19. Nat

19

Nat

death by a thousand cuts

There are many traditions among the Furies. I blame it on the downtime.

And invincibility.

And the wine.

Mostly the wine.

Millennia-old rituals, honed in daisy dappled fields, are as integral to us as the ichor coursing through our veins.

The Autumnal Equinox is a clusterfuck of cleaning. Emptying contraband guns, dumping liquor, washing the river banks clean of the rainbow of blood in anticipation of Persephone’s arrival. Asking a hundred Erinyes to tidy up their battles begets long, gory trounces down memory lane. Stories are told of limbs burned. Fire chats and pantomimed gougings.

Erinyes at our most peaceful.

Then there are the Feasts of the Fallen. Opulent banquets held in the obsidian halls of Hades’s palace. The tables groan under the weight of ambrosia and nectar. The air is stuffed with the aroma of roasted meats and the metallic tang of pure silver cutlery. In our finest armor, we drink from chalices crafted entirely of gemstones, and toast to our victories and the eternal torment of the wicked. The revelry lasts until the earliest hours of morning, our laughter reaching the cavernous depths of Tartarus.

Perhaps the most notorious of our rituals is the Dance of Valor. In a whirlwind of navy smoke and crackling embers, Erinyes earn their armor by prying it off higher ranked warriors. Do you wish to fight with greaves forged by Hades? Tear them off your beloved sister. You want a helm? Challenge an aunt and tear it off her head. It’s yours.

You’re only truly a warrior if you can beat an Erinyes.

And only the Erinyes can purge the realms of evil.

I won my armor off Hades himself in hand to hand. The first and last. He was the only other immortal mad enough to desire gold gear.

We have birth traditions, death traditions. We have traditions about the River Lethe running high and the banks overflowing, flowers forgetting their roots.

Evan just about wet his pants over our mating tradition. But for me, he managed.

A male worthy of an Erinyes is rare.

Still, worthiness does not mean a partner will survive us.

I made my own traditions with Theia. Endless mimosas on the last day of her cycle. Slasher movie Fridays: must be below 20 percent on Rotten Tomatoes. Burning palm leaves for Artemis whenever a target became a body. And sunrises. No matter how hungover, no matter how tired or alone or angry we felt.

I suffered all those emotions this morning.

Sin’s waiting when I return to the house. Leaning against the island with his usual air of entitlement, cup and saucer resting neatly in his hands, rings gleaming. Dressed in black jeans and a shirt that says Save a Horse, Kill a Cowboy , he cuts an imposing figure against the mundane kitchen backdrop.

His smoldering gaze pins me with an intensity that sends a rush of warmth skittering up my spine.

“Where were you?”

Gone is the haunted man of yesterday. The cracked exterior is whole and polished, prepared to deflect any blows that may come his way.

Glad he can cover it up.

I’m still trapped there. Reeling in it, replaying it in my head.

The spread of his calloused palm on my hip, his thumb, hot as a burning match, gliding over cold, wet skin, teasing just below my naval.

I almost killed him, and then …

I almost kissed him.

The thrum of energy in my veins grew out of my control. One minute I’ve succumbed to bein his end and the next I’m resisting an insane urge to taste him.

Before I’d seen him falling to pieces on the shower tile, I would have finished the job. A knife jab to his carotid. More merciful than I ought to be. But there, in the pounding water and steam, hearing his croaking voice, the apathetic warrior captivated me.

Overrode me.

I was weak. Surrendering. Helping. Nothing like a Fury.

Shoulders tight, I grit my teeth, knock my vambraces against each other, and ignore Sin’s question, aiming straight for my MDMA tripping room.

Seven feet of black and gold and sapphire purple sidles in front of me. Under the scent of his coffee, there’s the unmistakable rich, snooty, intoxicating smell of spices and male.

The ichor temporarily flash freezes in my veins.

I brush it off.

“Try to stop me,” I grate. “I dare you.”

At the island, hunkered over a smiley face of sunny side up eggs, Drake sighs, gloved hands setting down his fork and knife.

“Good morning, executioner. Did you dream of decapitation too, or was that just me?”

Slowly, with lethal precision, Sin turns to his brother, tone promising pain and death. “Is it a good morning, Drakey?”

The executioner sighs, drops his head into his cupped palms. “It was .”

“You can just—” Sin raises his hand flat at me, a halt gesture, his nostrils flaring, before prompting, “Drake? Would you mind terribly?”

The Blackguard hauls tired eyes in our direction, sighs again, rises from his seat and grabs his plate. “This is a communal area,” he says. “People need to eat.”

There’s no escape between Drake’s dragging boots and Sin’s narrowed gaze snapping to mine.

I cross my arms. “That was rude.”

“Tell it to the suggestion box.” He scans me, from my bare feet up to the dirt on my calves, the cutoff shorts, the mud at my heart and ends his appraisal, not at my eyes, but at my lips. “Where were you?”

“Sunrise.” I pull a twig out of my hair and chuck it.

“All fucking night?”

He’d only know if he looked for me all night.

Don’t smile at that.

I don’t like him, or care what he does.

I twist a lock of hair, and flash him my evilest, uppity, better than you smile. “Sorry I couldn’t check under your bed for monsters.”

His face is rigid, body practically vibrating with aggression. From his pocket, he pulls a mash of papers. “These came.”

I take the mess and his espresso simultaneously, downing some of the much needed caffeine before elbowing his fifth and sixth ribs on my way to the counter to assess.

