Chapter 6 #2
My stomach rumbles, but I’m not really in the mood for sugar right now.
I need something substantial to soak up all that expensive wine currently sloshing around in my system.
Closing the fridge, I turn around and spot exactly what I was hoping for—a small pantry area stocked with gorgeous artisanal breads that probably cost more per loaf than I used to spend on groceries in a week.
Perfect.
I grab some fluffy sourdough that feels like a cloud in my hands and head back to the fridge for cold cuts and mayo. Finally, in the blessed coolness of the basement kitchen, I construct myself a sandwich that would make any drunk person weep with joy.
Right as I open my mouth to take the first glorious bite, guess who appears in the doorway like some kind of brooding gothic hero?
That’s right. Mister Big Sexy Asshole with wings and a tail and serious boundary issues.
I only choke a little on my first bite, but then—determined to maintain whatever dignity I have left after our last disastrous interaction—I continue chewing slowly and deliberately. I’m not going to let him intimidate me or rush me or make me feel guilty for eating food in his precious castle.
He stays silhouetted in the doorway, all dark wings and imposing presence in the otherwise brightly lit room. “I’m glad you’re making yourself at home,” he says, and his tone is... unreadable.
I can’t get a bead on him. For once, he’s not wearing that wild, too-wide grin, but he doesn’t look pissed off either. It’s throwing me off because I’m used to being able to read men’s moods instantly—a survival skill I developed during seven years with Michael.
If this were Michael, he’d already be sending subtle signals that he was still angry about my “outburst” earlier.
That’s what he used to call it whenever I expressed any opinion he didn’t like or showed any emotion he found inconvenient.
An outburst. His passive-aggressive way of training me to be the perfect, compliant girlfriend who worked her ass off to please him at all times while never asking for anything in return.
I arch an eyebrow and double down on my attitude, determined never to be that weak, desperate woman ever again.
“I got hungry,” I say around a mouthful of food, because Michael also used to have very strong opinions about proper table manners and never talking with food in your mouth.
He was full of shoulds and should-nots for the women he dated. A whole fucking handbook of how to be acceptable.
I take another deliberately large bite of my sandwich, maintaining eye contact like this is some kind of dominance battle.
Remus just tilts his head and watches me with what looks like genuine curiosity rather than judgment.
“I’m eager to learn about all your wants and desires,” he says slowly.
“I realize it may be... difficult for me to always...” His dark eyes stay fixed on mine, but I can sense some kind of internal struggle as he searches for words.
Something that seems unusual for someone usually so confident and articulate.
I swallow my bite, my defensive posture softening slightly. “What’s difficult?”
“My experience with humans has been in very... specific contexts,” he admits.
“I think I may need to alter some of my approaches. I might not always know how to do that correctly.” He pauses, and for the first time since I met him, he looks almost vulnerable.
“Would it be fair to ask for your patience? I genuinely want to understand you.”
I let out a long breath. This isn’t what I expected. No doubling down on the asshole behavior, no gaslighting, no making me feel crazy for having boundaries. “What contexts are we talking about?”
He shrugs, and the movement makes his wings shift slightly. “Battle. Warfare. Conquest.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I mean, I knew he was ancient, but I guess I hadn’t really thought about what he’d been doing for all those centuries. “What kind of battles? Because I feel like history books would have mentioned someone as, uh, distinctive as you.”
His grin returns, cracking across his face as he lets out a rich laugh that echoes off the kitchen walls.
“Oh, I’m quite certain you know my work, even if you don’t realize it.
My brothers and I were there with Hannibal crossing the Alps, with Alexander conquering the known world, with Caesar crossing the Rubicon, with Genghis Khan building his empire.
Anywhere blood was to be spilled and power was to be seized, we were there, shaping the destinies of nations. ”
I stop chewing mid-bite and barely manage to swallow. “So you... enjoy spilling blood?”
His grin stretches wider, becoming something almost predatory, and his eyes take on a distant, almost nostalgic gleam.
“Picture it—armies stretching to the horizon, the electric tension of warriors preparing for battle, adrenaline and bloodlust crackling in the air like lightning before a storm. Then that first arrow flies, steel clashes against steel, and all that carefully controlled energy explodes into glorious chaos. Men fighting for their lives, for glory, for honor—though in truth, they were merely pieces in a far grander game.”
I take a step back, my stomach churning and not just from the wine. “Those were people. Human beings with families and dreams and—”
He blinks, seeming to return from whatever violent fantasy he’d been lost in.
“Is that how you see me?” I ask, my voice smaller than I’d like. “As just another pawn in your game?”
