“I concede your point,” Balam said in his most gracious tone. “Let us move on.” But Powageh would not hear him. “I have as much right to call Serapio mine as any of our cohort, certainly more than you do, despite you and Saaya fucking every chance you—” Powageh cut off abruptly, eyes wide, mouth open. Something clenched in Balam’s gut, but he worked to relax it, to keep any stress from his face. “You’re right, Cousin,” he soothed, reassuring smile firmly in place. “Of course, you are right. Our boy. All of ours. You, Paadeh, Eedi, Saaya. Our creation.”