“Invitations.” All addressed to Lord Sin. Parties and dinners and auctions . My stomach churns sourly. “Holy Hades.” I rip open a wax seal and spot words like flesh , erotic , and trading . I flip through them, sturdy cardstock and meticulously written calligraphy, nose tickling at the perfumed pages. “The soonest is tonight. Dinner.” I push the red, frilly paper to him. “We’re going.”

“The most strategic option isn’t until next week.”

A week. Here. With him. “Tonight,” I repeat. “Theia’s imprisoned. This isn’t a war game. We’re not shuffling armies on boards. This is hostile takeover, no warning, guns blazing, zero survivors.”

“Not everything is won with brute force,” he seethes. “Some things require a delicate, measured approach. I have experience in—”

“Captivity?” I cut off. “Then you know a single day can make all the difference between survival and death.”

Sin’s mouth snaps shut.

Instant regret sprays the inside of my chest. Hot and thick.

Low blow. He walked himself to his death sentence. He knows the horrors of captivity. And now I’ve used it against him, hurled it in his face.

I part my lips to apologize, but it sticks on my tongue. He’s not my friend. I’m going to kill him. It’s better if he hates me.

His stilted agreement comes after a long pause. “Fine. I’ll gather you a dress.”

Hardest pass.

“Not necessary. I’ll wear this.” I reread the invitation, absorbing every detail while I finish his coffee—no sugar, no cream, death in a cup. I flip to the back, mentally preparing, and when I notice Sin hasn’t left, add, “No one will notice what I’m wearing.”

“They’ll notice Gods fashioned armor and daisy dukes.”

I don’t meet his frosty expression. Biting at the edge of my lip, I swallow the sick lump in my throat. “I’m not dressing up. End of discussion.”

“No one will touch you again,” he assures.

I keep my head low, too proud to glare at him while my eyes burn. “Are you still talking?”

“You’re mine, Bloodspiller, and I never share.”

“I’m my own. And that male knew it. Smelled it on me.”

Rather, smelled the lack of Sin. Most creatures develop the ability to scent other’s sexual partners around puberty, but a child would know Sin and I are nothing to each other.

As it should be.

“Fucking Calion,” Sin swears. “We’ll need to stay closer this time so nobody else picks up on it.”

“Or I’ll wear this, maintain personal space, and kill anyone who talks to me.”

“No, you’re not being groped again. I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” I scoff, heartbeat pounding against my ribs, voice rough. “It won’t happen. The only male who tried to touch me hurled he was so overcome with disgust.”

I regret saying it the moment it’s out.

His response is immediate. Dilated pupils crack the purple, and his smile breaks as brightly as the sun shattering through clouds. His laugh makes me hate him. Makes my lungs feel scratchy.

I slice the invitation’s edge across his biceps, marking the feeblest, most pathetic papercut.

A look of absolute triumph scores his expression at the tiny line. He yanks me into him, fingers catching my jaw as he looms over me. “No one touched you, Bloodspiller, because of the black bands I wear. Because you came with me, and I do not tolerate my partner’s mistreatment.”

“I heard them,” I argue, heart clenching violently in my chest. “I heard every snide remark.”

“Jealously talks.”

“Do you have a fake explanation for everything?” I wish for a knife, a gun, a thicker piece of paper to slash the wolfish grin from his face. “Did the males sneer at me because my dress kicked them in the face? Do not think to protect me. I am a warrior, insults do not dent steel.”

He’s grinning.

Grinning .

I feel as small as a flake of mica in a sand dune. I hate it.

Sin licks his lip, straightens to his full height and boxes me against the counter, all muscle and arrogance and divinity. “I can taste emotion.”

My head whips up. Embarrassment spiraling out of me, blood pulsing.

Taste … ?

He leans over me, invading my space, indulging in my discomfort. “I can also thrust emotions upon others, so when I tell you that they were jealous, Bloodspiller, there’s no argument. It’s fact. Gods Above, they were so ripe with envy, it stuck to my tongue and shoved down my throat. Every time you raised your chin at them, they were consumed by it. I was suffocating.”

I’m listening with one ear, staring at the most beautiful male in the world and frantically zooming through the past week, identifying every twist of my stomach, every clench of my thighs caused by him.

“How?”

“You’re so busy storming ahead, you don’t realize how many stop in their tracks to stare.”

“How do you taste emotions? What are you?”

His gaze races to my mouth. I blanch. Can he taste what I’m feeling right now? The simmering fire? The hunger? The fear?

“I’m lucky,” he whispers as if he knows his effect on me. “Some magic dead king bestowed the talent as a work perk.”

The king. “You’ve been gifted too?”

“Not what I’d deign to call it.”

I collapse against the granite, clinging to it like I’m on a roller coaster with no seatbelt.

Sin can make people feel things. Can influence emotion.

The black of his aura shimmers over me in a soulless, deprecating taunt. Everything slides into place, smooth as Poseidon’s trident rising from the sea.

He has a gift.

That’s why I’ve liked him, thought of him, worried over him.

I’m not crazy or twisted. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not disparaging Evan’s memory, my tastes haven’t changed.

It’s him .

Manipulating me.

A fucking con.

Fury paints my vision red. Power lances my muscles. I’ve been submerged in ice, and I’m suddenly awake. “You fucking monster—”

“Gods, I’ve wanted to hear you say that for days.” He lashes out quick, anticipating, pins my wrists to the cold counter. “Say it again. It sounded good.”

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.