Page 5 of Muzzled

Leaving her work in his capable hands, she ducked through the onlookers and fell into the meandering throngs of people winding through the festival street. She stopped to admire the work of several artists as she sought out the best food trucks, making a mental note to send Logan back with money to grab a few jewelry pieces that appealed to her.

The crowd around her work had thinned considerably by the time she returned, hands filled with burritos, souvlaki, and a tray of double-shot lattes. She held back for a few moments, smiling as Logan flirted with a group of young women admiring the watercolor prints on display.

He was such a good kid, even if he’d abandoned his half-finished acrylic painting in favor of securing his date for the evening.

Waiting until he made the sale and scored a phone number, she took a step forward, freezing in her tracks when a chill cut through the heat of the afternoon sun and slithered down her spine.

“Excuse me.”

She blinked and looked over her shoulder at the tall blond man behind her, stepping aside to let him pass and watching as he scanned the pricier selection of original works on display. He eased a watercolor piece off the ground, pulling his wallet out as Logan launched into his spiel about the uniqueness of the work and pointed out complementary pieces.

The guy bought five.

She held back until the transaction was done, smirking while the customer referred to Logan as “Maestro,” and Logan didn’t correct him.

“Usurping me on my own territory, I see.” She laughed, passing her assistant his meals while the tall blond faded into the crowds.

He peeled back the wrapper of a burrito and took a bite. “That was a four-hundred-dollar sale,” he mumbled, mouth full. “And since the customer is always right, looks like I’m the Maestro now.” He swallowed and adjusted her chair for her, setting his food down to lower the easel a few inches. “All good?”

Wrinkling her nose at the bright pastels, she slid Logan’s unfinished canvas under her seat and opened a new one. “I’m switching to charcoal.”

*

Ryan lay backon the grass and tossed his arm over his eyes.

“Orion, dear, stop pacing and join me.”

With a final scan of the trees, he padded over to his mistress and sat, stilling as she placed another armful of flowers into the leather satchels strapped to him.

Seph scratched her thumb lightly along his jowls before kneeling forward to dig her hands into the soil. “I supposed I should make my way back,” she murmured, watching the dirt fall between her fingers. “Momma despises it when I stay out after sundown.” She brushed her hands off and cupped his chin, nuzzling him with her cheek. “Even if I do have the best guard dog in Olympus at my side.”

He stayed tight to her as they made their way across the countryside, scenting the air for danger until they reached her door. With nimble fingers, she unlatched the bags from his back and gave him a quick rubdown along his shoulders. “Orion, sweetheart, remind Hades I’ll be home in three weeks.”

The door closed tight, leaving him alone outside as Seph and Demeter went about their evening routine. With a final tour of the land at sunset, he tore off toward the Styx to rejoin his master and wait for her return.

He pushed himself onto his elbows and looked down at the watercolor that had caught his eye and taken his breath.

The lavender of her dress spread along the blackness of the rich soil was captured as perfectly on canvas as it was in his memory. The fall of her strawberry-blonde hair as she leaned forward to work the earth, the angle of the sun on her skin, all of it a flawless representation of the image frozen in his mind.

Seph would love the piece.

She would love all the pieces he’d bought, each one an eerie snapshot of his mistress’s life through his eyes.

Sitting up, he slid the artwork into the bag with the others and draped his arms over his knees while he watched the crowds on the street shift from the daytime attendees to the evening festivalgoers. Families dwindled in numbers, large groups of teenagers taking their place. The sounds of infants were replaced with whoops and hollers, neon lights glowing against the darkening sky.

There was little he would miss about the topside world when he finally returned home. He had no roots here, no connections, with the exception of his brothers and their partners. Even with his mission and his notes and his graphs and charts, he felt adrift and scattered, going through the motions until he could return to a place where he knew his station.

In the underworld, he had anchors in the form of his master and mistress. His inherent honor and loyalty bound him to Hades, his devotion tethered him to Seph. One he was born to serve at the heel, the other he coveted from the shadows. It was a tightrope walk precisely balanced by virtue of his steadfast control, his allegiance to both ensuring he held the line. And while some nights he lay awake and wondered if he was a glutton for punishment for craving an untouchable goddess, a bigger part of him relied on the unwavering discipline required to do it without fully succumbing to his obsession.

Because that was all Persephone was or ever could be.

Rising to his feet, he brushed the grass from his jeans and placed his newly acquired art into his messenger bag, took out his notebook, and made his way back into the masses, comparing last night’s locations of artists to their current positions. Jotting down descriptions of the handful of new arrivals, he pocketed his map and continued to assess the crowds for his target.

*

Logan placed theneatly stacked bills into an envelope and sealed it. “I’m putting this one into the laundry bag,” he called out, snapping Mike from her daze.

She blinked her eyes into focus and nodded. “Did you take your cut?”

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