A/N: Posting cadence is still every two weeks, but I wanted to give y'all this chapter early. Enjoy! Thanks to Mrskroy and every single reader. Chapter name is an apropos song title and its artist. Trigger warning: Scenes involving physical and emotional abuse, also implied sexual abuse.

"Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light."

― Madeleine L'Engle, A Ring of Endless Light

oXOxoXOxo From Chapter 1 oXOxoXOxo

The young man's face contorted in confusion – a sneer Geraldine forced herself to ignore – as she back-tracked, explaining the meaning behind her utterance, even though she imagined it had been gleaned.

"If you want to adopt the girl, you must legally retain her given name: Sookie Adele."

xXxXxXxXx Present Day xXxXxXxXx

In truth, I never should've befriended him. Looking back, I made many mistakes but that was the first, and the one I imagined I'd be paying for quite some time – probably for the rest of eternity, as Fate would have it…

oOoOoOoOo Flashback oOoOoOoOo

"Ad-dy!"

The saccharine-like soprano voice sung out, cutting through the dark night's silent slumber and dripping with stifled, but apparent irritation and concern.

Heard, but ignored, the melodious cry came again – but louder, "AD-DY!"

In tandem, a threat from a tenor's timbre followed suit, "Little Miss Adele Harding, you get your lily-white butt inside – OR ELSE!" Winds whipped wildly through the backyard trees, shaking the branches, "If I have to drag my ass outside to bring you in, you're gonna regret it!"

I didn't wanna go.

I liked it outside, tucked inside my plastic playhouse, where the rest of the world no longer existed. I looked at my little green suitcase, covered in sparkly, shiny stickers. It contained all the things I needed to escape, all I had in the world – my toys, some dresses, my little lantern… my life. I flexed my toes into my carpet of grass, loving the feel of the sharp blades against my soft skin. I wondered if I should put my white banded sandals back on before admitting defeat – once again – to trudge back inside the real house with my meager belongings in tow while my real treasures stayed buried in the sandbox away from prying eyes and greedy hands.

I never won at this game of runaway… because I never got away.

Well except once, but I'm not sure if it really counted since I ultimately ended up right where I started. When I was three years old, I climbed up some boxes to open the garage door while the babysitter was busy changing my baby sister's diaper, absconding away in the daylight with no plan of action. Truthfully it was not as if I had any awareness of the fallout that would follow from my actions, being too young to be capable of such foresight. As the story goes, I made it about a mile away before a man, clad in strange garb as if armored for a battle unlikely to come – homeless, my parents insisted he'd been homeless – picked me up and walked me back to the neighborhood that was on high alert due to my absence. I couldn't hear him, I still remembered that, wondering why his mind was a steel trap, impervious to my gift. Even as young as I was, it annoyed me and I wailed loudly my frustrations, my irritations mistaken for fear.

I'd always felt out of place and misunderstood.

But of course, I contributed to that. I'd learned early on, and without doubt, that secrets were normalcy; hiding became second nature. My mother knew I was special, that I heard people's thoughts, but she had cautioned me against sharing that truth with others – including my father. In her own words, she said, "You can't trust anyone, Addy. Not even those who claim to love you."

Claim.

Her word choice was not lost on me, even at the tender age of five. But she wasn't the only one who believed that secrets were important. My father had told me that our special times were to be considered our own, and that sharing them with my mother would be akin to sullying them, breaking any sanctity of love that stood between us. He had insisted that any modicum of affection he had for me would swiftly transform into hate – and I wanted to feel loved, desperately, so I kept my mouth shut. But as the years wore on, I wondered what his attentions truly meant, if they were normal or sordid – even after they stopped.

I never did decide.

