13. Nat

13

Nat

broadsword, the mortal's best invention

“You can’t bring that.”

I spin swiftly, bringing the singing blade to a sudden halt just short of Sin’s carotid.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, has the audacity to let a slow smile spread across his face.

Beautiful. Infuriatingly. Even wearing … “What are you wearing?”

“You like?” He dips his hands into the pockets of his wide leg pants with exaggerated casualness, striking a pose that highlights the contrast between his taupe pants and tight navy t-shirt.

The crocheted rainbow sweater draped over his solid shoulders completes the ridiculous look.

I peer down at myself, checking to see if the entire pot of coffee failed me and I’m experiencing bizarre, caffeine warped hallucinations.

Bare feet. Pants cut into shorts to maintain a semblance of circulation, a jam stain on Meda’s shirt in the shape of Cyprus. Vambraces the finest I’ve ever worn.

To be certain of my sanity, I glance up, but gray clouds continue to race through the sky, the sun beating down in their gaps.

“Persephone’s brought spring,” I remind him and his dumb sweater.

He dismisses me, saying, “I just threw it on,” in the way that makes me picture this enormous warrior twirling in his bedroom in one of those cheesy montages in Theia’s favorite movies.

I scan him up and down again.

The pull of cotton over his torso. His curls are scraped back as if the few hours’ nap he’s had since sunrise was restless.

His aura resembles an oil spill.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s practical,” he retorts, and my jaw must drop to the floor. His sweater has more holes than a sieve and he’s screaming practical. “First law of attraction, darling,” he continues, purple gaze skimming over my assortment of weapons scattered across the lawn. “Be seen.” He bends to caress each knife and garotte as if they’re fine Eurynomos silks. “The second, disarm.” He flaps his holey sweater for emphasis. “And the third—”

“Get stabbed?”

“Seduce,” he finishes with a smug smirk. “When they’re at their weakest, when they can’t take their eyes off you, when they think you’re not interested, or not a threat … that’s when you reel them in.”

I suck on my teeth, a short laugh escaping me.

With a practiced throw of my wrist, I send another blade flying into the nearby tree. It embeds into the bark, sharp and unwavering.

Weapons borrowed from the Blackguard.

Surprisingly high quality.

In his typical air of nonchalance, Sin saunters to the tree, carefully extracting the line of knives. “You don’t agree?” he asks, his eyebrow arched in challenge.

I shrug, my stance relaxed but alert. “Attacking when an enemy is weak is sensible if you don’t value a challenge or you’re worried you might lose.” I launch a small paring knife, snipping a thread on his sweater sleeve with pinpoint accuracy. “I prefer to battle those armed and ready. Take the victory well in hand.”

Sin peers at me through the new hole in his sweater, expression a mix of amusement and irritation. “Like with Ephesus Oberlin?”

“Exactly. I gave him my knife, I informed him of my intentions and when he attacked, I cut his hand off.”

“Noble.”

I can’t help but raise my eyebrows. “Just yesterday, it was psychotic.”

“Yesterday, I didn’t know we’d be working together.” His gaze falls on my weapons again. “Swords are kind of last century. You’ll draw heat if you bring them to Hedone.”

“Fine, I prefer the daggers.”

He pulls another free of the trunk, spins the black blade between his fingers. “These are mine.”

The firm tone washes over me as smoothly as a breeze over fire, heating my skin. “Since finders keepers is not a thing to you, I’ll take Zeke’s Katanas. That’s what I really wanted, anyway. A weapon made to kill.”

The knife jumps in his hand, end over end. “In this realm, in this day and age, we use guns.”

He shortens the distance between us. His dagger tip caressing the hair flopping across my cheek and draws it to my ear without ever scratching my skin. “Did you know those work at a distance?”

I step closer, let his knife graze my temple. “You know I can make you swallow your own tongue, right?”

