Chapter 796: What Gods Need

The breakfast dishes were half-cleared when Mom’s hand found mine under the table.

Not accidental. Deliberate. Her thumb tracing circles on my palm in that way only she could—the touch that said

I see you

without words. The touch that had evolved from maternal comfort to something more complicated, more intimate, more

ours

in the days since everything changed between us.

"Baby,"

she said softly, voice pitched under the noise of Jasmine and Madison debating whether the Blade’s acceleration could outpace the Reaper’s raw power. "Did you sleep?"

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Her eyes—those dark, knowing eyes that had watched me grow from a scared orphan into whatever the fuck I was now—narrowed with the kind of assessment that came from sixteen years of reading my bullshit.

"Peter."

"I’m fine."

"You’re lying." Her grip tightened. "I can always tell when you’re lying. Your jaw does this thing."

"My jaw doesn’t do a thing."

"Your jaw absolutely

does

a thing." She leaned closer, and I caught her scent—that specific combination of vanilla lotion and something floral that had meant

safety

since I was small enough to fit in her lap. "How many hours?"

"Mom—"

"How. Many. Hours."

I exhaled. Surrendered. Because lying to Linda Carter was like lying to God—technically possible but ultimately pointless since she’d figure it out anyway and make you feel worse for trying.

"Whole day," I admitted. "Time gets weird when ARIA’s feeding me stimulant protocols."

Her expression shifted. The concern deepened into something sharper. Something that looked like a woman who’d made a decision and wasn’t interested in discussing it.

"Jasmine," Mom called across the kitchen, voice carrying that deceptive lightness she used when she was about to orchestrate something. "Didn’t you say you wanted to see the shooting range progress? The one Peter’s building?"

Jasmine perked up immediately. Still sore from Emma’s claims about Soo-Jin. Still competitive in ways that made her incapable of letting a challenge slide. "Yes. I want to see where this

child

—" she gestured at Soo-Jin with her coffee cup "—supposedly outperforms national team shooters, trains."

Soo-Jin’s expression didn’t change. "I don’t suppose. I do."

Madison caught my eye. Smiled. The smile of a woman who’d already figured out what Mom was doing and approved entirely.

"We should go," Madison said, standing with the fluid grace of someone who’d been raised to exit rooms like she owned them. "I’ve been wanting to see Soo-Jin demonstrate anyway. And Jasmine can show us what

professional

shooting looks like. Let’s see who’s better."

The challenge landed exactly where it was meant to.

Jasmine’s spine straightened. Her chin lifted. That fire in her eyes that had gotten her onto the national team in the first place—the refusal to be second best at anything—flared hot and immediate.

"Fine."

She was already moving, already reaching for shoes, already in competition mode. "Let’s settle this. One hour on the range. I’ll show you what actual training looks like versus whatever Call of Duty fantasy you’ve been practicing."

Soo-Jin’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Acceptable terms."

They swept out of the kitchen in a flurry of competitive energy and pointed comments—Madison steering them toward the door with practiced ease, throwing me one last look over her shoulder.

Go sleep

, that look said.

I’ll handle this.

I love you

, I tried to communicate back.

Her smile softened.

I know. Now go.

The front door closed. Engines started.

Silence settled over the kitchen.

Just me and Mom.

She stood, tugged my hand, pulled me to my feet with surprising strength. "Come on."

"Mom—"

"Don’t." She pressed a finger to my lips. The gesture intimate in ways that would’ve felt wrong six months ago but now felt like exactly what I needed. "I know you think you can run forever on supernatural bullshit and that AI pumping chemicals into your system. I know you think sleep is optional for gods." She cupped my face in both hands, made me look at her. "But I know

you

, Peter. I know you can’t actually rest unless—"

She stopped. Swallowed. The words hanging between us like a confession neither of us needed to voice.

Unless you’re with me.

It was the strangest of my weaknesses. The most inexplicable. Every system enhancement, every supernatural ability, every pill and potion designed to eliminate the need for sleep—all of them failed. My body refused to surrender to unconsciousness unless mom was beside me. Some cosmic joke. Some fundamental truth about what I need that

transcended

everything else I’d become.

Only Linda gave me sleep.

And she knew it.

