6. Sin

6

Sin

on the dancefloor

I’m still wearing pants.

I take this as a sign of triumph in the chaos of shit swirling around me. Sprinklers spit water at me, and the fire alarm’s near offensive in its screech. Neon yellow and red lights flash. I don’t know if they’re shorting out or if it’s morse code for: Ha! Idiot! She got you, with nothing but a pretty smile and a sleight of hand .

That’s my move.

I grin as I tear through the chaos, boots smacking the soggy carpet. She used my move against me.

Fuck .

Natasa nailed it. To a fucking tee. The classic, have a vulnerable, quiet, bonding experience, act not suspiciously agreeable but reticently so. She never even offered me a drink, as if she knew I’d question the motive.

Clever, beautiful, deadly.

Damned if I’m not infatuated.

I throw my shoulder into a closed door and find another bedroom. Abandoned sheets neatly creased. I don’t have to close my eyes to envision her spread out on it, dark hair pooled over her shoulder, dress a tease of fabric.

The headbutt that made my cock throb.

Those slick hands disarming me, the sharp, precise throws.

Obviously, I wanted to bed her.

That fire, the electricity, but poisoning me—

Pride slams through me. I should’ve known such ferocity wouldn’t be tamed.

That her hatred would never temper.

She’s so fucking good.

Every flavor, every emotion of hers is a hundred proof shot to the bloodstream. It filled me, stifled my own thoughts, stole my breath, and washed out any emotion I pushed on her.

There is no creature in the realm with such ability.

And yet, she’d wielded it as well as she had my own knives—knives she’d taken from me for a second time. And now a third. Pilfered off what she thought was my dead body.

How incredibly resourceful.

I have to find her.

I kick the next door too low and send my boot blasting straight through it. Spit out a curse and try to break loose, splintering the wood.

“So, I’ll ask the only question that matters,” Lev’s rumbling Russian accent precedes his pounding footsteps. “Did you let her go, or did you lose her?”

With the heel of his boot, he slams the door next to my foot to free me. His long brown hair is dripping onto the ground like a waterlogged towel, his jeans and t-shirt drenched.

I don’t like the way he levels dark eyes at me, as though my answer is inevitably yes to both. “Neither, in this case.” I rake my hair back, slice water off my cheeks, and scan the main bar below us. “Have you seen her?”

“Oh, I saw her,” Lev says, pleased he knows more than me. “I’ll admit I was jealous when you picked the only one with backbone, but now I’m glad you had you entertain her.”

“Did you think I’d ever give you the option?”

As if I could look at her and not demand to leave the room with her.

The Russian cuts me a look sharp enough to peel skin off a foe but between brothers tells me he’s annoyed.

We charge down the stairs together, boots squelching, Lev’s enormous boots rattling the supports.

He’s used to charging into battle with fists. His gift is wrath. The dirty, messy, killing kind that’s only satisfied if he’s breaking with his hands.

I reach for blades that aren’t there.

Need to get those back .

“Wanna tell me what happened?” I ask, jogging between the overturned tables. The industrial subwoofer is entirely ablaze and the stage backdrop is shredded. Wet ripped feathers cover the tile, interspersed with busted glass and sequins.

Drake appears at the main doors, wiping black hair off his forehead. “ She happened. The building’s empty.”

“Empty?” I kick aside an overturned chair and end up staring into cold, hazel eyes. “It can’t be empty.” Can’t be. Because we need Oberlin, he’s our in. Our best lead. “That’s impossible. How long was I out? I should’ve—”

“You should’ve tied her up and added a muzzle,” Lev offers without much heat.

Drake gives the former mob boss an intense glare. He doesn’t have the stomach for violence on females.

I think it’s a mortal affliction. Assuming females don’t handle pain as well as males, assuming they’re weaker.

Not the smartest species: mortals. He ought to wise up. He hasn’t been mortal in decades.

I offer Drake my middle finger. “Don’t give me that. I vowed not to touch the sweet little shrew, and I didn’t. How long was I out?”