His smile is leisurely, possessive, deliciously devious. “You want to fit in with the big kids?” Metal dusts my knuckles. “A gun is the only way.”

I glance at the heavy black gun poised within my reach.

Brave to offer an Erinyes a weapon.

Or stupid.

“The only way? I ought to show you my whip. It’s lead and barbed. It can sever bone and make yarn of your sweater.

His hand curls over mine on the gun’s handle. “Don’t make me hard right now. I’ll shoot an eye out.”

I shove him with enough force to break mortal bone, but he only staggers back a foot, as if the push is an inconvenience.

“Let me teach you to shoot.” With a forced spin, he presses his body against mine, his large hand wrapping around my waist and guiding me toward our tree target. “Not all your enemies will be close enough to kiss. We should practice.”

His choice of words is as intimate as his palm coasting up my ribs, fingers spreading under the swell of my breasts.

I’m killing him , I remind myself.

To save the realm and maintain my honor.

I’m sending him to Hades for my sisters and for humanity. For validation of my purpose, of my staying in this realm.

Still, I inhale him. The clove and spice, the heat dripping from his chest into my back.

The power.

Like any time he invades my mind, I throw ice in the flames. Deflect my feelings by saying, “Mortals typically scream and run when bullets fly.”

“You’re not the only creature who can read a map, darling. There’s a gun and archery range behind us so the neighbors are used to the sound.” His breath tickles my ear. “Shoot. Come on, let’s catch you up.”

“Didn’t realize I was behind.”

In a fluid motion, Sin seizes the gun from me, plants his feet and fires. The shots ring out in rapid succession, the finishing thump of the tree’s bark reverberating in the air.

Two bullet holes on top, one centered below.

“Just like that.” He faces me, a challenge in his eyes. Blows on the muzzle. “Fifteen meters. Can you hack it?”

I’d like to hack something .

I gesture at his mess with my middle finger. “You didn’t even hit the same spot.”

Grinning, smug, he withdraws his knife and connects the dots, ostensibly making a heart.

“There you go. See,” he purrs, admiring his handiwork. “Beauty in everything.”

Before he has the dagger back on his belt, I fire. Once. Then another right behind it. Straight through his little heart.

“What the fuck?” He jolts to cover his ears. “You could’ve shot me.”

I blow on the muzzle just like him. “Correction, I would’ve shot you if I wanted to. I didn’t because we’re partners, as you continue to remind me. I shot the center mark, exactly where I wanted to.”

“There’s weight to guns, and the sights vary and—”

I release the clip and dump it on the grass. “And this is a Glock 22, the most common handgun for little immortal whiners. For the record, we have guns in the Underworld. And they’re better maintained and of higher quality than this crap.”

“You have guns?

I marvel at his irritation.

The slice of his tongue over his lower lip. The scowl.

He’s most handsome when he’s angry.

No. Ice. More ice.

“Do you think Hades would deprive us of the realm’s best invention since carbon fiber shields? He splashed out on it. We had a gun fair. Ammo flowed like blood.”

Sin curses softly, stare searing. “What in Hades fucking hell is with the swords and whips, then?”

“We like to play, Blackguard. We have fun with our natural abilities. Guns completely leach the joy from killing. Not to mention, Cerberus barks whenever we shoot.”

He chuckles at that, but it turns into a husky, pained groan. “Dammit, you clipped my sweater. Again.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You infuriating little …” He glares down at me. Smoky lashes, dimple, the slightest thrill of danger. “I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

I slide my fingers into my belt loops to refrain from fiddling with my hair. “I’m well aware of your reputation.” I can see it in his aura.

I sense the change in him instantly.

His mouth flattens, jaw hardens until it’s rigid as stone.

He shakes his head at me, and a zap of worry pulses down my spine. Regret cakes my stomach.

He looks ready to charge.

Sweet anticipation rockets through my body, a warm flush of delight.