As I approached the age of eight, I understood something was amiss in my world, and began to recognize that my 'runaway' moments to the backyard were something more than simply play, born of a desire to actually get away. Not that I ever would. For years, I had continually packed my little green suitcase, stealing away to the plastic structure that served as my fortress against the real world, despite the fact I had long outgrown its small size meant for toddlers and not so much adolescents. Even though I had to duck to fit inside, I needed my fantasy so I soldiered through my discomfort, ignoring my small aches and pains. But then, of course, more often than not the real world came to call, ripping me from my imaginative life where magics existed, but monsters did not – and tonight was no exception.

"ADDY!"

The shrill scream was practically deafening as it echoed into the night.

"I'm coming!"

I responded at a crescendoing volume despite trying to tamp down my irritation at the interruption of my twilight playworld. My green suitcase was suspended against my side, hanging in my right hand as I bounded through the backyard towards the backdoor, the unavoidable loss of freedom all I could think about. My bare feet scraped against the concrete as I reached the back porch, testing the strength of my callouses. Instantly I regretted leaving my sandals inside my playhouse, fearing it was a mistake I'd pay for many times over.

My father met me, blocking my path by standing in the door's threshold, glowering at me with piercing cold, brown eyes. I approached him with caution, slowing my run to a veritable crawl, searching his mind for some indication of the trouble I found myself in. I'd mastered my telepathy quickly, once I realized it was that or live in the scary head of my father.

Per usual, I didn't like what I found – a garbled mess of angry and jumbled thoughts, mostly about wanting to show me once and for all what happened to disobedient children. I was terrified, but I refused to let my mutinous tears fall, knowing they would anger him further. We weren't allowed to cry in his household – one among the many draconian rules imposed on the meant-to-be picture perfect Harding girls.

Dolls.

We reminded people of cute little pale-faced china dolls.

Daddy's two little bundles of pride and joy. As long as we were smiling, playing along. God help us when the masks slipped – ours… and his.

My father moved the smallest bit to the side so I could squeeze through, and I momentarily considering running in the other direction, back into the darkness, but I didn't, inexplicably trusting my safety to the monster in my path. He didn't grab at me as I passed by him – but he didn't have to; he was scary enough without becoming physical.

"Good little girls come when they are called," He snarled at me while still donning a fake and unnerving smile, ushering me inside – his hand on the small of my back, "No supper for you, little lady; you lost those privileges when you chose to stay outside, to be bad."

I was hungry – ravenous after being denied lunch for a similar infraction – and I opened my mouth to protest, closing it before a single word escaped my lips, knowing any further display of defiance was unlikely to be tolerated. Instead it would likely be punished without impunity or measure and I did not wanna make matters worse.

They were already bad enough as it was without my smart mouth pushing them farther down the rabbit hole.

I woke up early to ensure I wasn't denied another meal, tip-toeing through the house and peeking around corners to check to see if I was the sole soul awake and conscious.

At least for the time being, I was.

I pulled cold food out of the fridge and debated the risks of using the microwave, ultimately deciding against it – too much unnecessary noise. Shoveling handfuls onto a plate, I walked it over to the table and set it down before gingerly picking up the wooden chair and placing it about a half a foot back so I could sit to eat. I kept one ear perked to listen for any stirrings from my parents' bedroom, wondering if my mother was, in fact, home at all – hearing just one heavy breath. My rumbling tummy finally stilled as I devoured the chilly sustenance quickly. Feeling victorious and slightly satiated, I found myself instantly at the sink scrubbing at the bits of stuck-on food – trying to conceal any hints or evidence of my presence – the water pressure low and ultimately unhelpful. Covered in soap, the dirty plate crashed to the ground. I heard the soft snore stop abruptly, and an angry huffing fill the air. My hands shook violently as I dropped to my knees to collect the broken pieces, refusing to turn as I heard my father stomp angrily into the kitchen.

"I swear to God, you are such a troublemaker! You can't be good for even a second!"

He inhaled sharply, his tone becoming low, ominous – terrifying, "If you won't behave Adele Harding, you're going to get buried in the backyard next to your older sister! She misbehaved and look where that got her!"