His expression shifts immediately, something almost like regret flickering across his features. “No, Lo-Ren. No, that was my past. That was who I was made to be.”
“A past you obviously miss,” I point out.
His jaw tightens. “It was my purpose. My father forged his sons to be instruments of power on this plane of existence.”
“And the only way to get power is by killing people?” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I can’t help it. I’m a pacifist. Violence for its own sake makes me physically ill.
“War is how civilizations rise,” he says, looking at me like I’m naive for not understanding this basic fact of existence.
I throw my hands up, nearly dropping my sandwich. “That’s such a—a—a destructive, masculine bullshit answer! What did your father need all that power for anyway? Just so he could start another war and kill more people? What did any of it actually accomplish?”
Remus laughs like I’m missing some obvious point.
“What did it accomplish? Influence. Control. We whispered in the ears of the most powerful leaders in history. They gained wealth, territories, entire kingdoms! The world you live in now exists because of what my father, my brothers, and I shaped through centuries of careful manipulation. We didn’t just witness history—we created it. ”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “You mean you destroyed civilizations. You’re only talking about war and conquest, not about building anything lasting or meaningful.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Peace was simply the intermission between conflicts, the calm before the next great leader rose to claim what was rightfully theirs.”
“Are you serious right now?” My voice is getting higher, but I can’t seem to control it. “What about leaders who actually maintained peace? Don’t you understand that that’s what makes someone truly great? Building something instead of just tearing everything down?”
“Expanding territory, conquering enemies, creating empires that stretch from sea to sea—that’s what makes a leader great,” he insists.
“If war is so fucking fantastic, why aren’t you still out there leading battles and whispering poison in the ears of generals?” I demand, putting my hands on my hips. I can’t believe I ever found this man attractive. He’s a goddamn barbarian.
He waves another dismissive hand and reaches for a bottle of what looks like expensive whiskey, uncorking it with one smooth motion.
He drinks straight from the bottle just like I did with the wine.
“I decided to retire. Even the most celebrated warriors deserve rest after millennia of glorious service.”
“Who were you serving?” I spit out. “Because it sure as hell wasn’t humanity.”
He looks directly at me, and there’s something almost defiant in his expression. “Myself.” But then his eyes drop as he takes another long pull of whiskey. “And my father, I suppose.”
I remember the moving mosaic, the figure stealing fire from the divine realm. “And where is daddy dearest now? Off with your brothers? War criminals on vacation?”
Remus slams the whiskey bottle down on the stainless steel counter so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “My father is gone. Damned to whatever hell we sent him back to, if there’s any justice in this universe.”
“Really?” I cross my arms. “And what about justice for all the innocent lives you helped destroy over the centuries?”
In one fluid, terrifying motion, Remus spreads his massive wings and launches himself across the kitchen, landing directly in front of me and crowding into my personal space.
He slams one hand against the wall above my head, and I gasp as he looms over me, all intimidating height and barely controlled power.
“You want to know the truth, little consort?” His voice is low and dangerous. “I’m not a good man. In fact, I’m a very, very bad one. I don’t give a damn about your human morality or your concepts of right and wrong.”
He bends his head down, those storm-gray eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak. As much as I want to look away, to break this magnetic pull between us, I force myself to stare right back even as my entire body starts trembling from his proximity.
“But maybe you don’t actually want a good man,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a register that does absolutely sinful things to my pulse.
“Good men are safe. Predictable. Boring. And I’m beginning to suspect that underneath that sweet, innocent exterior is a woman who craves more than the mundane disappointments a normal life has given her. ”
He leans down even further until his lips brush against my temple, and I have to bite back a whimper.
“Life with me will never be safe or expected, Lo-Ren. I want to do things to your body that will leave you shuddering and gasping my name. I want you trembling and aching and begging me for more even when you think you can’t possibly take another second of pleasure. ”
A shiver races through my entire body at his filthy promises and the vivid images they’re painting in my wine-soaked brain.
He shifts slightly, his mouth now hovering just beside my ear, his warm breath making me dizzy.
“I want to grab your gorgeous curves and show you exactly what it means to be worshipped by a god. I want to make you forget every disappointment, every man who never appreciated what he had, every moment you’ve ever felt less than perfect. ”
I gasp, and it comes out as something embarrassingly close to a moan.
“I want to hear you scream my name until it’s the only word you remember,” he continues, his voice pure velvet sin against my skin. “Until you understand that you were made for this, made for me, and that everything that came before was just preparing you for the moment you became mine.”
Holy shit. I’m pretty sure I just forgot how to breathe.