Never lovelier, p.16
Never Lovelier, page 16
I show him my teeth, but the anger loses its hold, shoved aside by a lighter, friendlier feeling: relief.
I’m still Erinyes.
“I knew you weren’t better with people than me.”
“Back up, darling.”
“You’re not that funny and your flirting is awful, and there’s no possible way all those females would fawn over you.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”
A laugh puffs from between my lips, a million little feelings slamming into clarity. I wasn’t crushing on him. I didn’t think he was handsome. I didn’t consider kissing him. “I knew it.”
“Hold on. My flirting is on par with the best.”
I laugh, giddy now. “Adding darling to the end of every sentence doesn’t qualify as flirting.”
“And how would you know?”
“I know I nearly kissed you yesterday.” I drop my forehead into his rock-hard chest, cheeks burning from my smile. “I’m not crazy. Gods, I thought there was something between you and me. I wanted you. Worse, Zeus curse it, I feared I liked you.”
His chest rumbles with a noise of dissent. Angry or disappointed that I’ve foiled his grand scheme. He shoves me back, palm spread over my collarbone, other hand on my waist. His attention strays to the mud flaking off my neck, the line for my family, and lowers to the marking over my heart. “Before or after you tried killing me?”
I release a snort. “I don’t try to kill things. I attack and death sings.”
“So your hand on my neck, that was … what?” His voice sinks to a growl. “Foreplay, Bloodspiller?”
“My subconscious, obviously. Fighting your gift, telling me better. Warrior’s instinct.”
“Sure it was.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Blackguard. I’ve seen through you now.”
“Mmm.”
Not even his faint murmur can’t bring me down. I feel light, right, a hundred percent Fury once more. An Erinyes with evil to scorch and good to save.
Sin’s big, warm hands rise to my cheeks, long fingers curling around the nape of my neck. His hold on me is solid and commanding as he tilts my face up and draws us together. His eyes are look like lavender sugar, crystallized and luminous. There’s a steadiness in them. My pulse skyrockets.
And it’s okay.
I let it pour over me. These feelings aren’t real, the tingling, the heat, the lust.
Morning sun leaks through the windows, painting him into an oil worthy of the Louvre.
And I get to inhale it, breathe it in like the sunset, every decadent color and curve, the bend of light, warped and washed over the valleys of his cheeks and the strong ridge of his nose. Get to listen to his honey smooth voice without resisting.
“Today, Natasa, when sleep becomes you, whether you drift off for a moment or plunge into darkness, you’ll realize that I used no compulsion on you.”
I shake my head, and he makes a soothing sound, sliding long fingers into my hair to keep me in place.
“How could I?” he whispers darkly. “When I’d been using it for hours on such a large group? How could I if I revolt you a fraction of what you say? The power necessary to make you wonder what it would be like to give yourself to me, to taste me, maybe even let yourself be tasted …” His thumb dusts my mouth. My pulse thumps painfully. “Well … I hate to let you down, Bloodspiller, but I’m not powerful enough for that.”
I start to speak, but he’s not finished with me, not done with breathing my air and swirling warmth in my stomach.
He takes his thumb and licks it, slow and lascivious, before he drags it down the muddy trail on my throat, wiping away my roots, my home.
“At Hedone,” he murmurs, hot touch coasting down, down. “I threw my emotions on your pursuer, the sheer revulsion I felt from seeing another male touch you. It was my jealousy. The magnitude of which I hadn’t acknowledged until it raged on his body.”
Sweet King Hades.
He presses his hand hard against my chest and unveils a feral smile of triumph at my thundering heartbeat.
“I …”
“You gave me the truth yesterday. That’s one I’ve got.”
He steps back, letting oxygen and sun and regret pool between us.
Suddenly, he looks tired, eyes downcast as he examines his dirt covered thumb, and swipes it over his already healed papercut. “Now you know, Bloodspiller. You see my past, and I see your present.”
With a final somber look, he strides from the kitchen. Leaves me alone.