My father screamed, and honestly I didn't know how much was an idle threat and how much was true. The dog used to dig, in this one spot, before my dad ordered my mother to erect a small structure to partition it off from the rest of the yard, make it impenetrable against the canine's ministrations. He claimed – that word again – that our old dog, the one I didn't remember having, had been buried in that spot. He thought our newest dog's actions were an affront to the sanctity of the old one's grave – and therefore they had to be stopped.

But my younger sister and I had our nagging doubts – even though we didn't voice them. Our mother had taught us that children shouldn't poke at angry bears, and we applied the lesson generously in our daily lives.

We hoped, of course, that there hadn't been some older sibling who had infracted on the status quo so much so that she found herself culled. But neither of us put it past him – the mercurial and towering force who ruled the household with an iron fist and ambiguous set of rules that hinged upon whatever happened to be his present emotional state.

Yes, we lived in fear and my father was no saint, but everybody's childhood was rough, right? I could only assume so because I knew from my father's insistence that I was most definitely not special. I did always wonder why the other children in our neighborhood seemed so happy despite everything they must've dealt with at home. The things going on inside my house made it hard to smile, at least genuinely. Did other children know a coping technique that I hadn't been taught? Were they better at being a kid than I was? Why couldn't I have been more like them?

My father often wondered that, too.

"The French's children are PERFECT! Always so clean, sweet, and well-mannered! Why can't you be more like Madison or Kylie!?"

I pulled the porcelain shards onto my lap, collecting them in my dress, trying unsuccessfully to avoid cutting myself on the sharp edges. Blood drops smeared across my multi-colored frock, staining the blues and purples red. My sniffles pervaded the silence, and he snorted unceremoniously.

"Oh, quit your damn crocodile tears. Stop feeling sorry for yourself; if you really felt bad, you'd try to be less of a disappointment. But instead you're just such a bad child, always so bad," His voice became a hushed whisper, as if trying to convey a secret, one he believed wholeheartedly I needed to know, "No, you cry because you know you're worthless, and ugly – you're just so damn ugly when you cry, Adele."

I stood, walking to the trashcan wordlessly to dispose of the shattered remnants. As I returned to stand in front of my arm-crossed father, I hung my head in shame, letting my blonde cover my face. I didn't want him to see me. I had heard it enough times to assume I really did look ugly when I cried.

"Now…" He paused, reaching his hand down to sharply pull my head up by way of his manicured paw wrapped tightly around my chin, "Get washed up. Your mother will be home soon from her spinning class, and you'll upset her acting all blubbery like this. She's had a long morning already; she doesn't need any of your whiny bullshit."

He let go, and I ran back to my room, shutting the door carefully, desperate not to incur any further wrath. I slumped to the floor with my back against my bed, sobbing my eyes out silently – a stuffed dog clutched to my chest.

Not so long later I heard the back door open and close, signaling that my mother had arrived home.

"Your daughter is impossible!" I heard my father hiss at her, not even giving her a minute to settle herself before he launched into a tirade about my lack of worth and his displeasure with my presence in his home. No matter how many times he said it, it still stung, and once again I wondered, why I couldn't seem to be good enough to deserve my father's love.

Because not all fathers loved their children unconditionally, of that I was certain.

"I'm sorry, Henry. I'm sorry!" Mother responded despondently, with a trembling and submissive tone, accepting the blame for my actions, like she always did. Guilt swept through me as I heard what I thought sounded like a slap, afraid to poke my head out to confirm my suspicions.

But my eyes shot towards the door as I heard it creak open, afraid my father was going to do away with me once and for all – my life was his to take; he had said it many times.

