15. Sin

15

Sin

too hot syrup

“A post office?” Nat’s mouth flounders open and closed, an unimpressed angle arching her brow. “Seriously? Are we going to lick stamps?”

I’d pay to see that.

I’d mow down this entire building to see it.

I curse myself so intensely, Hef rolls over in his bed.

The promise to shun Nat completely was on its last struggling breath.

Should I just walk away? Find a Phoenix on my own?

Can I find a Phoenix on my own?

Should I just kiss her for being stubborn, sexy, and bloodthirsty all at once?

Yes, that one.

She’d gone from panting under me in the rain, enticing the hardest, most visceral lust I’ve felt in half a century to threatening me with the body of her dead husband.

She’d been looking as if she’d happily devour me, throwing herself upon the mercy of my brothers to calling me a whore.

The anger doesn’t last long.

She hadn’t known how severe that word would cut and I can’t fault her for it. Nor can I get angry with her threats or the skittish, hard-assed nature.

I’m a Blackguard. She’s a Fury.

Greeks and Titans are oil and water on their best day.

On their worst, say when the Greek’s a perpetual quitter with a lackluster resume and the Titaness is an honor bound killing machine, we’re peanut butter and black mold.

Still, I think her lemon scent might be embedding into my DNA.

When I give the deflated Gorgon bouncer the password, it starts.

The anxiety. The cloying taste. The lack of control.

We haven’t arrived and I already want to leave.

This world hasn’t entered my mind in years. I haven’t allowed it to. Afraid of the damage it’ll cause, how it’ll suck me in and spit me out this time.

Last time, I got out via the guillotine and Atlas’s unwelcome intervention.

But I’d been defeated.

Happy to lose my head if it meant escaping this torture.

Here I am, walking into it, dragging along a female a hundred times my worth.

For my brothers.

For the curse, and my king. For hope.

We walk through an empty office, then another door, another Gorgon that accepts the same password until we’re finally buzzed into a warehouse as wide and tall as an airplane hanger.

Fuckers always have a way of making you feel small, right from the get-go.

My heart thumps against my ribs, and I have an urge to wrench on a tie that’s not there.

Beside me, Nat has the extraordinary ability to look unimpressed with the ice sculpture of Aphrodite rising from the foam, the quartet strumming a decadent, soupy tune, and the thousand candles whipping at the mercy of a Boread’s idle thought.

In a gown of glittering stardust, she casts one look at me, and flicks her nail at a stack of flat rate boxes shoved to a corner. “Seriously?”

Gods of Olympus, she looks stunning in candlelight. I reel her into me, palming her hip.

“Why do you think this place closes at four?”

“Government inefficiency? The plight of bureaucracy? An embrace of a work life balance?”

The dry sarcasm helps ground me.

“Sweet, stupid Fury,” I say against her hair. “Where do you think ‘going postal’ came from? It happens every time a mortal forgets their lunch box comes in late and witnesses the sordid debauchery of two Dryads prostrating for a Scylla douche.”

“Is this why I never got my cereal mail-in super bouncer?” she curses softly.

She’s angry at a bouncy ball? Fuck, I was hard before. This is … worse.

I pull away, but she turns into me, irate. “I stopped eating Fruit Loops, and it could’ve been some horny overpowered male’s fault?”

“I’d guess every missed card and lost package is firmly accredited to a surplus of bodily fluids.”

She makes a sound of disgust. “And the Argos permit this? How?”

Finally, an answer I know. “Allow me to enlighten you, darling.”

If Furies are the police of Hades, then the Argos, blessed by Hera, all-seeing, and winged—and real dicks about the fact that they can fly—are the Robocops of the mortal realm. They’re main duty? Killing any creature who divulges the truth of the Gods to mortals, whether by accident, like bleeding silver in the middle of Times Square, or on purpose, like befriending Luke.

Not that we’ve ever done either.

To the Argos’s knowledge.

Waving off a waiter and two generously poured glasses of Bordeaux, I lead Nat from the welcome area into the depths of Hedone using only the rich flavors of increasing arousal and fear.