It doesn’t escape me that he didn’t have to use last night as his example. There’s a dozen better, more self-preserving instances of him not using his gift on me.
Our first meeting. When I’d thrown the blade at his jugular. The cowboy bar, on my hill.
He let me hate him, again and again.
And last night, maybe for the first time, I didn’t hate him.
I didn’t hate him for a second.
And he refuses to let me forget that.
20
Sin
genuine shock
I never share?
Where did that bucket of lies spill from?
I share. Plenty. My body, my thoughts, my dates, their dates, strangers on the streets.
My ring pinches as I grip the goblet harder, pressing the thick stem into the tablecloth until seams form around it. The fissures spread like spiderwebs, fracturing the perfect facade I’ve so meticulously crafted. Why do I feel this incessant compulsion to share, to offer pieces of myself to everyone who crosses my path?
Is it a desperate plea for connection?
A futile attempt to fill the yawning void within me?
I release my death grip, watching as the wrinkles smooth, erasing the evidence of my turmoil. On the surface, everything is back to normal. Underneath, I’ve never felt more unhinged.
It wasn’t a lie.
The answer razes through me, hot and overpowering.
The thought of another male touching Nat inspired one avalanche of rage after another.
She’s mine.
The heat drains from my body, mind a swirl of confusion and contradiction, heart brimming and empty. Cold fills me.
Is it possible she is … mine? Truly mine? A Fated bond. One chosen by the three Fates, a string specially plucked and tied to me, my other half.
Her thread would be the brightest silver, barbed and woven, digging and scratching and biting into mine until separation meant death.
No, it’s not possible.
She would feel it.
I liked you, she’d laughed.
So dismissive, so unimpressed.
I run a finger over the tablecloth’s weave like it’s the arch of a beloved cat’s spine.
Nat might hate me, might try to kill me, but she’s unwittingly shown her cards. She’s as confused as I am. Just as hopelessly attracted to me as I am to her. Maybe even more.
“Isn’t that right, Sinis?” A hollow, southern accent eradicates my wandering thoughts and yanks me to the present. I taste dry chamomile and expired cream.
Dislike and disgust.
The last thing Maxine deserves is a smile her way, but that’s exactly what I grant her, not half a second after she called my mother a wanton whore. Because while Maxine Chaconas is half Nereid—water Nymphs preferred in illicit trading—she flaunts her Scylla half with poisoned comments and personal attacks as she reigns over five course meals that only a mad king with gout could enjoy.
Suckled pig, veal, runny duck eggs. The table sags under the weight of delicacies barely sampled.
Her home is a plantation. Restored impeccably to the glory of its original purpose, to lord and conquer.
I hope it’s haunted.
I hope bitter ghosts rise through the floorboards and wrench every wretched bone from her body.
Gods, I’m spending too much time with Nat.
“You’ve hardly dined, Sinis. Have you no appetite?” Varley asks, slicing into his lemon-yellow custard with gusto.
Another languid, fake smile. “My appetite knows no bounds. Surely you remember.”
Maxine huffs at that, a sudden biting laugh from her position at the head of the table. She doesn’t want me here, probably didn’t think I’d respond to, let alone accept, her last-minute dinner invitation. I’m glad to have disappointed her.
As if he’s never seen sugar before, Varley scrapes the dish with his spoon, collecting the last bits as he jests, “I told our host you would not favor sending the entertainment elsewhere.”
Maxine’s frosty eyes harden, her long square tipped nails poke at her pearl drop necklace. “Please. Sinis flourishes under firm directions. Lesenia spoke widely that you performed best after a dry spout.”
I push an orange slice between my teeth and smirk. Coy. Secretive. Whatever the fuck they want me to be.
Anything but broken. No matter how well Maxine rakes me over the horrors of my past. “Allow me to call my date and I can show you all how to properly feast.”
“Date,” Brax responds with a scoff of offense from Maxine’s right hand.
“You saw how he dressed her,” Pearson eggs on in a vitriolic voice, the dumb to Brax’s dumber. “I bet he bathes her in milk and honey.”
