Page 4 of For the Love of the Gods

The dam hadn’t broken—until now. It had been building. A quip about my track record here, a threat there. But I would have never expected retribution would come in the form of marriage. For the ever loving love of Zeus:marriage.

I woke up with a headache. Not part of the consequences explicitly, but an annoying cherry on top nonetheless. I should have guessed I would since the Fates had just turned my life into a new horrible, mind-numbing reality. I flipped onto my back and raised my left hand, as if there would be proof of the engagement I was apparently a part of sitting there.

But I found my fourth finger empty, and the open space seemed to mock me, reminding me just how much of a sham thisarrangement—to use Dominic’s word—was.

A shiver went through my body at the prospect of being married to him. The shock of finding him in my room at midnight was almost enough to permanently scar me, even though I had been expecting him.

It would seem odd toexpectthat someone like Dominic, a god with a realm full of the dead to rule, would show up in my room unannounced, but it was just one of the many scenarios I had prepared for. Poisoning my food, sending mercenaries after me, tackling me in the middle of a market, I had prepared for it all.

It was just natural, given a love of revenge was something both our families shared, and he had good reason to enact it. Or hethoughthe did. There were a few people in my life who would fight me on that difference.

Regardless, him showing up when I was damn near on the verge of sleep and then slapping an engagement on me was enough to turn a girl to stone from the shock. I let out a huff, something I seemed to do a lot where Dominic was concerned, and sat up in bed.

I wasn’t shackled to this marriage, not yet anyway. He let me call him on his bullshit, practically begged me to run to the Fates to prove that this marriage needed to happen. He was right, the Fates don’t take kindly to those who have killed, or in their wordswho interrupted their plans, but they owed me.

I had made sure of that.

With a final sigh, I hauled myself out of bed and walked toward my bathroom. Once I stepped inside and caught myself in the mirror, I almost laughed. My hair was tangled beyond belief and the hollows of my eyes had more purple than normal.

At least it made my eyes look greener.

I picked up my hairbrush, the same gold one that I’ve decided to blame for this whole debacle. I lifted it to the rat’s nest on my head, and as I began brushing, I was bombarded with more memories of last night.

The terrifying, electric feeling that coursed through my veins as Dominic watched me from the shadows. The fear that settled in my chest when I realized he intended to kill me. The unexpected relief when he said no. And worst of all, the shiver the rough scrape of his hands sent through me.

I could have kissed the Boreas heir for the chill wind she was spinning last night, because it made Dominic think I was cold, instead of realizing the horrible truth.

I refused to admit to anything other than distaste where Dominic was concerned through sheer force of will and petty revenge.

Dominic was massive, in height and build, standing half a foot above me, with a sleeve of tattoos on one arm and one on the other forearm. I was sure there were more, having gotten a glimpse of something under the collar of the casual shirts he always wore.

He took his role of god of the Underworld seriously in only two regards: constantly wearing black and being an asshole. Other than that, he was quite annoyingly informal, well, but not overdressed, unless the occasion required it.

His build, combined with the light stubble that always marred his cut jaw and strong chin, gave off the impression he could pummel you.

But he was gorgeous in a roguish kind of way, his head full of dark blonde hair. His eyes were a brown so deep they almost looked black and contrasted against his tanned skin, and his lips were full and built for smirking instead of smiling.

He was gorgeous and he hated me as much as I hated him. He deserved every name I called him in my head and aloud. My sins aside, he was equally at fault for our torrid relationship.

Which was why I refused to roll over and accept this marriage without making damn sure the Fates were forcing us into this. Otherwise, I would be happy to sit back and wait for him to work up the courage to finally kill me.

Or for him to find someone from his realm who enjoyed silence and torture as much as him and hope she popped a kid out. The latter option seemed a much more distant possibility seeing as Dominic seemed to think of relationships as fondly as taking a running jump into Tartarus.

The last tangle cleared from my hair and I went through the motions of my morning routine as quickly as possible. I washed my face, applied serums and creams in a rush, and slapped on blush and mascara. I stepped into my closet and pulled on the first dress I put my hand on, a simple forest green dress that fell loosely down to the middle of my calf.

I normally indulged myself in a much longer routine, but I had Fates to see.

I turned out of my closet and took a step forward, the world splitting in two and a portal to the Fates opening. It was something I didn’t even do consciously, a talent passed down through all godly families. My back foot joined the other on the damp gray floor and my bedroom faded away into space. I was left in a cold, wet room that would be classified as a dungeon if the Fates hadn’t decided to call it home.

I steadied myself, taking a deep breath even though I saw them once a week. No amount of exposure could get you used to staring into their bone-chilling eyes. Their quarters were a little farther forward, through a knee-high bronze gate topped with razor-sharp spikes.

That was the thing about the Underworld, everything needed to have a deadly little spin. Even on a gate that was flimsy enough to bend and stopped a grand total of no one from barging into the Fates’ space.

I pushed through it roughly and it hit the back wall with a small snap of sound that echoed loud into the hollowed-out dome. The Fates sat in their hovering chairs, an image I’d seen countless times, staring at the altar in front of them. It housed the tools they used to spin and cut lifelines—from their worn-down spindle to the fraying edges of the Book of Fate.

Not one of them lifted their heads as I approached, which in any other circumstance would have been a resounding sign to turn around and run home, but they stopped acknowledging me years ago. It was to be expected when I showed up every week like clockwork.

Except now, I was showing up on the wrong day, a fact that seemed to dawn on Clotho the moment it rattled across my mind. The Fates all represented a different stage in life, Atropos looking like a spry teenage girl, Lachesis like a withering old woman, and Clotho about middle age.

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