Instead I heard him yelling in the distance, and spied my five-year old little sister with her mussed up brunette hair standing in the doorframe, fear in her expression and tears glistening in her innocent blue eyes. Ginny crept across the room on socked feet after slowly, deftly closing the door. It didn't even register an audible click as she fortified our position inside my room. We were accustomed to being as quiet as church mice, walking on eggshells. She climbed into my open arms, settling herself cross-legged across from me, the toy between us. I covered her ears with my hands, and she did the same to mine; our foreheads buried in each other's shoulders and our eyes squeezed tightly shut. At least mine were; I couldn't see hers.

It wasn't an unfamiliar position we found ourselves in – the unfolding scene or our comfort seeking display – as we sought to silence the only slightly muted violence. Perhaps it would've been easier for us to handle, if it was.

oOoOoOoOooOoOoOoOo

"We're moving to Dallas!"

My father exclaimed cheerfully. He beamed at my mother as she sat next to him holding his hand, her delicate manicured fingers interlaced with his, at the dark cherry-wooded dining table off of the great room.

It wasn't up for debate – nothing was – but I was desperate to protest his decision, not wanting to leave in the middle of my 8th grade year, fearful of being uprooted and thrust into a more northern and bustling Texas metroplex. Pearland was all I knew, my home for as long as I could remember; it wasn't big or flashy, but that's what I liked it about it. Conversely, it's what my father had so openly hated about it. He was giddy that he had finally landed the transfer he'd been requesting for years – getting a big raise to go with it, an amount he was more than eager to share with us.

We wanted for nothing, spoiled for the benefit of my father's ego. He loved to be envied, for others to covet what was his, the things he owned – us. He also thought his extravagant shopping sprees paid for his indiscretions, his uncaged temper and subsequently empty apologies.

Sometimes, with the way my mother acted, I wasn't quite so sure that they didn't – at least in her eyes.

My uneasy frown must've been offensive to him because he verbally jabbed at me, the excitement dropping from his tone, "Addy, don't make ugly faces! You'll give yourself premature wrinkles scrunching up your brow like that. Boys don't like girls who look older than they actually are. You'll never get a husband if you don't even bother trying to be attractive."

I was thirteen. I didn't give a damn what boys liked, and I definitely wasn't looking for matrimony any time soon. But good breeding dictated that I conform to some feminine ideal, so I smoothed down my expression instantly, donning a placid countenance. My father was pleased with my actions, flashing me a toothy grin – a real and genuine one.

"There. You should see how much prettier you look when your face's not all contorted and gross," He turned his head to look at my mother, "She looks so pretty now; doesn't she, Paige?" She nodded her agreement, mimicking his broad smile, a sparkle dancing behind her eyes.

We all liked him better when he was like this – mostly happy and carefree.

"Thank you."

I replied as sweetly as I could muster after my mother kicked me with the toe of her pointy heel. 'That's probably going to bruise,' I thought as I released a soft sigh, hating that I'd be sporting another unexplainable bruise. The raised eyebrow from the school's nurse didn't exactly indicate she believed my cover story – that I was little more than a clumsy tree-climber. Not that it was an out-and-out lie. I did climb trees and I was clumsy; I just never fell from them. Even though I definitely claimed to – an awful lot.

Secrets were second nature to my family; they came much more easily than the truth ever did. In fact, I hadn't confided anything about my home life to anyone in Pearland, or gotten past the acquaintance level of friendship. I wondered why I was so against the move; it wasn't like it was going to disrupt my non-existent social life. No one but my sister had gotten even a glimpse of the real me anyways – and she was coming with me – so what did I really have to lose?

Not one damn thing.

I thought as I said, "Dallas sounds great, Dad. Doesn't it, Ginny?"

My little sister, whose ten-year old self had growth-spurted to nearly my own height in the past year, nodded her wordless and faked agreement, tears spilling down her cheeks. Our parents either didn't see her sadness or they ignored it because her infraction passed without comment.

"Of course it sounds great!" My father boasted, "All my ideas are great ideas."

