12. Sin

12

Sin

with the tip of a feather

Nat peers at me with disbelief, and I instantly revert to my old ways.

Dumb, hot slut.

It worked for centuries. Why bust the mold now?

Ignoring the fact that she’s still clutching a knife, I saunter around her room of disco sex mania and make a surprised noise. “My room’s jungle fever. It’s infested with snakes and horrific.” I chuck my chin at the mini black dress impaled in the drywall and tug at its singed hem. “Is this outfit inspiration or something because I don’t think Meda does dresses?”

“Flimsy, restrictive, and vulnerable. Why would anyone want to wear a dress?”

“Sex appeal, easy access, the pleasant, slightly erotic summer breeze to your nether regions,” I chirp happily, grateful to have sped right over the eavesdropping outside her door accusation.

My defense is thinner than the dress.

Truth is, I saw Drake enter the Thunderdome and when I heard a lack of gunfire, I assumed the worst.

That Nat might be interested in him.

They’d be a fit, wouldn’t they? Torturer and harbinger. They could swing chainsaws together in crowds, play poker with a severed head ante. Make out.

A surge of fiery rage fills me.

Would she bite him?

For the umpteenth time, I’m handling feelings I’ve only ever manipulated. Irritation, fury, lust .

I pounce onto her bed, spreading out on my side, cheek on my knuckles. “So. What’d you and Drakey talk about?”

She stares at me like she wants to rip me apart.

Not in a good way.

I grin, slow and taunting. “Is this turning you on?”

She doesn’t so much as blink at me. The knife in her palm spins, once, twice, three times, before she throws it without a glance into the heart of her dress. The sound of the blades wobble pings in the silence.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

No smile, but light dances in her eyes as she flicks a dark look at me and storms over to the patio doors and throws them wide.

“Where are we going?” I ask, rushing to join her.

She’s barefoot and wielding enough gold to buy an island as she strides through the manicured Kentucky Blue yard now fraught with holes.

“Do you eat dirt?” I ask, straining for the buttons I know she likes pushed. “None of us know what Furies eat.”

“Food,” she replies dryly, passing through the unlatched gate and ducking into the forest. “What a stupid fucking thing to wonder. What do mortals eat? What do Gorgons eat, and Boreads and Chire?”

She’s offended.

She tastes like lemons, as I’ve come to relish, but I study the speed of her steps, the ache in her voice. It’s a skill I haven’t needed in centuries. Body language, tone, having to watch for cues and read between lines.

Prior to King Kadmos knighting me as one of his own, I tasted emotions, only the strong ones and I could only influence when I focused intensely, but the moment I drank from the king's chalice, the taste assaulted me, eviscerated my natural talent.

I reach for it now, tracking the downturn of her gaze, the slightly rolled posture.

We escaped.

She’s alone here, and longs for the Phoenix. Admitted it to Drake.

As if he rescued her from Oberlin, as if he cleaned her feet, as if he made her eyes flare with anger.

With more.

I’ve never in my existence been jealous. Never felt such distinct possession over someone’s attention.

With Nat, I’m consumed with a frenzied desire to be her sole focus. Whether she’s glaring, stabbing, kissing me, I don’t care. I just don’t want her eyes off me.

Not entirely true judging by the raging hard on I get whenever I taste lemons. I want more from her, much more, but I’ll take what I can get.

For now, if she has me in her sights, it’s enough.

Nat pulls us deeper into the woods and up a scramble, ducking under fragrant spring blooms.

The rental house backs up to a small reserve, an oasis considering how close we are to the city.

Luke, our resident mortal in-between, selected it for privacy. Well chosen if not for Zeke’s morning naked sun salutations, then for the Russian passing out dead drunk in the begonias every night.

Despite the lack of moonlight filtering through the canopy, Nat leads confidently, taking us higher and higher up the hillside until the trees thin to bushes.

She’s probably leading me up here just to push me off a cliff.

And it shouldn’t make me smile.

“I once told the entire French court I could only consume pure Grecian olive oil. Anything else would kill me,” I tell her, pathetic in my need to be her sole focus. “My friend bottled up some local stuff, jacked the price up and gave me a kickback. I uncovered two plots to kill me with dabs of Italian olive oil.”

“And you gave them the guillotine?” Her voice, low and cool, slides out like a deadly sonnet.

I click my tongue. “Even better. I blackmailed them. More kickbacks.”

“I’ll add greed to your list of sins.”

“C’mon, you’re not even a tiny bit impressed?” I tease as we climb. Birds chirp around us and the haze of morning casts branches in a pink-orange glow. “Not even a little surprised, didn’t know you had it in you handsome, put her there ?”

“I’ll put nothing near you ever.”

Obstinate, impossible female. “Is the entire population of the Underworld literal, or are we so lucky to be blessed by the driest Fury in existence?”

Her response is the crunch of leaves underfoot.

“Do you even know where you’re going?”