Through the cascade of water, Lev scratches the dark scruff on his chin. “I’d say as long as it takes for someone to asphyxiate.”

“Four to five minutes,” Drake murmurs.

I take in the mayhem. Water pooling on tile, flames dancing up the walls. It’s more abandoned war zone than bar. “Five minutes? No fucking way.”

“Six then,” Lev counters. “But not a second over. I’ve never seen someone work so fast.”

“You saw this happen? You let it happen?”

The Russian grabs my shoulder and turns me before I can shout that he’s blown up our only lead.

I almost swallow my tongue.

My heart drills into my ribs.

“Is that … Oberlin?”

It has to be, my mind says, seeing past the charred remains of the male pinned to the wall behind the bar. He’s short, with a wide face and body. That’s all I can really make out. The mustache, the clothes, they’re gone. His skin too. He’s a shape of black and pink and—

“Fucking Hades.”

Shifting his weight between his feet, Lev shrugs, near apathetic. “Yeah, you try interrupting someone in the middle of a crucifixion.”

I step closer to the body and immediately regret it. The scent of singed flesh seeps into my pores as I squint at the bronze coins positioned over his eyes.

“Drachmas,” Drake informs.

I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already examined the body. Probably took notes.

Drachmas. The coin of the Gods.

The edge of my mouth kicks up slightly. “She wants him to pay Charon, skip the wait at the River. She thinks he’s headed to the Fields of Punishment.” I cover my nose at the stench of the gore, wishing I could look away but finding it impossible.

A glint of black catches my eye.

My stomach drops through the floor. “ Fuck .”

Lev laughs, smacking Drake in the chest. “I told you they were his knives. Drake said you’d have to be dead to give them up, but we figured if you were, Atlas would already be calling us screaming, so—”

“So you set out lawn chairs and watched a male get flayed?”

“Would’ve loved to, but we’re working. We—”

“—hid,” I snarl.

“—broke into the prick’s office. Went after his contact list.”

That’s … good. Best we’ve got, at least. I pry my attention away from the horror show. “I’ve always said you were smarter than you look, Mikhailov.”

He frowns.

“It was ransacked,” Drake says, ever the deliverer of bad news. “There was nothing to be found. Whatever this was—” His hollow gaze rakes over Oberlin’s body with a cold detachment only one in the business could have. “This was more than just revenge. She wanted something from him and she got it.”

I blow out a forceful breath and reach for my knives again.

Still not there.

Shit .

I glance back at the plump bastard. “Where are his hands?”

We stare at each other. Drake, Lev, and me, each waiting for someone to speak up.

Nothing.

Right. Lovely.

“I’ve witnessed a lot of destruction.” Lev steps across a smoking puddle to nab a bottle of vodka at Oberlin’s feet, probably what she splashed over him before she lit him up. “Old ladies wanting their due and killing with a frenzy. I’ve never seen something like this. She was laughing during it. Having the time of her life.”

Drake scowls as Lev takes a swig. “What is she?”

They both look at me.

I should know.

I’m expected to know.

I’m the creature expert. I carry blood of the Gods same as Atlas, but while he was shunned and ridiculed for being Chire, I was in Olympus, raised by my grandparents.

If it weren’t for the King’s protection, Atlas never would’ve survived puberty. Me? I was … accepted, is the most conservative term.

Lauded, admired, worshiped.

Drake’s waiting, Lev’s expectant, and I’m missing an answer.

What use is a book with no information?

I steal Lev’s bottle, wash my mouth out with the burn and spit before retrieving my knives from Oberlin’s blackened bones.

“I have a hunch,” I tell them, “but I’ll need to confirm.”

“When she cuts your hands off, at least we’ll find out where she puts them,” Lev muses, taking the bottle back. “I’ll get a guard for Drake to play with.”

“I’ll message when I have her for the handoff with Drake.”

Drake nods.