Caramel and aubergine on my tongue, I brace.

Nat gasps. Her feet carry her backwards and into me, shoving with the might of a battering ram.

I fold over her, keeping us close, wanting us close, wishing we could retreat to the entrance and watch Aphrodite slowly melt from a thousand licking flames and drink ourselves silly.

That’s not why we’re here.

This is.

The air is dense with a heady mix of incense, sweat, and desire. The music is no sweet melody. Here, it pulses under ancient drums and otherworldly instruments, weaving a seductive spell.

A duo of Sileni, the brother’s Maclean, are fanned by a purple-haired Siren. She moans wantonly when the older brother slaps her face and grabs her cheek, demands she work harder.

Nearby, a trio of Nymphs in blush shades carefully follow their Hydran master’s steps, flowery tresses cascading over bruised skin.

Nat shifts closer to me, her breath quickening. I glide a possessive hand over her hip. “Welcome to the dark side of Olympus.”

Her sweet brown eyes flash in the dim light, darting from one debauched scene to the next. A male with a green flush in his cheeks pours wine into the throat of a crying female, his hand creating faint lines on her throat. Scantily clad Nymphs, Hamadryads if I had to guess, wait on their knees for a command, hands folded and shaking. A Cyclopes, distinct from his shock-white hair, drags a rail thin male behind him, a slant of sparkling purple ribbon covering his eyes.

And on the far wall, the owner operator of Hedone himself, Yavi. The Argos spreads his iridescent blue wings as a female and male in matching aqua gowns tease his throbbing member.

I position my lips at the edge of Nat’s ear and twist her to watch. “Even the honorable Argos are not immune to desire.”

“They have collars.” She’s not quiet, and her lemon overpowers the candles scattered around the dim room like a lightning storm from Zeus himself.

I latch onto it, let her sear of acid burn away the revulsion and power trips floating around us. Force myself to not overstimulate.

It’s a fair turnout.

There are faces I recognize well enough to assign names to, others I’ve only seen contorted in ecstasy, and, as expected, a select handful who have seen me beg, crawl on bloodied hands and knees, and scream.

A bolt of terror hits my chest at the sight of a coiled blonde coiffure, and a gown of darkest purple sweeping along the floor.

Mutt , she deigned to call me. Damned mutt, rutting mutt, her mutt.

Useless mutt.

Ripe berries. She’d taste of them, greed, as she’d stroke me, arm pinned over my mouth.

It’s not her , my mind says, attempting to shield me from the years, attempting to rake in the shattered parts of me and ram them back together.

My heart thunders, my ears roar and sting.

The female turns, the tip of her nose backlit, the hand holding her goblet is firm—

“Sin,” Nat snarls. “Theia’s not in here. Let’s go.”

I jolt, realize she’s gripping me, pressed against me.

They’re staring at us.

All of them.

Newcomers are a spectacle. Outsiders amusing. The two of us? Might as well have come in with a firecracker between my teeth, riding on a drakon.

I’m a once in a lifetime guest and they all realize it. I used to be their star, and then their dirt, and now—

Lemons . Fresh. Trampled, pouring out of split peels.

Nat shuffles behind me, tucked away in the low lighting, her back to the wall.

Strategic. A defensive stance.

She dazzles in silver, as I knew she would, a mirror image of the final blinding glint of sunburst in an evening sky.

The sizing is perfect. The snug tuck at her waist, the gentle gathers at her full hips and chest. Luscious curves on display.

Dressed like a dream. Eyes are twin storms, deadly and hostile. Her nails dig into the tattoo on my wrist in a way that strikes me as sweet.

I won’t protect you.

Her reminder slinks under my skin, and I allow it to marinate.

Voice husky as she glided toward the sunset, lips parted, expression serene.

I could almost taste vanilla as she stared, warm and sugary, melted ice cream made in a kitchen plastic bag.

Ice, salt, cream.

Pure.

She doesn’t have to protect me.

I’ll protect her.

I focus and unleash.

Set free all the bottled emotions of the last two days. Everything I keep on a tight lid for my brothers now bursts out like a shaken bottle of champagne , streams of lust, interest, trust and ease.

