pajama pants, grabbed the waistband, and shoved them over my hips and down my legs. Grumbling beneath my breath, I stepped out and shuffled them with my feet into a messy ball. With a swift kick, I sent the pants flopping over in front of Callan’s feet. My face burned hot from one ear to the other, so much so that I couldn’t bring myself to look at him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, more concerned than I expected.

“Taking them off.” I gathered up the bottom of the shirt.

“Why?” The anxiety in his question peaked.

“I need clothes that fit, and you said since I am already dressed, you're not concerned unless that changes. So, I’m changing it.” I lifted the shirt, getting no farther than my hips, when I heard him groan and step away, tossing the rest of the papers aside. I lowered my arms and looked up at him at last.

He ran his hands through his hair with his back turned. “Fine. You win. Put the pants back on, we’ll get you some clothes.”

I smiled to myself and snatched the pants from the floor. I pulled them on, lifting my chin high, proud of my little victory. If it were Milo, he wouldn’t fall for my antics, and I wouldn’t get my way. Instead, I would have stood like an idiot in front of him with no pants. I watched, grinning, as Callan huffed and headed back toward the front door. He shook his head, muttering something under his breath. While I hadn't spent all that much time with him—a handful of dinners at most, and an occasional quiet afternoon where neither of us spoke—it was clear I could sway him with little effort. Anything I wanted turned into a direct order for Charon. My smile dropped as Callan's complaints grew as he put on his shoes. I'd swayed him, but at what cost? It didn't matter, I'd have new clothes.

Charon sniggered from the couch, eying down the hallway. “Oh, I missed this.”

“I don’t want to know what that means.” I looked over my shoulder, pointed a finger downward, and commanded, “Stay.”

His lips puckered tight and his jaw set. I smirked. Charon was obedient. While he disregarded almost everything asked of him, when it came as an order, he complied. Albeit with begrudged reluctance. I didn’t expect him to stay planted on the couch the rest of the day, but I knew my command was enough to keep him from following me again, especially after Callan had directed him to do as I said. Besides, I needed a break from him, even if it meant spending time with Callan on a potentially painfully quiet outing for the sake of finding clothes and fighting to keep my insides from turning to mush against my will. Like it or not, there was something about him that mesmerized me. He was handsome, his voice was perfect, and he smelled like my most feverishly carnal dreams… Heat crept back into my face as I snapped straight. What had I just done? This man I could hardly bring myself to speak to with all the palpations rising into my throat had watched me carelessly strip off my pants and threatened to do the same with my shirt lest he appeased my demands was halfway out the door without me. I tried to gulp down my embarrassment. While Callan had folded easier than I expected, I hadn’t considered what I would have done if he hadn’t. For as desperately as I wanted a change of clothes, I know I would have thrown off that shirt and flung it at him just to make my point. There I'd be, near-naked, in front of a man who made my insides coil and heart race. Charon would laugh about it. That alone was mortifying. It was bad enough that they'd left me in my filthy clothes for days and gotten an eyeful of my bare chest without having the sense to try to change me into something decent. I was thankful neither mentioned how bad I'd looked. Or at least they didn’t mention it while I was there. Something told me they talked about it later, though. Charon didn’t bring me clothes for no reason, even if they were Callan's. He wasn't about to allow me to wander through his spotless home looking and smelling like a half-drowned sewer rat. Regardless of motive, I had few reasons to think Charon and Callan didn’t talk about everything. They were closer than Milo and Tristan, and, in a way, it reminded me of the closeness I shared with Roya.

I missed her. And her oversized bag of clothes.