River of Shadows (Underworld Gods 1)

He takes in a deep breath, his fingers skirting down over my ass, his touch light and delicate. “Here I thought we were on the same page, my dear. I thought in your gumption and your boldness, that perhaps you wanted this. But no. I’ve caught a look in your eyes in which I am seeing only what I want to see.”

I feel the heat of his body pull away and then his gloved hands leave me.

“My apologies, Hanna,” he says gruffly. “You are not who I thought you were. You do not want what I thought you wanted.”

Then I hear the sound of a buckle fastening, a low exhale of breath, and then the sound of his boots as they walk away, sounding less ominous than before.

It isn’t until the door closes and I hear that lock and key that I collapse onto the bed, wondering what will become of me now.

Chapter 15

The Library of the Veils

“Another snowstorm,” Bell says from her tank, waking up for the day. “Sheesh, you really did a number on him, didn’t you?”

I stare outside my window, leaning my head on the frozen glass. Outside, snowflakes are swirling violently in the sky. I can barely make out the far-off mountains, their jagged peaks faint in the blowing white, while the angry gray sea crashes against the icy rocks below, as if it’s lashing out punishment.

It’s been like this for days, ever since Death left my room in the middle of the night. I haven’t seen him, so I can’t take personal responsibility for the change in the weather, but I can’t help but feel it’s my fault.

Not that I’m feeling bad that I left him with blue balls. But I do feel strange about it all. I did talk a big game. I teased. I acted a certain way and then at the last minute I felt all courage and bravado leave me. In the end, I was just plain scared.

And yes, I was scared that he would hurt me. He says he’s not the God of Pain, but I’m also his prisoner, everyone tells me he hates mortals, he also did threaten me with an eternity of terror, basically, so why wouldn’t I think he’d physically hurt me and take whatever he wanted with impunity?

But what has me feeling strange about it all is how quickly he backed off the moment he realized I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t expecting that. I was expecting much worse, or at best, a guilt trip. I’ve been guilted by guys before when I told them I wasn’t sleeping with them, and while I’ve been lucky that they all sulked off and managed to deal with their bruised egos and libidos in other ways, I didn’t think that would be the case with Death. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m his prisoner and possession for eternity, I could almost call him a gentleman.

Almost.

“Maybe if you give him a blow-job, we can actually get some sun for a day or two,” Bell chirps, drumming her tiny hands along the side of the tank. “Those sweetvines don’t taste as sweet without the rays.”

I sigh and straighten up off the window, walking over to Bell. I’m bored in the prison of my room. I haven’t seen Death, I haven’t seen Lovia. Raila comes in with my food, which I appreciate, and sometimes she bathes me, (which, I know, it’s weird, but I’m actually liking it) but she doesn’t stay long. It’s just been me and Bell, and while I like having Bell as company, we’re on totally different wavelengths. I don’t know if mermaids are born with this eternally sunny disposition, but despite the fact that she herself is also a prisoner of Death, who has been shrunken in size and put into a god damn fish tank, she thinks I should be having the time of my life.

Case in point: to her, blow jobs bring sunshine.

I mean, sometimes they do.

“Hard to give someone a blow job when they aren’t here,” I tell her, plopping down on the chaise lounge. “And anyway, that’s out of the question,” I say quickly, even as a certain image floods my brain. I obviously don’t know what Death looks like naked, and while he should look gruesome in theory, I’ve seen only his hand and my imagination is building everything based on that hand. It was strong, wide, capable, its tone honey-colored, like he spends most days under the sun. His fingers were long, quick and slender, hinting at dexterity, his knuckles big, suggesting he has the punch of a hammer. The silver lines of pulsing light etched on him just add more intrigue. Are they on his dick too?

Good lord, I need to clear my head. Apparently, this is what happens when you’re cooped up in your room for too long, you start waxing poetic about a hand.