Nat shivers, and her grip tightens on mine.

“Let’s get a drink,” I nearly slur, resisting the urge to sigh at the lack of restraint.

“We’re not here to drink.”

Stubborn female.

I wrap my hand around the back of her throat, clasping at her silky tresses and draw her close to me. “We cannot storm rooms crying her name.” She opens her mouth to argue and I cover it with a press of my thumb, yanking her closer. “What if she’s not here? What if she’s been sold or bought? What if she’s not a favorite? Or she’s escaped? We make conversation, we get information, and on the sly, when no one’s looking, we search.”

Glaring, furious, she huffs. “I still don’t want a drink.”

“Well I fucking do.”

I propel us into the throng and squeeze her hand. Remember what she is—rather, who she is—and double the pressure until she kicks my heel.

Trays of champagne sparkle under a tiered chandelier, ripened fruits sliced and spread on platters lay untouched. Slabs of cut meats rest in blood.

Beyond the decadence, a female in a flare of pink tulle and uncovered feet quietly cries, her face tight with anger. A hefty metal lock rests against her throat.

I drink one flute, then another, never once tasting the bubbles or the sweet indulgence, the entirety of my body honed in on how Nat is handling this.

How harshly she can burn my nose with lemon until she snaps, and I’m witnessing her signature crucifixion.

She’d lifted her chin to Oberlin’s abuse, so willing to bear the pain.

The Diakonos are collared.

A Nymph in pearl-white lace giggles, sliding into a Lycaon with pink cheeks and glazed looks. Twin Oceanids, puckered in ribbons and bows, act as demure shadows to a one-eyed Boread. A Siren in a fluffy purple dress has more than a collar, she has shackles and a bar between her legs. A male in a collar and no shirt—Chire—carries her in the wake of an elder male.

“Seems Meda missed the dress code,” Nat mumbles, glaring daggers at a tall male petting a chained female.

I slide my arm around her in case she decides justice should be served. “Meda didn’t dress you,” I tell her, quickly finishing my flute. “I did. And I knew exactly what everyone would be wearing.”

She blinks down at herself. The harsh lines of her dress, the stick of it to her body, not like the waterfall-esque fluffy fabrics like the pampered gowns of the other Diakonos.

It’s their ultimate brag.

Displaying a Diakonos so completely broken, they’re besotted.

I peer down at Nat, my jaw aching. “I don’t want you to pretend to be anything less than you are. And you should thank me. No one can take their eyes off of you.”

“It gives me hives.”

I laugh outright.

Swallow a curse as attention lingers on us. On the unnatural sound.

Happiness does not belong here.

Nat doesn’t belong here.

She wants to turn every brick to dust with her bare hands.

I just want to leave.

“I will be most happy to apply a cream to those, especially in hard to reach places.”

Her lips twist. “Did you have to pick such high heels?”

“Yes.”

She pushes a spike into the toe of my boot and I groan. “Reap what you sow, Blackguard.”

I should kick her off, but my hands are already on her waist, reeling her straight to me, so we’re aligned, her knuckles brushing on my chest. “I wanted us to be the same height,” I tell her. “Eye to eye.”

Her eyes brighten, but she shakes her head. “What an absurd reason for me to break an ankle.”

“They’re pedestals. You’re my trophy tonight.” I brush her hair behind her ear with my fingertips, and press a single light kiss to her neck. “I believe it’s time for you to act like you’re in love with me. Indulgently so.”

“Who says I’m not?”

“Your heel is crushing my big toe.” My tongue skates over her skin and I savor the shudder of her body. “You are supposed to be charmed by me, darling, desperately infatuated with me. You hang on my every word. You are obsessed so much so that you do not require a collar.”

She stiffens.

I arch a brow. “Why else would you be the only Diakonos here without one?”

“They’d all believe that you’re so easy to fall in love with?” She taps her fingers beside a spread of pomegranate seeds. “Have they met you?”

“It is precisely because they have that they’d believe it possible.”