In a display of ungodly restraint, he blows out a hot breath and growls, “Have you ever said anything nice? To anyone? Ever? Fuck .” He presses fingertips into his eyebrows and groans. “I came out here to … I don’t know. To help you, to get along. I thought we were getting along.”

We were.

He was being irresistible. I was resisting.

That’s as far as this goes.

I could never be friends with a Blackguard. That’s not the Fury way.

I make my voice glacial. “We’re not friends.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” he fires back. “Ever think that your Phoenix ran from you?”

A burst of rage scabs up my stomach. I clench my hand into a fist. “Watch it.”

I click the gun’s safety on, afraid of what I might do.

Can’t kill him before I get Theia.

“She probably sprinted because you don’t know when to quit. How to behave as if there’s fucking blood in those veins.”

The black of his aura extends in my mind’s eye, swallowing up the yard like a deadly fog. I close my eyes and grind my teeth. “Don’t antagonize me.”

“Atlas is fucking insane if he thinks this will work.”

He’s close. I smell the spice and sweat falling off his skin.

I squeeze my eyelids tighter, suddenly feeling every spot on my body recovering from Oberlin’s prod. The pain charging me with violent, disastrous hate. “It will work. I will find Theia.”

He laughs, humorless and cold. My nails puncture the skin on my palms. “It won’t. Gods, it won’t. At Hedone, you’ll be expected to act like a Diakonos. Do you even know how to be touched? Can you pretend to understand intimacy?”

I need him. I need him. I need him.

Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.

Thunder rumbles overhead. “Of course I can.”

“Then give me a compliment, Bloodspiller.”

“Fuck off.”

“A single compliment or it’s off. Go to Hedone on your own. If you can even get in.”

Slowly, I open my eyes, and come face to neck with his tattoo.

A fresh surge of malintent rolls through me.

I lift the gun to his forehead.

He doesn’t even lift his hands. It’s insulting.

Thinks I won’t end him with the last bullet in the chamber?

“A compliment,” he demands, near seething.

Through gritted teeth, I spit, “You’d make a great shield.”

“Fuck. You,” he snarls, looming over me, chest heaving. “A real one, Natasa. A compliment. Now. As if you liked me.” I bare my teeth at him, and he snaps, “ Pretend .”

I count backwards from ten, picture the sunrise, picture sunsets, fires under gleaming obsidian, force a long, shuttering breath from my mouth, until I manage, “I see, you wanted compliments on your outfit and are sad I didn’t provide.”

“You can’t, can you?” His laugh is acid in my face. The toss of his head back, the flex of his throat, of that tattoo does something to me, unearths a rage I’ve never felt. “So elitist and horrible. You’ll be alone forever.”

Sourness erupts in my stomach. “I like your blades.”

“Me, Nat. Not my fucking knives.”

Fury rushes with renewed force, spilling out and licking up my body. I set my teeth. But he’s not giving up. Stubborn incorrigible ass.

I send him a piercing look, and as soon as I do, I’m talking, regretting. “Your eyes, then.”

“Yeah?” He’s seething, storming toward me.

“ Yes ,” I hiss, flicking the safety back off.

He pushes his solid chest into the muzzle with a force that rattles my entire arm.

I lock my elbow, finger firm on the trigger.

“What about them?”

Now I’m shoving, carving a hole into his skintight shirt. “You’re incorrigible.”

His hand wraps around mine, trapping me between cold metal and calluses. He tips the gun up at the dark, thunderous sky. “Finish what you started, Bloodspiller.”

I’m panting as the rain comes.

Gentle, dotting drops against the planes of my face.

My hold on the hate finds its grip, yanks me from the thrall, sucks the aura into Sin’s skin.

“They’re …” I glare up at him. At those eyes. “They’re … mercurial. Like the sunsets here. The colors change slightly. A bright, disarming purple in the sun, and in the rain, they’re nightshade petals. Poisonous.”

Rain patters down around us, soaking into the earth, slipping over blades and dripping down my skin.

