Page 40 of The Chosen Son

I rubbed at my sternum. The post-orgasmic bliss was long gone, leaving only this hollow ache in my chest. I gritted my teeth, bracing my palms on the counter as I tried to settle my churning stomach. I just had to push through this little minor human-emotion inconvenience. Drug Cameron, steal his power, return him to my brother, kill Loki. The end.

Then at last my life could go back to normal.

Chapter 17

Cameron

The heady lust hadbeen a nice surprise, but the shine had started to wear off, the orgasm draining whatever burst of energy I’d had. A cold shower had helped revive me a little bit, but as I flopped down across the bed, I felt an uncomfortable amount of lingering shame. Had I really just jerked off in front of a camera, hoping Deimos was watching? I’d never done something so…dirtybefore in my life! That wasn’t me. I was a missionary-position, lights-off kind of guy.

My ex, Scott, had always been pushing me to do more, in crazy positions or even in public places where we might get caught, telling me the risk was hot, but I didn’t like the way it made me feel. Like what we were doing was lewd and inappropriate, and if I ever said no, he just kept pushing, even whining and pleading with me to live a little, to lighten up. And of course, I always gave in, because I felt like I was the one to blame if he wasn’t having a good time. As if making him happy was my responsibility or something.

And then he’d gone and posted it all online for anyone to see.

The memories made my eyes prick with all-too-familiar tears, and that frustrated the hell out of me. I was supposed to be over it—overhim, over the hurt, the betrayal—but here it was, rising to the surface once again. Did I want him back? Never. But I could admit I missed having someone to call my own.

I never should’ve listened to what Deimos said about the gods feeling no shame. I was certainly no god, and I had plenty of shame to go around. To pretend otherwise was pointless. I wasn’t about to change who I was now.

Deimos didn’t come back until dinnertime. I’d already paced the length of my cage at least fifty times, and when the brain fog and fatigue began to creep back in, I lay in bed and read half a novel that had been left for me, then turned on the flat-screen mounted on the wall and watched an episode of some trashy reality dating show called Lonely Alpha. My stomach had begun to growl and churn uncomfortably by the time I heard footsteps in the hall. My entire body lit up at the prospect of seeing my captor again, after using him as sex-fantasy fodder.

The door was nudged open, and from the corner of my eye I saw him pause on the threshold, but I refused to look at him. I kept my gaze trained on the TV where there was some kind of voting-off ceremony happening. I really didn’t give a shit who was kicked off, but I stared at the TV so hard, you’d think I had money riding on the outcome.

My nostrils flared. Deimos brought with him an array of scents—crisp fruit, aromatic spices, and something rich and chocolatey—but underneath it all, there was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He was wearing a new shirt, this time a shimmery gray material that softened his violet eyes.

A clatter of dishes had my head jerking to the side, my eyes betraying me as they flicked over him, drinking in the lines of his tightly packedbody. He seemed to be avoiding eye contact too, his chin dipped low, eyes on the tray he was balancing in one hand, piled high with food. In his other hand, he was fumbling the keys.

I probably should’ve offered to help him, but I was still feeling a little bitter about the mixed emotions he was stirring up. I mean, he was the bad guy, literally. He broke the law, hurt people, did whatever he wanted without fear of consequences. He was everything I’d fought against my whole life!

But… he’d also encouraged me not to feel shame, had comforted me when I was sad, held me while I was sick.

From where I was propped against the headboard, I watched him warily as he shuffled his way into my cell and set the tray gently on the foot of the bed. “Hey…” he began awkwardly, his shoulders creeping up toward his ears. Without the tray to keep his hands occupied, he didn’t seem to know what to do with them. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, then finally settled on sliding his hands into his pants pockets.

“H-How are you feeling?” he finally asked, and I swore his gaze did a quick sweep of my body. I decided that meant it was only fair if I did the same, so I took a long, lingering roam of him, lingering on the crotch of his black pants. When my eyes found their way back up to his face, he was watching me with one of his sexy smirks that made heat crawl up my neck.

“Yeah, I feel fine, actually. I guess Dr. Wells’s drugs are starting to work after all.” My smile felt tight, my hopeful enthusiasm totally fake. Neither of us believed that my miraculous recovery had anything to do with the meds.

We stared at each other for a long moment, neither of us trying to fill the taut silence. Finally, Deimos gestured to the food with a nod of his chin. “Are you hungry? I brought dinner.” He slid it a fewinches closer until the tray’s handle brushed my outstretched toes. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I made my favorite. If you don’t like it, though, blame Phobos.”

His nonsensical logic made me laugh, and he seemed pleased by my reaction. When I reached for the food, though, his smile slipped straight off, his brows dipping low.

“Old family recipe?” I asked, spearing my fork through a strawberry. There was some kind of dark dressing drizzled over the top, smelled like balsamic vinegar. When he didn’t answer, I looked up and found him staring intensely at the fork. Was he holding his breath?

A warning tingle itched at the base of my skull, and I paused, fork hovering a few inches from my mouth. A memory surfaced from ten years ago; a younger version of me but a different villain. I hadn’t had this feeling since Nefarious tried to lure me into a trap outside my high school, but it was my ingrained instincts working to keep me alive.

“Deimos?”

He startled out of his daze. “What?”

“I asked if this was an old family recipe.” I felt cold and sick. He’d admitted to being at the hospital to take me, but he hadn’t told mewhy.

But I thought I was starting to understand.

I lowered my fork back to the bowl, and Deimos’s eyes tracked the movement, a strange expression crossing his face. “No, no family recipe,” he said, sighing almost in relief as he finally looked me in the eye for the first time since he came in.

What I saw in his eyes made me shrivel up inside. “I hope you didn’t poison the entire meal. It would be a terrible waste of food.”

His shoulders sagged, and he offered me a sad smile. In reply, he reached out and snatched up one of the spoons, digging out a scoopof the quickly melting ice cream. “Not all of it.” He slipped the spoon between his lips and sucked it clean.

I probably shouldn’t have found it so hot.

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