Soul Weaver by Hailey Edwards Page A

closest he ever came to swearing, and Nathaniel would help measure had he been asked.
    His attention lingered on the sculpted silver doorknob until someone cleared their throat, a warning.
    Cold metal had filled his palm. Nathaniel glanced down, surprised as his knuckles popped from their tight grip on the shears. He jolted when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
    “He knew not to use the front door,” Saul said. His calm demeanor grated on Nathaniel’s already frayed nerves. But then, their earlier argument could hardly be continued around so many perked ears. “He’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide and he has to learn to play by the rules.”
    “Like we did?” Nathaniel shrugged free of his grip.
    “It’s not the same thing.”
    “I know.” Nathaniel walked toward the line of waiting harvesters. “We had a choice in what we became. Bran didn’t.”
    “You say that like it’s my fault. It was an accident.”
    Nathaniel spun on Saul, and his fury lashed at his brother. Grabbing Saul by the throat, Nathaniel smashed his brother’s head into the wall as his fingers bit into Saul’s skin with crushing force.
    “He wasn’t an accident . He was a child.” Fury threatened to choke him as surely as the hand he wrapped around Saul’s neck. “He is your son.”
    Saul covered Nathaniel’s hand with his, but he didn’t try to dislodge it. “You’re right. He’s my child, my responsibility.” He swallowed as best he could. “But if he’s going to survive, he has to learn to stop pushing his luck because one day it will run out.” His gaze traveled toward the door. “It might have already.”
    “Don’t say that.” Nathaniel released Saul, then braced his palms against the wall. His knees threatened to buckle under his weight and his surgeon-steady hands shook with fine tremors. “He’s fine. He has to be.”
    Saul stumbled out of range. “It’s his own fault.” His voice was hoarse. “He’s a grown man who knows better than to provoke the seraphs. He’s been told to ignore their taunts often enough. Yet he incites them.” He rubbed his throat. “He might get off on the pain for all we know.”
    “Or he might think he has something to prove,” Nathaniel snarled. “You fight your way out of everything. That’s the legacy you left your son. Every punch he takes is one he’s seen you stand up from and ask for more.”
    “Blame me all you want, brother.” He snorted. “You’re his idol. He might take punches like his father, but the martyr act he pulls is one hundred percent classic Uncle Nate.”
    Before Nathaniel grabbed for Saul a second time, the chamber door swung open on Delphi’s return. He brushed a strand of his ebony hair from his face, marring the pale skin of his temple with a crimson smear.
    Nathaniel prayed the blood was seraphim.
    The weight of Delphi’s stare swung between Nathaniel and Saul. Their chests heaved and foreheads sweated. Saul had struck a defensive pose while Nathaniel let the wall support him. Their connections to Bran were well known, as were their heated arguments on his behalf.
    Delphi dismissed Saul with a soft rebuke. “Unfortunately, the child often pays for the sins of his father.” His dark eyes focused on Nathaniel. “The Nephilim is in good hands.”
    Nathaniel bowed his head in silent thanks while Delphi stared at him with the intensity of someone eyeing a bug. As if undecided whether crushing it was worth the effort. “I expect your disposition much improved when you return next month.”
    Without waiting for a reply, he returned to his desk, righted the bottle of spilled ink, and blotted the excess with a handkerchief from his pocket. Pen and ink in hand, he said, “You may begin.” His gaze touched on every harvester present. “I trust the rest of your night will be uneventful.”
    The benign words were a threat, and the best course of action was to offer silent agreement, which every man in the room did.
    Tension from Delphi’s