Like a spoiled cat unwinding itself in the sun, his smile stretches out. “Was that so hard?”

“Don’t patronize me.” I thrust the gun into his hand, wipe at the rain sluicing down my cheek.

“Well?” I prompt. “Should we test you now?”

I seize the broadsword, which I suspect belongs to the Russian, and throw it to Sin before snatching two pencil sized blades from the pile, recognizing them immediately as Drakes.

Precise tools.

I twist to Sin, armed.

Dangerous.

The rain picks up, slams sheets between us.

It's a punishing pace that won’t last, so I seize it, diving for him with my knives up.

With an elegance that’s offensive, he dodges me, skidding across grass and mud with his sword raised.

I blow wet hair from my face. “You were teaching me something new. I’ll teach you something old. The art of hand to hand.”

I strike without warning, a lunge over slick grass. We meet in the middle, crashing together, swinging our weapons in unison. Metal grinds against metal with earsplitting cries. Vibrations skitter up my arms.

He blocks well, parries the right blows, steps steady despite the mud pit we’re painting into the grass.

He's a good fighter.

With instincts of a Fury.

Each lunge of mine, each double bladed swing is properly slashed and blocked. Only our pants and growls slip through the torrent of rain.

Breathing strained, I slice at his midsection, twisting on my heel, ducking under the swing of his sword.

He angles the tip at me. “I may look fresh as morning dew, but I was born long before the sword was the preferred weapon.”

Sin sidesteps my next blow and pivots, gaze raking down my body.

He’s breathing heavily like me, shirt glued to his skin, outlining hard packed muscle.

I check the tips of my knives for red and a surprised heat crashes over me at the shine.

I haven’t touched him.

I swipe my tongue over my lip and lower my chin at him. “You’re not bad.”

“Was that so hard—”

I kick out a leg, nailing the side of his ankles until he’s flat on his back.

He’s not bad, but I’m extremely good.

“What was that, Blackguard?”

With a sweep of his arm, he brings me to the ground, rolls us, slams his palms into mine over our heads.

Water trickles from the corner of his mouth. His leg is heavy and punishing between mine, his chest an anvil mis-aligning my spine.

Not taking it easy.

Interest pokes into my mind, desire at its heels.

“Not bad?” he asks as he seals my hands in the cradle of his larger ones.

Black dots in my vision at his weight. I smile. “Decent.”

“A compliment,” he breathes, dropping his forehead to my shoulder. Damp curls tickle my skin. “And freely given. It’s a miracle.”

I wrap my legs around his waist, knotting my ankles at his back. “They do occur when I’m impressed.”

Hot air huffs along my skin, and every fiber of my being ripples with pleasure. “And the touching?” Sin purrs. “That happen when you’re impressed too?”

I almost show him. Almost dig my hands into his hair to pull or push, do something , just to see how he reacts. With surprise, anger, heat?

Just to see how we would burn, whether we’d rage or smolder.

Already knowing which.

But just as my arm lifts, I feel Megaera’s words seep into my flesh. Black attack

I remember my fallen sisters, consider how they’d react if they saw me.

His brother killed my sisters.

Dropping my head down on the grass, I stare at the grisly clouds.

Is Zeus warning me to stay in control?

I sigh, driving ice spikes into my chest. “I was married before.”

Despite my grip on his waist, Sin raises up to his hands to hover over me. “So what?” he asks, still breathing harshly, still flirty. “Hubby stopped impressing you, and you kicked him to the curb?”

If only.

A fresh lump grows in my throat. “He was the best male I’ve ever had the honor of knowing.” With a flex of my thighs, I throw Sin off me, bounce to my feet, spin and launch one, two knives into the shoulders of his ugly sweater, effectively pinning him to the mud.

“He didn’t leave me. I killed him.” Doing my best to scare him, I add, “I care about you far less than I did him. Don’t think for a second I won’t do the same to you if you get in my way.”