Page 62 of Blood

Apparently, Daddy Dearest spelled the Fomorians’ prison to adapt with every new technological advancement. Athena mentioned that every room comes with a flat-screen television, a state-of-the-art gaming device, and a wet bar. The cafeteria serves cuisines from every corner of the world, and Lucifer even hired some of his demons to perform as masseuses.

It seems as if this so-called “prison” is actually a five-star resort. No wonder Athena doesn’t seem too upset with me.

Though, when she offers to give me a tour, I hastily decline. The last thing I want is to become accidentally trapped in Hell’s most notorious prison, even if it’s better than any hotel I’ve ever stayed at.

We agree to meet with Athena and her highest officials in a few days’ time to finalize our attack plan. Hopefully by then, we’ll be able to gather forces from the monster council.

The battle is coming.

Soon, the streets will be painted red with blood.

The safest place for me and my mates is Lucifer’s apartment here in Hell, so it’s there we travel to next. The guys are already discussing strategy, but I excuse myself to take a shower. I need a moment—just a single moment—to myself.

As the water rushes over me in a torrent, scalding my skin and turning it red, I allow my mind to wander.

I died.

That realization sits like a boulder in my stomach.

At least, I got close enough to taste the afterlife on my tongue, a surprising acerbic flavor. When I close my eyes, I swear I can see Mason’s face tattooed across the inside of my eyelids, his eyes anguished, his lips parted, his hands reaching for me. His voice is indelibly stamped on my soul, weaving itself into my very genetic makeup.

Did I...see him? When I died or whatever the hell happened to me?

Like before, I swear I can feel the phantom caress of his fingers skating down my spine, the touch reminiscent of an ice cube. I shiver, even with the steaming water pouring down on me.

The numerous cuts lining my body have already begun to heal, since Memphis didn’t use a god-blessed dagger. Still, I find that I can’t scrub myself clean enough. Every time I glide the sponge over my skin, I’m back in that moment, feeling the slash of a dagger slicing across my arms and legs...

I scrub even harder, my skin turning red and blotchy.

I can’t even rejoice in the fact that my mates have returned to me. My mind is a whirlpool of foreign emotions and sensations I don’t dare look at too closely.

Where are my parents? I don’t blame my guys for not trying to free them, but that doesn’t negate the worry slithering through my brain like a poisonous snake, intent on corrupting everything it coils around.

Are they alive? What is Zeus doing to them? I doubt he left them in the same building as my mates. For some reason, Zeus’s rune didn’t work on Dracula, Lucifer, and Hera. I imagine it’s because their power level is equal to Zeus’s, if not higher. Zeus wouldn’t risk placing them somewhere they could potentially break free from.

Unbidden, my brain conjures images of a stone prison deep underground, where my parents hang shackled from the ceiling, their emaciated bodies nothing but skin and bones.

I ignore the tug in my gut, the craving to surrender to Zeus and allow this entire battle to be over with, and turn off the shower. I quickly change into a white tank top and a pair of panties before heading back to the room Lucifer claimed was mine.

Dimitri Gray is waiting for me when I arrive.

I locate him immediately, unerringly, even though he’s seated on a chair in the corner, hidden in the shadows of the room.

He must’ve showered at the same time I did because his shoulder-length hair is damp. Even though it’s nearing the middle of the night—at least, I assume it is. It’s hard to tell time in Hell—he wears his customary suit. How does he always manage to look so immaculate while I appear as if a steamroller ran me over and then a dog came along and shat on my head?

Maybe it’s all of those icicles rammed up his asshole. He’s probably so cold that he has to wear suits all the time or risk getting frostbite.

I snort inwardly at my own joke and move toward my bed.

“Mr. Gray,” I say nonchalantly as I toss my towel on the ground and grab a container of cheese puffs off the nightstand. I had Memphis, ahem, procure these for me.

What? Don’t judge. A girl needs her comfort food every once in a while.

And, honestly, I didn’t expect Mr. Tall, Dark, and Angry to make an unscheduled appearance in my room.

Dimitri steeples his long, slender fingers together and leans forward to study me. It’s always unnerving to be the prey trapped in his predatory gaze—those blue orbs rip at my soul and see every broken, tarnished piece of me that I wish to keep hidden.

“Where are the others?” I press when it’s apparent Dimitri isn’t going to speak.

---