The Darkest Destiny (Lords of the Underworld 15.50)

What would his mate think of him now?

No thoughts of the goddess. One always led to a second and a third, fourth, fifth, until he considered nothing but returning to her. And she wasn’t his mate.

With a roar and a ram of his horns, he took out the next two—three—soldiers. He slashed and clawed. He shredded. But even still, he failed to boot the goddess from his mind. Why hadn’t he kissed and touched her while he’d had the chance? Why hadn’t he enjoyed her while she was warm and pliant?

Because I want her to want me as intensely as I want her, not because she thinks to use me.

Had her confidence crumbled yet? He wasn’t sure he could remain separated from her another week, much less another day. As soon as he’d sensed her deep slumber, he had checked on her. She’d never fallen asleep in the same location, had always huddled in a semi-secure spot. Behind a wall, after crawling past broken slats. A cubby hole in the floor. A beam anchored to the ceiling.

How small and fragile she’d seemed yesterday. The urge to curl up beside her had nearly overwhelmed him. Every day, she’d grown a little paler. Dark shadows had taken up permanent residence under her eyes. Her misery brought him no delight. Guilt did more than prick him—it gouged him.

Brochan’s gaze caught on McCadden, who witnessed the worst of his fury through a gap between Thane’s and Xerxes’ wings. His brother conveyed horror.

Brochan flushed as he assassinated the next flood of soldiers. Beside him, Farrow brutalized her opponents.

Like other Forsaken, he’d lost the ability to produce a sword of fire. Not Farrow. Though her ability had mutated, the sword becoming a grotesque whip. Thousands of teeth protruded from hundreds of tentacles braided together. As she swung her arm, the whip’s handle appeared in her grip. Tentacles lashed out, wrapping around different parts of a Forsaken, binding his wings and arms to his body and cinching his legs together, choking him until his head simply popped off.

Finally, only a handful of Forsaken remained, Midian and Joseph among them. Brochan’s gaze collided with Midian’s as he drove one set of claws into a warrior’s skull and burrowed the other into the male’s throat. With one fluid motion, Brochan ripped off his opponent’s head.

“This isn’t the end,” Midian spat just before he vanished. The other Forsaken retreated, following after him.

Brochan and those on his side lingered, on alert for a counterattack. Minutes passed without incident. He realized he still held the severed head. A head hissing curses, much to the shock of the Sent Ones and those they guarded.

“Burn the bodies. Burn everything,” he commanded. “Let’s find out if a Forsaken can truly revive from any death.” If not, perhaps a certain goddess of the Afterlife could do the deed.

Anticipation overshadowed his remaining fury, and he balled his free hand into a fist. Should he question her before she fell asleep?

As the Sent Ones ushered their charges far from the carnage, the bonding tattoo on Brochan’s arm heated. No, it was already hot. His burst of adrenaline had muted the mark’s power. Now, with the fighting over, Viola’s emotions inundated him, and he frowned. Fear? Excitement? He couldn’t tell.

“I must go,” he shouted at the others, then flashed to the fortress to confront his goddess.

Chapter Seven

Viola sang a ballad with the most beautiful voice in the history of beautiful voices as she scrubbed the master bedroom she planned to (secretly) share with Fluffy, who had yet to return from his errand. For once, however, she didn’t mind being alone. Not much, anyway.

With her worries eclipsed by expectancy, Narcissism had no ammunition to use against her and remained blessedly quiet. She’d even plotted a rock-solid strategy to deal with Brochan. Get this. When he returned home, Viola would ignore him. The worst punishment she could dish. Why, if he appeared right this second, she’d look straight through him.

So this idea had failed in the past, allowing other males to pretend they didn’t care, turning the tables on her. So what? Brochan would froth at the mouth, desperate to re-enter her good graces.

“What is that racket? What are you doing?” The questions thundered through the room, and she gasped, meeting the Forsaken’s gaze over her shoulder. He looked her over, his frown deepening. “You’re on your knees. Cleaning. Wearing the costume and a thong. And heels.” The storm faded from his expression, leaving incredulity. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Her stomach twisted as she threw her rag into the bucket of soapy water and scrambled to her feet, facing him. Oh, my. He appeared…wow. He was shirtless, his leathers hanging low on his waist, and ripped in several places. Black blood splattered bulging muscles and the tattoo on his forearm—crisscrossing lines and scattered dots.