It’s condemnation, not admiration.
Pearson’s date arrived in black lingerie and a busted lip, a tattoo of his name marked on her forearm.
“Do you?” Maxine demands.
She tastes like rotting leaves under a scorching sun. Revolted and offended.
I spill a feeling of comradery into the dining room. Again. “Black and purple look best on soft, creamy skin, am I wrong?”
“There. See.” Varley’s a referee, taking my pudding as a bribe.
Maxine doesn’t believe me, but we are in the middle of a tango. Here and now, in front of the audience she’s gathered of bigots and bastards. If she throws a punch mid spin, the reviews will be dreadful, but if I were to trip, lag, fail to make her shine, they’d skewer me instead.
I know this game.
Used to take pleasure in it.
Black eyebrows permanently arched, our host suggests we reunite with our Diakonos, and guides us to the white wraparound porch for spiced bourbon flights. Along the way, she takes precious care to point out the servant’s quarters, preserved in their original decrepit condition.
For authenticity.
Scurrying in riding boots, Varley is explaining how gelato is superior to custard into my elbow when a sharp pain bursts across my chest.
It happens so quickly, I almost reach for my knife, because it can’t be—it can’t have been real. She couldn’t have been—
Nat was looking at me.
She’s not anymore, and the smile, my fucking smile, has vanished.
I want it back.
One second, Nat’s bubblegum skirt floats in the breeze, dancing like the twin strands of hair in front of her ears. One second she’s staring, rosy pink lips curved at the corners like the tails of comets, promising wishes and dreams come true, lidded eyes climbing up the lines of my suit, settling appreciatively on my mouth, and then her gaze snaps to the side and it’s gone.
I miss it instantly.
I miss her smile, I miss her looking.
Besides a general complaint on my choice of clothing—her as heartbreaker princess and me as her prince charming in a royal blue suit—we haven’t spoken.
Not on the walk here, not waiting in Maxine’s gaudy vestibule. Nat didn’t so much as glance back at me when Maxine clapped at her like a pet and sent her to wait with the rest of the Diakonos.
Not even a farewell jab into my gut.
Now she’s smiling.
A terrible thought cracks into my skull.
Theia.
Nat found her. That’s why she’s happy, why she’d dare to smile at me.
I should smile.
A Phoenix within reach. A Phoenix to question and learn from, to rid myself of this godsdamned curse on my neck. I should be ecstatic for my brothers, for me, for the future.
I can’t move.
Can’t take the final stride onto the porch despite the bands of my curse tightening painfully, demanding I continue.
When we find Theia, Nat won’t need me anymore.
Denial hacks brutally at my insides.
“Pretty,” Varley muses, hooded eyes drifting over the gathering of Diakonos. “In this light, at least.”
I could choke him for that, but the logic he lends forces me to place one foot after another.
Nat’s still wearing her dress. Sequins and hearts and every shade of pink.
If she had Theia, she’d have shredded the skirt, set torches to the ribbons. She’d be soaked in blood and ichor, not giggling, she’d be raging, swinging a hatchet right for Maxine.
Or me.
It gives me the oddest sense of relief, struck short by the biting cinch of black around my wrists and throat.
Faster, the curse seems to say.
I join the party.
Spring in Georgia is wet and hot, but pleasant to an immortal’s skin. Our group is happy to disperse across couches facing the willows swinging on the expansive property.
Maxine has an Oceanid—a Nymph like her—in a butler’s uniform deliver glittering dark bourbon in green brocade glasses to us. She points a violent finger at the mangle of Diakonos watching as if they’re no more than gulls expected to chase a fry at the beach.
They scatter, timid and well-trained, dragging chains and hurrying to assist their masters.
Nat does not possess the ability to scurry. She marches straight for me, eyes trained on the gap in my collar.
I battle the impulse to button my shirt, hide the tattoo she’s imagining shucking off my skin.