Her mouth drops and I know the next words are bound to be a string of insults, so I say, “Pretend. For Theia.”

She caps it. As quickly as a bow strung and released, the retaliation fades from her eyes. She caresses my neck, teases my jaw upward and slides fingers in my curls. “Like this?”

No .

Grab me , I want to say, pull my hair, lean in and whisper on the hateful things on your lemon candy tongue so I can forget where we are.

The music stops and a young female in rose red enters a dull spotlight beside an exhausted, pleasured Yavi. He wriggles his fingers at her and she begins a lovely, sorrowful song.

She struggles in the chorus, collar scraping her vocal chords, but it’s clear she’s of the Muses.

A rare creature.

“They make her perform.” Nat’s angry again. My tongue stinging with acid.

“We’re all performing,” I remind her. Lightly nipping her throat before withdrawing, saying loudly, “Shall we find a more private place, dear?”

She clamps her mouth tight, suppressing a retort.

I laugh again, knowing better.

Nat is utterly capable, a powerhouse, a female that could stop the turning of the cosmos if she had to, but here, tonight, in this world, her power is her handicap and it infuriates her.

It’s adorable.

I tug her into me, thumb climbing high enough on her ribs to graze the rise of her chest, and leave the conversing rooms for other, saltier sights.

In a hall of stubby gray Employees Only doors, Nat breaks away from me, charging forward to throw open the closest door, eager to search.

Lemon explodes.

Nat goes rigid.

The doorknob breaks off in her fingers.

In front of us waits depravity.

Diakonos doing precisely what they’ve been bought for. Taking pain, giving pleasure. The room reeks of sweat and sex, and I give it a quick scan before tearing her out of it.

Nat blinks as if she imagined it, spins to me. “What are you doing? We need to go in there.”

“We don’t.” I lead her into another mingling room and throw out a wave of ease.

Nat seems about to implode. “She could be in there, she could—”

“She’s not . I looked.”

“You looked? How do you even know what she looks like? This is—”

“Does she dye her hair?”

“What? No. But—”

“Then she’s not there,” I repeat. “Phoenix are quite obvious in their appearance, are they not?”

Most creature types in this day and age are difficult to determine with just a look, but some have dominant genes. For the Phoenix, it’s white hair, ghostly pale skin, light eyes, and an unearthly, almost hard to behold beauty.

Such appearance is precisely why they’ve been hunted to near extinction.

The desire to own their beauty, to breed it, shape it into what others want.

A Phoenix killed my king with a blaze of black flames and only a Phoenix can tell me why a fragile, noncombative creature would enter a war against good.

“That’s it?” Nat pinches my stomach. “I’m expected to just trust you?”

I flinch as a male stalks up to us, and hate how I forcefully tug Nat’s backside to bring her against me. “Go sit and watch, pet. I’ve an old friend.”

I nudge her aside before Mahrun can see the eat shit and die look on her face.

We’ll need to work on besotted.

“Sinis of Athens,” Mahrun greets in his haughty French accent. “You have traveled far from your roots.”

“Mahrun.” I nod, layering out a dose of cordiality for us to swim in. “You continue to reign in your right.”

“What have you brought us tonight?” he asks, twisting in his tux to watch Nat’s ass as she stomps to the corner. “She’s an abomination. Not who I would’ve selected for you.”

I grit my teeth. “Things change, Mahrun.”

“Yes, I heard of the nasty bit with the false king. Tangled yourself up messy there.” He pours champagne down his throat and snaps pampered fingers. “Mine’s a Nereid. Afraid the markets dry for interest lately. All the fun toys get sucked up by—” He spins once in his over-shined shoes, quick, as only a Chire can and snaps his fingers again. “You. Down.” He bends over his stout male Diakonos and snaps a third time, shaking his head in disgust as the male lowers to knees, hands on his thighs, head bowed. “Still learning the rules,” he says casually, apologetically. “You understand.”

I push a sense of kinship into him. “You were saying?”

“Was I?” It’s a threat, laced into conversation. Will I bring up the shit talking he’s done or behave like the aristocrat he ought to be?

Opposite me, Nat seethes silently.