He threw his head back in uproarious laughter, and I knew I for one didn't understand what was supposed to be so funny. I lifted from my seat at the table and walked my plate to the sink. I rinsed it quickly before slipping it into the dishwasher, flashing back to the last time I had broken a plate, remembering momentarily why I always took such care never to break another one. I flinched, steadying my quickening breath before I pivoted on my heel to see my father's joyous smile threatening to break into a small frown. I practically ran back to my seat and dropped my telepathic shields to root around inside his head, launch a preemptive strike so to speak.

I was glad I did.

Because no one was laughing with him, my father was beginning to think that meant we were laughing at him. He came to the conclusion that if we didn't shape up post-haste, he was going to make us all regret our impertinence, our disrespectful display. Reality always looked so different inside his head, but his normally gray thoughts were now turning black. His monster was rattling at the bars of its cage. I couldn't just sit by and do nothing; I had to try to save us from the appearance of Mr. Hyde.

"Oh my gosh, Dad, I guess I'm just too much of a blonde sometimes!" I exclaimed, feigning stupidity, as if I had just now maybe gleaned his meaning, "Whoosh! That went right over my head!"

I swiped my flat, rigid palm over my head to punctuate my words, letting my small giggle erupt into hysterical laughter, praying he wouldn't take offense at my placating actions. My mother joined in, correctly interpreting the cause of my strange behavior. My telepathy hadn't always made things easy before I learned to turn it off. But now that I could properly wield it I saw my gift as a godsend. I thanked our Father in heaven every day without fail for blessing me with it.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

My father responded, pausing to blow fake kisses to his adoring and doting audience – to us – literally imagining that we were tossing long-stemmed red roses at his feet as the dark cloud in his mind receded.

I asked to be excused from the dinner table, and my father granted my leave with a wave of his hand. He turned to my mother to describe the many banal activities that had filled his day. As I ambled out of the dining room, Ginny grabbed my arm, begging me to turn and face her. I complied; I denied my sister nothing, but my darkest secrets. I had told her I was a telepath though. 'Thank you,' she thought loudly as she released me, and I responded with a quick wink and a small smile.

I liked being able to help keep us safe.

oOoOoOoOooOoOoOoOo

Our move to Dallas had been everything I expected it to be – an unmomentous blip on the radar that was my life. Upheaving my schooling mid-year hadn't been disruptive at all. In fact, my final months in 8th grade passed by with little fanfare. In the blink of an eye, my fourteenth birthday had come and gone and my first not-as-humid-as-hell summer was over.

On an overcast Thursday morning during the third week of August, I found myself peering out a car window, staring up at the institution that would demand most of my waking hours for the next four years. I smiled as I took it all in; my high school career had officially begun.

I tripped as I tried to step over the curb after jumping out of the car driven by my neighbor's mom. Apparently, my clumsiness was determined to get things off to a rocky start, and I almost face-planted onto the cracked concrete.

"Hey, I gotcha," a deep baritone voice whispered as strong arms settled me to my feet. I looked up at least a foot to gaze into rich hazel eyes, temporarily mesmerized by the lightheadedness I felt from bracing myself for impact. He continued, ignoring my wordless stupor, "I'm Jeremy, and you are?"

"Not usually at klutzy as this," I mumbled while chuckling. Then I corrected myself in a similarly joking manner while thrusting out an open palm to shake his hand, "Addy… Usually I'm much more klutzy… in case that wasn't clear."

What else could I say? Somehow after fourteen years, I had yet to master the gross motor skill that was walking without falling.

Jeremy and I exchanged superficial, but polite pleasantries for about a minute before I was pulled away by the neighbor whose mother had given me a ride.

"C'mon, Addy! Get a move on! We're gonna be late for class!"