"Upstairs," she said quietly. "My room. Now."

I didn’t argue.

Mom’s bedroom still smelled like her. Same vanilla candles on the nightstand.

She closed the door behind us. Locked it with a soft click.

"Clothes off,

" she said, and there was nothing sexual in it. Just practical. Maternal in a way that had evolved to include everything we’d become. "You’re not sleeping in some tactical gear."

I stripped down to boxers while she moved around the room—closing curtains, adjusting the temperature, creating the specific environment she’d learned helped me actually rest. The expertise of a woman who’d spent years figuring out how to make a damaged boy feel safe enough to sleep.

"Bed,"

she ordered.

I climbed in. The sheets were soft—like home. Like the only place my brain ever stopped spinning long enough to let go.

She slid in beside me. Warm. Solid.

Real

in ways that cut through every layer of supernatural enhancement and billion-dollar empire and god-complex bullshit.

"Come here,"

she murmured, opening her arms.

I went.

Like I always did. Like I always would. Curling into her the way I had when I was five and nightmares made the dark feel infinite. Her arms wrapped around me—one hand in my hair, the other rubbing slow circles on my back.

"I’ve got you

," she whispered against my temple. "I’ve always got you."

The tension started bleeding out of me. Muscle by muscle. Thought by thought. The constant hum systems, the endless calculations, the strategic planning with ARIA that never stopped—all of it quieting under the weight of her presence.

"You work too hard," she said softly. "Try to carry too much. Think you have to save everyone all the time."

"Someone has to."

"Not alone." She kissed my forehead. "Never alone. That’s what we’re for. All of us. Madison and the others—they carry pieces of it. But this?" She held me tighter. "This is mine. Taking care of you when you forget how to take care of yourself."

My eyes were getting heavy. Finally.

Finally

. Hours of running on fumes and supernatural stubbornness, and her

presence

was doing what nothing else could—convincing my body that it was safe enough to stop.

"Tommy needs me," I mumbled, already drifting. "Mia’s in trouble you know..."

"Tommy can wait a few hours. Mia can wait. The empire can wait." Her voice was firm. Brooking no argument. "Right now, you need sleep. And I need you healthy. So close your eyes and let go."

"Bossy."

"Always." I could hear the smile in her voice. "Now sleep, baby. I’ll be here when you wake up."

The last conscious thought I had was simple. True. The truth that existed beneath everything else—the money, the power, the supernatural abilities, the harem of women who’d chosen to love him in all his complicated, messy, impossible glory.

She chose me.

When I was nothing. When I had nothing. When nobody else wanted the orphan son of an escort who died giving birth.

She chose me anyway.

And I’d burn the world down to keep her safe.

Sleep came.

Not the restless, surface-level unconsciousness he got everywhere else. Not the chemical-assisted stupor ARIA could induce. Real sleep. Deep sleep. That only happened when Linda Carter’s heartbeat was steady against his ear and her warmth was solid against his side and her presence told his hindbrain what his conscious mind already knew:

You’re home.

You’re safe.

You’re loved.

***

Madison’s phone buzzed.

She glanced at the screen while Jasmine argued with Soo-Jin about proper shooting stance. A message from ARIA:

Master is finally asleep. Cognitive function was at 31% and declining. Estimated recovery time: 4-6 hours.

Madison smiled, tucked the phone away.

"Everything okay?" Jasmine asked, momentarily distracted from her competitive fury.

"Perfect." Madison watched Soo-Jin adjust her grip on the practice weapon with mechanical precision. "Everything’s exactly how it should be."

Jasmine frowned, sensing she was missing something. "Where didn’t Peter come anyway?

"He’s resting." Madison’s smile turned knowing. "Linda’s taking care of him."

Something flickered across Jasmine’s face—jealousy, maybe, or confusion, or the particular frustration of someone who sensed there were dynamics at play she didn’t fully understand.

"Taking care of him how?"

Madison just smiled wider.

"The way only she can."

And left it at that.

Because some things didn’t need explanation. Some relationships existed in spaces between categories—not quite maternal, not quite romantic, not quite anything that fit neat labels.

Peter needed Linda the way lungs needed air.

And Linda needed to be needed.

Everything else was just details.

To be continued...