I stare at her as I swipe a glass from a passing tray and send it down my throat. Lemons all the way.

I drag my gaze to Mahrun, to pale skin, black hair and blue eyes.

He doesn’t favor the weak, so I say, “About all the fun toys.”

“Ah yes, that bastard king. No wonder he got himself killed, hiring a whore to help him. Has no sense. He came round the club once.”

I don’t manage to stifle the flinch at his words, and ball a swell of peace into the room with us. “Why speak of the dead, Mahrun, when we are so alive?”

“Ah, yes. You always were the heart of the party, were you not?” He chuckles, lips puckering like the asshole he is. “You’ve seen Lesenia flitting around? She’s brought a decadent Siren. Oh Nestor, you remember our Lord of Sin.”

“I dare say.” Nestor—Nessie if you want to royally piss him off—has aged poorly. The sheen of immortality is slick on his gaunt features, the greased hair, the constant sneer. He’s brought a near child, as is his perversion, but it seems she’s fortunate enough to be drugged. Swaying, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed.

I send her a flare of forgetfulness, gut twisting in on itself.

Nat would free her.

I’d warn her that Nessie’s a far off descendent of Hecate, with magic simmering in his veins, and she’d still detach his head from his neck.

Nessie caresses my cheek, and then my throat. The stretch of his sleeve scratching my chest. “It’s nice to see you collared again.”

“Lesenia said he loved it. Makes sense he’d do it to himself.” A creeping hand snakes around my hip and then Ione is resting her forehead on my arm, looped around me like a flag wrapped around its pole. “She was insane to free you.”

She didn’t free me.

She sentenced me.

“She’s here!” gossips Mohegan, hurrying into the fray, his cheap suit made garish by the Chimera broach on his lapel. He’s frothing at the information, the reaction I have yet to give. “Have you spoken at all since the breakup?” he asks, leaning in to me, hand clutching my crossed forearm.

“I’m sure we have,” I lie as Mohegan dismisses his Diakonos with a stomp of his boots.

Behind him, a plump female is thrown into the wall. Her flowery skirts, two shades lighter than her rusty steel collar, are torn to the waist.

The heinous screech of a zipper makes my teeth shake.

More hands drift over my shoulders.

They talk about past parties. How grand they used to be before the prick king came with his intolerance for the traditional ways.

My king.

“Never understand why he chose you,” Nessie sneers, his fingers deep in the mouth of his male Nereid. “Except to tell him about us.”

Yes, you’re the most important thing to me. “If I’d told him, you wouldn’t still be here.”

“Please, he was so busy killing Keres, he didn’t realize the realm hated him.”

I double the dose of ease and arousal.

Nessie moans.

Lemons.

I shift my attention to Nat, who’s crushing the brass door knob into a die.

The air gets stuffy and what’s supposed to be a tranquil place for inter creature discussion has become a den of sex and debauchery. Stuffed with creatures and noise, hands cling to me. Wander.

“I cheered the day he died,” Iona comments as she gropes my ass.

Laughs bubble.

“We celebrate annually!” a slender male calls. “Two for one girls.”

I force my lips to curve, and ignore the long nails creeping past my waistband, the ring tangled in my hair. The room tastes like thick toxic smoke, dried mud and decay.

I infuse extra comradery into the air, pull off on arousal.

“It’s you ,” Mahrun whispers to me, hot breath a pant on my shoulder. “You’re a sexual whip. Your mere presence is an aphrodisiac.” His fingers skate down my elbow, further, dance across my rings. “You could ignite the calmest crowd Sinis.”

There. My spot. “Perhaps a display,” I offer, clutching back some control. “Who’s brought the strangest creature? I thought I saw a Phoenix.”

“A Phoenix!” Mohegan titters, and the gathered launch into stories about them, encounters and failed captures. Mahrun’s hand crawls up my thigh.

There are lips on my neck.

Champagne spills on my boots.

Roars of wet pleasure sound near the back of my head.

I compel myself to pay attention to the information.

But a single unsettling thought penetrates my focus.

I don’t taste lemons.