I said quick goodbyes, and bounded into the building, hot on Katie's heels, knowing she knew exactly where our classroom was located. Never was I so grateful to be acquainted with an over-planner. She'd traced and retraced her walking paths over and over in the weeks before school started, anxious she find herself otherwise lost – not wanting to give any indication that we were, in fact, freshman. She and I had three of our seven classes together, and different lunch periods, but that was okay, I didn't mind sitting by myself, being alone.

It was always better than being part of a crowd.

"Bryan Foster?"

"Here!"

"Cecilia Garcia?"

"Here!"

"Sookie Harding?"

Lost in my thoughts, I missed my name being read – not that anyone had ever called me Sookie in my entire life, not even during roll call. Had my mother been making special requests, asking my schools not use it? If so, she'd certainly forgotten to inform my newest set of educators.

"Sookie? Is there a Sookie Harding here?"

"What's a Sookie?" A boy in the back of the class sniggered, and I fought the urge to redden from embarrassment. My parents hated my name, which I never understood since they were the ones who gave it to me. I didn't mind it, but that didn't mean I wanted to go by it at school.

"Adele… I go by Addy," I offered without any inflection in my tone, sinking down lowly in my seat, hoping to melt into the floor. Laughter echoed behind me.

The teacher shushed the circling sharks with a flippant wave of her hand, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. She made a pencil mark in her book, and called my name again – Adele Harding – trying to reiterate that my request was to be honored. But the blood was already in the water, and I knew I'd have to deal with being called "Sookie" for at least part of the day. Ultimately, it wasn't a big deal. All I had to do was pretend it didn't bother me and suffer their indignities for as long as it took. Eventually they'd realized their bullying tricks were of no use on me.

In his own warped way, my father had taught me how to shutdown people intent on trying to identify weaknesses in others so they could exploit them. It had been a hard and emotionally taxing lesson, but his method always worked, every single freaking time.

"Mom, I'm going to go for a run!"

I shouted from the kitchen doorjamb, waiting briefly for the 'okay' before sprinting off into the night, laced sneakers at the ready, my skin itching to feel the cold cut of the wind whipping by.

I'd survived my first day of high school unscathed, hearing the name 'Sookie' only six times after my first period class before the rumor mill churned out the message not to bother – because I didn't care. I said a quick and silent thanks to God, and to my father, for letting that potential maelstrom pass without having to resort to fisticuffs. Because another lesson I learned was that if peaceful measures didn't work on bullies, sometimes violence was the answer.

I'd never hit anyone before, but only because it had never become necessary.

I hooked a right to high-tail it onto my usual path, the long 9-mile circle around White Rock Lake. Settling into a comfortable speed, I jogged under the small lamplights that bespeckled the trail while bikes whizzed by at an infrequent clip. I slipped in earbuds, tucking my Walkman into the waistband of my shorts as Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor began to sing through my head. I dropped my mental shield to listen for any encroacher's presence, but not his thoughts as I let a meditative haze overwhelm me. Running brought me a sense of peace, and I reveled in the feeling, glad to steal away from my homestead every chance I got. I told my parents I had joined the track team – I had not – knowing they would never bother to attend a single meet.

As I padded along, a familiar feeling niggled through the back of my mind, and before I could react someone was running alongside me, motioning for me to stop.

I did not. Instead, I ran faster to increase the distance between us.

"I… garble garble garble… garblegarblegarble!"

I heard the stranger's muffled yell in my direction as I got farther away, and I stopped, pulling the music from my ears, letting the buds hang down at my side, the wires swinging like pendulums.

"What?"

I screamed back as I turned around, not taking one step closer to the figure I could now see was a young man – of maybe sixteen? Or seventeen?

"I did not mean to scare you!"

He called back, throwing his tattooed arms into the air as if trying to signal a truce, to show that he was not a danger to me. The tattoos didn't throw me, but the accent did. He sounded European for sure, but past that I had no guesses as to where he was from – the intonation of his voice was like nothing I'd ever heard before.