We’ve been together for nearly a century. The roles are predetermined and streamlined.

I lure them in, Lev smashes ’em up, and Drake peels them apart.

Without another word about the flaming male in a pile on the floor, we split.

In the fog of streetlights, I comb up the street, then down, searching for anyone that’s calling the police or looking horrified or talking about a half-naked woman twirling a dismembered hand.

There’s no sign of her.

The night air is thick and humid. Downtown is teeming with mortals excited for better weather. I’m disheveled, wet, scowling. I’ve not even attempted to hide the blood-soaked knives in my palms, and yet … cat calls.

Whistles and smiles. Men and women alike turn to me like I’m the sun, hoping for my touch, for my taste.

It’s not until two women in heels and short dresses are chasing me down an alley that I have to shut my eyes, blow air out my nose, and push a feeling of disinterest around me.

A constant physical barrier that must be maintained to avoid … well, crowds.

Swarms and torches and pitchforks calling for my shirt to be ripped off.

With my shield up, I resume searching, relieved to find the streets more dead than not, save for a small bar with a crowd waiting to get in. Line Dancing , a neon blue sign advertises.

I can taste the endorphins, the happy feeling of music and movement. Salted lavender ice cream melting on my tongue. Followed by a sharp tang.

The slightest sour bite.

Hate .

In the last place I’d look.

Clever indeed.

I slide the bouncer a hundred and am inside without an ID check or a stint in the line. Boots thump the wood floors in unison, cowboy hats tip up on men’s heads and women’s fingers slip inside belts—their own and others.

It’s rowdy and fun and not where she belongs.

Which is why she went here.

She’s leaning across the bar, bottoms of her bare feet black with dirt as she lifts up to her toes to tower over the bartender.

“The oil’s still hot,” she’s saying, a new, sultry purr in her tone. “Please. I’ll pay you triple. You don’t know the kind of night I’ve had.”

“Kitchen closes at ten. Read the sign, cook went home.”

Natasa tucks damp hair behind her ears. “You’re the only place open, and if I don’t settle my stomach, I’m going to be sick. Grease is the only answer.”

“Ain’t my problem you drank yourself sick.”

“I’m about to make it your problem, boy.”

The bartender shoots her an up and down, tipping his cowboy hat back for effect. “ Boy ? I’m twice your age. You better watch your lip or I’ll—”

He shuts his mouth as I slide in behind her. My best you’re about to fuck around and find out scowl on my face.

I spread a proprietary hand over the counter, making no move to lessen the fact that I’m seven feet of Divine blood. “You’ll … what?” I taunt, tapping my fingers. “Don’t be shy on my account.”

Natasa goes stiff, whirls to face me.

I yank us together, push her spine to the bar, plaster her chest to mine. “Scream, and it’ll be the last thing you do.”

She doesn’t. Crowded into me, tasting like lemons, her rich brown eyes peel up, and her cracked pink lips slowly curl into a smile. Surprised, but not disappointed to see me.

Without the restraints of Oberlin’s chains, she’s languid, propping her elbows behind her, knocking an empty pint into the huffing bartender.

He’s too scared of me to do anything but grab a broom.

Good.

I stroke my finger along the swell of Natasa’s cheek. “You forgot to leave a note, darling.”

More surprise flickers in her eyes.

That I’m not mad? Or that I’m touching her?

“No one’s ever been so addle-brained as to accuse me of being a screamer before,” she says.

“First time for everything.”

“You’re really flying high on the I’m not dead adrenaline, aren’t you?”

“I wasn’t accusing, I was …” I lower my lips to her ear, pulling her hips flush with mine. “Predicting. You and me alone, at night. Drinks. Inevitably someone’s screaming.”

She snorts, but doesn’t push back, rather slides closer, her thigh slipping between mine, curves melting over me like hot butter on toast as she flashes glassy eyes up at me. “I’m in a terrific mood so that’s your one free pass. Another and you won’t have the ability to scream at all.”