She brushes aside a fledgling branch and releases it to spring back at me. Petty.

I grin. Twist the ring on my pinky finger.

“You’ll cut your feet again,” I warn.

Wait.

Nothing. Damn it.

I’m ignored.

Is this what Hestia experiences sitting beside beautiful Aphrodite and charismatic Apollo in the Dodecatheon meetings? It's awful.

“We should try getting along,” I say.

“I’m not stabbing you repeatedly, am I?”

Shocking that’s not enough to pass off an alliance these days. “We need to be on the same page.”

“I don’t even want to be in the same book as you.”

“Natasa.” I grab her elbow and forcefully turn her toward me.

The forest holds its breath in the heartbeats between her scowl and the dash of her eyes to mine. “Sinis.”

My name is laced with venom, and lust reverberates along my nerve endings.

“Sin, please,” I offer, voice rough.

She scoffs in response. “Are you making a request?”

I lower my face to hers, press one foot to her instep, knee grazing the inside of her thigh. “If I was?”

Her breath hitches as our bodies arc closer, the smallest sign she’s affected by me. “How could I choose what to do to you?”

“I can always tell you my favorites.”

Too quickly, her gaze drops, glues to the black ink encircling my throat. “You don’t have to, Blackguard. I already know what you’ve done.”

She throws her free hand into my wrist to break contact and spins on her heel.

“Stop.”

She doesn’t.

I’ve gone mad. Crazed for whipping her around into me again, for setting my hand to her throat and yanking her into my chest, trapping her hands under my arm.

“You and I are going to Hedone together,” I declare firmly, ignoring the press of her curves. “We’ll pose as Diakonos and owner, infiltrate, do reconnaissance, plant feelers. And we’ll do it together, as a team, understood?”

Silver scorches her cheeks. “And how will you and I be getting into Hedone, the highly exclusive, secret club?”

“My brother Rune is an expert in tech. He’ll generate a phony invite.”

“It’s a passcode. Not an invite,” she drones, body turning limp against me. Not limp, collapsing, forcing me to hold her up.

Brat.

Before I can do something dumb like smell her, I shove her out of my arms, annoyed at how swiftly she adjusts to the movement, sinking easily back into a walk.

“Fine, then we’ll rig the system, cause a temporary blackout or drug the door guy. Or—”

“Asphodel is the password.” She stops short of the hill’s crest, twisting to glare straight at me. “Just so we’re clear, the only reason I need your help is because you are male and seen as despicable. After I retrieve Theia, I will decide who in attendance will live and die, and you and I? We will never speak again.”

“I see. We’ll just communicate with our bodies.”

“Can you take this seriously? For one godsdamned moment?”

I take two steps until she’s looking up at me, an agitated twitch in her eye. “Nothing I’ve said hasn’t been serious,” I say, adding, “We can’t tell the traffickers you’re a Fury, they’ll run.”

This brings a smile to her face. “Only the guilty run.”

“Where do you think we’re going? A make-a-wish party? It’ll be a stampede. Every creature there has a reason to fear Fury’s wrath.”

“Every creature?” she asks, raising an elegant brow at me, as if to say, even you? You fear me?

“Does that please you, Bloodspiller?”

“It surprises me.” She casts a quick glance backwards. “I guess there’s some sense in you, after all.”

Always needing the last word.

The final blow.

She works me up like no creature I’ve met. Self-assured and wild and fierce. Unyielding with her desire. I bet she’s incredible in bed. The inability to lie, the bloodthirst, the curves.

Purely to piss her off, I say, “We’ll tell them you’re a Nymph.”

She stops at the top of the hill and purses her lips. “No one will believe that.”

I fold my arms as she sits. “Exactly why it’ll work. A tall, surly Nymph, the rarest creature of all.”

If the birds stopped chirping, I’d bet I could hear her teeth grinding as she presses her palms into the stretch of gray stone beneath her. Those two flanks of gold armor on her forearms glint under the first rays of daylight.

Where did she get them?

And the knife?

Digging in the dirt?

Is Lev right? Can I dig a grave and accidentally fall into the Underworld?

Hades’s domain exists in a vacuum of mystery. Only a few who visit ever return, and those who do are usually not in the right mind to share details.

“What’s wrong with nymphs?” I taunt, wanting her scrambling along with me, wanting her annoyed and angry. “Too sweet? Too adoring and tender hearted?”

“For starters,” she grouses.

“And that makes them weak?”

“If you’re going to be here, at least be quiet.”

“Be where? We’re in the middle of the woods, there’s nothing—”

She gasps, breathy, light when the sun breaks the horizon and a burst of rich, bronzy orange pours over the sky. Streaks of the brightest colors douse the skyline and lick up our little hill, allowing us the perfect view.

Her eyes glimmer, and I can’t discern if it’s from wonder or her refusal to blink.

Knowing her, it’s the latter.

Stubborn.

She stares at the sun, and I stare at her.