I wasn't really scared of him; I was more than prepared to fight for my life, if it came down to that. Plus, he looked to be about my build, pretty svelte – thin, too thin to be attractive my father often said to me. The stranger's expression struck me as curious, rather than menacing. But his 'white flag of surrender' moment hadn't exactly inspired me to hold even the smallest modicum of trust for him so I remained cautious and hypervigilant.

"What do you want?"

I hollered back.

He seemed content to stay at a distance, and I was content to keep him there.

"To say 'hello!' You are quite beautiful, you know!"

Now I knew he was lying – that he just wanted something from me, and I was not keen on obliging the presumptuous interloper. I responded after several minutes, worried that if I simply turned on my heel he'd continue to pad along behind me, wait for an opportune time to attack. I sighed; I really didn't want to have to beat the shit outta someone. So I tried to scare him off before it came down to that.

"I have mace!"

I heard him chuckle softly, and I tamped down my shock and irritation. What kind of person laughed when threatened?

"I am Ezra, Ezra Godric Gaulman. But I go by Godric, and you are?"

"Not interested!"

I did a sharp 180 to tear away into the night and get the hell out of dodge, but my two left feet had other ideas. I yelped in pain as my ankle twisted underneath me and I crumbled to the ground, scraping my knees against the still-searing concrete. I cursed lowly under my breath, wishing I actually did have mace in my fanny pack, as I struggled to my feet once again. I tried to limp away from the teenager I now knew as Godric, but it was a pointless endeavor.

I hadn't seen him move, but somehow he had still managed to close the gap between us.

"I mean you no harm... Here, I can help." He whispered, his head hung low as he entered my personal space. He seemed genuinely contrite and concerned. He was careful not to touch me as he offered me his arm to aid my uneasy escape.

"I'm trying to get away from you," I laughed dejectedly, tears brimming in my blue eyes.

"I know, but I can still help you to do that."

I don't know why, but that won me over – probably because it was ridiculous – and I made the choice to accept his assistance. I placed my hand on his tribal inked arm, and he lightly gripped mine in turn to help me regain my balance. He must have been outside much longer than me because his skin was chilled, ice cold.

"Thank you," I said, peering into his eyes, noting he was about my height and definitely only a couple of years older than I was – although I was usually a terrible judge of age. My father's voice nagged me in my head, asking me where my manners had run off too. So I decided to tell Godric my name, giving it to him in the same delivery as he had given me his – almost, "I'm Sookie Adele Harding, but I go by Addy…"

He interrupted me.

"I do not wish to call you 'Addy.' Sookie is such an extraordinary name. I would prefer to refer to you in an exceptional manner, by the unique name with which you have been blessed."

I scrunched up my nose, not believing his empty compliments but not having a retort by which to refuse them. His request didn't offend me, but I still wanted to reject it. I wondered for a half second when I had categorized him as more friend than foe, shrugging it off. Even in close proximity, he had given me no cause to doubt his explicit intentions.

A stray idea popped into my mind, and I voiced it, hoping to even the playing field.

"Okay... you may call me Sookie instead of Addy," He opened his mouth and I raised a finger to indicate I had not yet finished – that my agreement came with terms, "But only if I can call you Ezra, instead of Godric."

In truth, it was a gambit, and I hoped he'd take the bait, sure he'd never let me call him by anything but his preferred name. I assumed that my condition would be a deal breaker, but color me shocked as unexpected words spilled from his mouth. I wobbled against his hold, unable to contain the surprise that rang through me. I regretted my earlier utterance almost instantly – concurrently unwilling to be anything but true to my word. What did it matter anyways? It was unlikely that I was ever going to see him again.

His brown eyes sparkled as if he had won a verbal sparring match I'd been unaware we were engaged in.

"Yes, Sookie; I will agree to your stipulation. You, and only you, may call me Ezra."

And just like that, without knowing it, I'd invited trouble into my life – although it'd be several more years before Fate would force me to pay for my blunder in spades.