Page 16 of Bonds of Hercules
“Say it again,” I said quietly. “I fucking dare you.”
She bared her teeth, eyes flashing. “It’s just physical.”
I lunged.
3
THE HUNTED
ALEXIS
Kharon gripped my arms.
Sun streaks from the Montana dusk accentuated the sharp cut of his disturbingly handsome features.
The skeleton ink on top of his right hand extended to his shoulder in a sleeve. It ended where layers of painful scar tissue began. His chest was a mess of circular welts.
What happened to him?Whatever could leave so many lasting scars on an immortal was truly heinous.
Blood was splattered across his striated naked torso and the deep V of muscle on his lower stomach disappeared into the top of his cargo pants, framing a thin dark trail.
Humans called Chthonics dark gods for a reason.
This was the reason.
Face flaming with heat, I struggled to breathe. Apparently, I wasn’t asexual; I was just into tattooed, violent, Machiavellian men.A fate worse than death.
Gathering my courage, I searched for my voice.
“Release m-me,” I whispered.
Icy eyes flashed with danger. “Or … what?” Kharon asked mockingly.
I took a deep cleansing breath.
Pop. Pop.
Kharon inhaled with shock.
He slowly lowered his gaze to my hands—the Spartan gun Hades had gifted me was smoking.
Kharon’s lips thinned.
I’d missed.
Seconds bled into minutes as we sized each other up, me (shooter) and Satan (sadly, not shot).
The field was eerily quiet.
“Use both hands, carissima,” Kharon finally said, his voice husky. “You want to hold the gun out in front of you and aim for my torso.”
He widened his stance and mimed pointing an imaginary gun at my heart.
“Pow,” Kharon whispered, his fingers flexing like he pulled a trigger.
Blood was streaked across his parted lips.
He smiled cockily. “In emergencies, try to lock your elbows so the recoil doesn’t throw you off—”