I’ve done countless shameful, regrettable, and hateful things, but the tattoos were never a regret. The vow I made to create a fairer world for creatures and promote equality never made the list until Nat’s intense disapproval.
I understand it. Why did I need a king to tell me to be good? Why did I fail him?
Because I’m half the creature she is.
Varley is slurring beside me. On his way to drunk while Maxine and the trio of fuckwits chat estates and security.
I strain to pay attention, debating whether to infuse the night with friendship and try for information another day or layer the air with competition and start a my Diakonos is more rare than yours duel to the death.
Messy, but faster.
Lemons hit me, and then, “Lord Sin.”
Her voice wipes my mind clean. There’s no derision in her tone. No mocking edge.
And the way Nat looks at me, tongue perched on her incisor, hooded eyes tracing my features, interest intense and matter-of-fact, it beckons me.
She’s a cavern opening up the earth, tearing it apart, and I’m a river, helpless to fall.
Moving on instinct, I tug on her wrist to sit beside me, grateful for the crush of silken pink fabric keeping our skin from making contact.
Closer, we’d agreed. I fear I’d demand it even if we hadn’t.
At Hedone, she was a diamond among seashells. Tonight she’s sweet in a bitter home.
The other Diakonos squat at their owner’s sides, hands perched on knees and arms, waiting to be slapped or grabbed or pinched.
Not Nat.
With warrior precision, she maneuvers out of her seat and lowers herself into my lap, knees tucking beside my thighs, arms gliding around my nape. The rest of her packed tight into me, ribs and chest and hips.
My breath catches.
There’s the barest hint of blood and sweat below her citrus tang. I don’t think I’ll ever have lemonade without getting immediately erect.
“Knew you’d make it a party,” Varley grins, groping for his female to sit astride him as well.
Maxine heckles outright, throwing an orange peel at his shoe, but bastards will be bastards and it’s not minutes before the regal southern dining extravaganza is no better than a frat house with top-notch roofies.
Ignoring them all, Nat twists my hair, pulls and scrapes as she brings her lips to my ear. “You were less tense when you were rigor mortis.”
I force a smirk, unsure of where to put my hands, what we’re doing, how Nat’s going to quarter me for this. Or how to command my body to stop buzzing, and anticipating more.
“Little to fear when you’re already dead.”
A smile. A wandering fingertip dips inside the gap of my shirt to draw a nail across my sternum.
I shudder.
She smiles. “Are you scared of me, darling?”
“No.”
She licks her lips, studying me, and then slides into me, down me, grinding forward until I feel her every inhale, until my skin tightens at the burn of citrus. “Would you admit it if you were?”
Her mouth touches high on my neck, and I imagine those full lips poised in a self-satisfied smile.
“No,” she whispers, undoing a button at my chest. “Males have too much pride for that.”
“I don’t have pride, I have vanity.”
“What’s that?” Varley asks. He’s chewing on his cocktail straw, eyes glazed.
I snap back to the world outside of Nat flirting on my lap. Nat in pink, Nat gripping me. Rolling and swaying.
Clear my throat. “My female was praising my body, and I requested she be less redundant.”
I brace for a pinch or stab but Nat merely curls tighter against me, fingers sneaking into my shirt. Her grin is a red flag in the corner of my eye.
“Too much of a good thing,” Varley murmurs, watching rabidly as Nat’s tongue traces the edge of my jaw. “That’s what got you into trouble the first time.”
“I thought it was his mouth,” Brax calls, his pudgy fingers snapping his date’s bra. “And tongue.”
“Brax is right,” Maxine sneers. “Hard to believe you can speak after the work Lesenia offered.” She sets her drink on her Oceanid’s silky black hair. “Now that female was right and proper, had her skirts velcroed to the bodice so she’d never mess her face.”
Silence blows through the porch, sweeping over horror struck expressions.
If I weren’t here, they’d laugh. They’d share their own tales of my enslavement, times they’d seen my hands cut off for helping a female stand, the weeks I’d gone without eyes for daring to look at another.