“A roundabout way to admit you’d love for me to go hoarse.”

Her hands are on my chest, palms pressing heat into my skin. Brown ash is smudged in her hairline, pink and red and blue blood lick down her collarbone, dress hiding the rest of the painting.

“Am I supposed to be interested in you?” she asks.

My jaw nearly drops.

Then I remember.

Quickly, I lift the haze of disinterest. “How about now?”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Is this a joke? Yeah, like I said three seconds ago, evil pretty boys who pay for attention because their daddies didn’t love them are not my type.” Her gaze drops to my waist, lingering on the knives lined there. “I’ll be taking those back.”

“We should go somewhere more private if you wish to undress me, darling. Hate to put on a show without charging admission first.”

Her fingertip traces the ridge of my pecs. “Why aren’t you dead?”

I glance at the eavesdropping bartender and the twin beauties hovering nearby, sipping long islands as they stare at us. Annoyed, I release a sharp pulse of fear. They scatter, and again, Natasa doesn’t move.

Fearless, I’d believe.

Completely disinterested in me? No fucking way.

She still tastes of lemons, but sugar rimmed.

A potent lemon drop of hate.

I run my tongue over my teeth. “Despite your trying, my dear, looks do not kill. Why don’t we get home?”

“I have a name. It’s Nat.”

“It was Natasa when you were in bed.”

“Does everything you say sound dirty?”

The question does nothing to hint at her mood. Instead, it confuses me further. “Oh sweetheart, I do believe up to this moment, it’s you who’s interpreted any innuendo. But should you ask it, I’ll eliminate the confusion.”

One side of her mouth tilts up in an expression most would find sadistic.

I find it endearing.

She tilts her head. “There was enough ichor in that brandy to destroy a city, yet here you are. So either you’re dead and very very tragically lost or I am.”

Ichor.

The blood of the Gods. Deadly to any mortal, to any being with less in their veins than what is ingested. If what she says is true … if she could decimate a city with a few drops, then she’s from Olympus.

For her to have enough ichor to knock me out?

She’s a Goddess.

I should run.

I should sprint. I should yank Drake and Lev off the streets, and we should leave Atlanta. Return to hiding.

If there’s an Olympian on the ground and involved in this …

“Has anyone told you that you’re quite tall?” she asks, tipping slightly left. “Even for a creature, it’s rather …”

I clear my throat, fight-or-flight storming through me. “Enticing?”

“Annoying.” She pouts, lips plump and sweet. “It’s incredibly hard to loom over you.”

I curve further over her, heart pounding. I should definitely run. “I think you’re doing a wonderful job.”

Her response is a shorted breath, a flare of dark lashes. “Do you feel properly threatened? Like I’m seconds from shredding your throat?”

Run. Definitely run.

I gulp. “I feel your hand on my belt.”

She smiles and I’m a different male. Taller, stronger, better.

“Does that make you scared?”

Her knuckles run against my abdomen, and I push us closer so she can’t work the knife free. “It makes me something, sweetheart. Scared isn’t it.”

More like hard.

I push closer still, cup the base of her neck. “Leave with me.”

She shakes her head slowly. “I’m not leaving without fries, a turkey club and a milkshake with a cookie straw.”

It clicks.

“You’re drunk.”

“I don’t get drunk. I must stay vigilant at all times.”

“But your eyes—”

“They shine like twin death rays, don’t they?” She flutters lashes at me. Flutters them. The female who endeavored to take my life, who tortured Oberlin.

“Your heart rate’s elevated. You’re hungry. You haven’t tried to kill me.” I lean into her and inhale the damp skin of her neck, and, unable to help it, deliver the lightest flick of my tongue over her racing pulse. “You taste like sugared lemon.”

“Sweet and sour.”

I read the dare in her eyes.

The permission.

And what should have been evident from the moment I stepped inside and saw Nat barefoot, hips swaying, back arched, arguing with a mortal becomes crystal fucking clear. “You’re high.”