A few minutes turn into ten, and it hits me why we’re here. One thing I know for certain of the realm of the dead. There are no sunrises.

She’s indulging in a mortal delicacy.

She lets the entire sun clear of the horizon before she speaks again, voice near soft, resembling the tone she used with Drake. “Nymphs are not weak for being kind. They’re beautiful and wonderful and I’d wish to be like them, to feel like them.” She stares ahead, nails digging into the loam at her sides, a small smile despite the water in her eyes. “But I won’t pass for a Nymph.”

“I’d say you’re doing a damn good job right now.”

Her stare darts to mine, and sticks. Her lips part.

I’m beautiful.

Songs have been written about me, tattoos of my face exist. Sonnets and poems and novels are dedicated to me. Numerous lovers have attempted to kill me to keep from sharing me. Countless others have proposed, left their families for a mere chance with me. I’ve had multiple enduring fan clubs. But Nat’s dissection makes me feel raw.

Exposed.

She doesn’t look at me like I’m beautiful.

She looks at me like I’m a male who knows he is, like I’m despicable and deceiving, like I don’t deserve the gifts I’ve been given.

I consider sending her a wave of compassion or dousing her with amicability to ease the feeling, but ... forget.

Half because she’s right, half because I’m entranced.

Her face is unremarkable, olive skin, full cheeks that squeeze her eyes shut when she smiles. And yet. “You are stunning, dear, and anyone who says otherwise is jealous.”

Her cheeks heat with a spray of silver and she rolls her eyes. “Stop trying to get in my pants.”

“I’m trying to get you out of your pants.”

She scowls at the rising sun. “You’ve made me miss it. Fuck.” She jolts to her feet and furiously wipes her eyes.

“There will be another sunrise tomorrow.”

“Do you know the secret to accepting death?”

The same question she asked Drake.

It feels like a test, so instead of my typical quick fire response, I think for a moment. “Having no regrets?”

She shakes her head at me as if I’m absurd. Inhales a sharp sniffle and folds her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Many have cried at my beauty.”

“I’m not crying,” she retorts snidely. “But if we’re going to work together”—she wets her lips, tips her head up to face me straight on—“then I’m sorry. I wasn’t in my head yesterday. The thrall, the haze I get after a kill, it’s biological. We kill and we’re injected with instant adrenaline. It’s a reward of sorts and in the heat of battle it’s like Adderall, it turns us into hyper-focused predators, our only goal becomes chasing that high.”

“So you turn to sex.”

“Never,” she says, so fiercely I believe her. “I’d never. The thrall is too dangerous. It’s when my restraint is at its thinnest. The longer I go without it, the worse it hits. And you most of all—” She cuts herself off, swallowing hard and tensing her stomach muscles. Levels me with big brown eyes. “I shouldn’t have let myself get there. I’m better than that.”

A pit opens in my stomach and black leaks out. “So am I.”

“Don’t be a dick about it—”

“I’m serious. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” I scratch my neck. “I don’t think I deserved a bullet, but you needed some slack.”

“No I didn’t.”

It clicks.

My obsession. My irritation.

I’m unworthy of her.

She can see it. Straight through my looks, my charm. She finds me lacking.

Maybe it’s defensive, or pathetic, fuck maybe I just want her to stare at me with something other than vague disgust or apathy, but I tell her, “You were right. Dad regretted having me. Mom skipped out the moment he left.”

Whatever I wanted from her, I don’t get it.

In a tone as derisive as a voice can be, she says, “I was breathed into being when my aunt buried an ichor soaked helm, so why don’t you cry to someone else about family drama?”

She stands and dusts dirt and grass off her ass.

I store the image in slow motion for later. Ask, “Your aunt raised you then?”

Nat adjusts her armbands again, eyes on the impossibly bright sunrise. “Yes. Megaera. The fiercest of the warriors, first of the original three Erinyes. A champion of morality.”

There’s such pride beaming from her. I can’t help but laugh at how different we are.

And still I double down, “I was raised by two people who hate each other, forced to be together by the Fates themselves.”

This time she laughs, a rich, throaty sound that bounces off the stone and wraps around my cock.

“Sounds familiar.”

I arch a brow. “Not so much. She never tried to kill him.”

I watch mesmerized as she crouches to the earth, elbows braced on spread knees, and slips two fingers into her mouth before slowly drawing them out. “That’s a shame.”

The knot in my throat makes it hard to speak. “Maybe. She cheated and complained and harbored resentment for him.”

Nat tips up to look at me, fingers stuck together like a salute as she drags the mud down the line of her throat, over Meda’s shirt and presses hard on her heart. “Then he should kill her.”

As if it were that simple.

“Nah. He’s been in love with her since the moment they met. Doesn’t matter what she does. He’s in her chokehold.”

She flicks the remaining dirt over her shoulder and starts back for the path, pausing only to say, “Cry about it, pretty boy.”

I smile.

I’m so fucked.