Chapter Three
Asshole. Angel.
Tormentor. Healer.
Hell bringer?
Not the continued revisions to the bingo card she needed yet was unable to protest beyond the shaky whimpers from her blood and fear-clogged throat.
Well, Little Monster, if you insist.
He was being ironic, right? At the very least, symbolic. That had to be the case. The devastating dickhead was playing with her fractured body and weakened mind . . .
Then why did her intuitions scream otherwise?
Why did her thoughts rewind like a malfunctioning movie, freezing only at the memories that corroborated the impossible—the glowing golden arrow, the unearthly beauty of the man who’d shot it into her, even the odd serum vials that Ito had ordered her to shoot at him and his brother—now compelling her to believe it?
As if he gave her any choice about the matter.
Not a fraction’s worth.
His grip, uncompromising, already said that much—before he snapped his fingers with the force of a giant cracking a king-sized flint against a twenty-foot pine tree.
The effect was the same. Giant flames whooshed up around them, raging into a blistering tornado, cutting off every view she had of Natasha Korra’s foyer.
Not that she’d be paying attention anymore.
She watched, morbidly enraptured, as the firestorm sucked out blood drops from her still-open wounds before sending them to the floor as dehydrated bits.
Until there was no more floor.
Until she scissored her dangling feet, scrambling for marble tiles that were no longer there. Her hair blew wildly into her face, obscuring her balance even more. The last of her thoughts were like demon fireflies, buzzing away from her mind’s desperate grabs.
The only thing that felt real . . . was him.
The steely strength of his hold. The steady pulses of his breath against her nape. The thump of the heartbeat in his chest smashed so tight to hers, as sure and safe as the stars for which he was named.
Oh, shitballs.
No, no, no. Just no.
Not safe. And what loopy moon child named their kid Apollo?
So there was that delusion too, on top of the other bizarre chunks of this insane fever dream.
Tetris blocks that refused to line up, falling way too fast through the fire, stacking in her brain until they blocked every reasonable thought except one.
She had to survive this.
Somehow, in some way, she had to figure out how to survive this—whatever this had even become—and find a way to contact Ito before the media picked up on the connection between her double failures of the evening.
Worse, that the yakuza boss would connect the dots to the logical conclusion about it all: that she was no closer to finding Natasha Korra or Reks Byrd, despite the carte blanche he’d given her to all his resources and information.
Not that it’d been that free.
Genny.
He’d lock her up even tighter now. At the very least.
What would he do if Wen didn’t report back at all?
Her sister was nothing close to what a yakuza oyabun would call an asset.
Social cues were no better than dust mites to Genny, unless someone was in the mood to learn every detail in the world about movie musicals or practical prop design.
She highly doubted Ito and his men were dying to watch a double feature of Xanadu and Chicago, let alone be lectured about how every inch of their props were created.
But no way would the mafia leader simply send her home to LA.
But he’d figure out some way to make a profit from her . . .
No, no, no. Hell freaking no.
The word was too common a refrain now, when she needed to boot her brain toward the light at the other side of the tunnel.
Yes, you will survive this. Yes, it’s okay to play temporary groupie and ride Eddie Van Blondie out of here, even after he made his fingers like magical liquid stitch on your worst wounds.
Yes, you will get to Genny in time. You always have; you always will.
“Yes. Yes.”
It was hardly a choke of breath let alone a real sound, but she turned it into her nonstop mantra against the muscled ball of his shoulder as they soared up the fiery flume.
Up?
The tag was also as relative as the more linear parts of her logic by this point. If the tornado alignment held, the vertical lift felt right, but every fragment of her senses was still coated in the guttural glue of his baritone promise.
Hell . . . well . . . if you insist . . .
So, were they rising . . . down? Falling . . . up?
Neither absurdity made sense. Nor did her balance or steadiness or any semblance of direction. Her hair blew in every direction; the hot winds buffeted her from right, left, up, down, backward, forward—
Until they suddenly didn’t.
The silence, as entirely too many assholes in her life had said, was deafening.
Yet here was karma, checking in as the biggest bitch on the block, with a new atmosphere that would make a cemetery seem like a great place for a rager.
The male to which she still clung like ivy on a headstone was cooperating too damn accurately with the vibe, as responsive as cement while he crossed a wide space before leaning over and setting her down on a cushioned surface of some sort.
That certainly flashed her eyes open.
Nearly in the same moment, she grimaced through a pair of stabbing pains.
Even if Mr. Magical Fingers had actually healed her back at the mansion—still a big if; since she’d probably hallucinated that glowing arrow in her chest and the matching nimbus around his beautiful head—he hadn’t been able to repair all the damage before his strange crow squad apparently sent up the warning signal about the sirens screaming up the hill.
Ahhh, now there was the doozie delirium of the night. Because nobody conversed with crows like that, right? Issued them orders like some corvid SWAT team? Then after that, actively listened in return, as if their obnoxious squawks were sit reps and updates?
Was any of this real?
Maybe . . . it wasn’t.
Not for the first time since she’d been skewered by Natasha Korra’s chandelier, a disgusting probability filled her mind.
The delusions were really just that, because she was really just dead.
She didn’t just open her eyes to discover the surface upon which he’d placed her was actually a sprawling gray velvet couch out of her wildest interior decorating dreams, centered in a living room that checked off most of the same boxes.
The space was a soothing but captivating mix of Victorian class with modern strength, leading her gaze to soaring windows bracketed by creamy brocade drapes.
Those were accented by tall, corkscrew-shaped topiaries housed in Asian-influenced urns.
But none of it sucked her breath from her lungs as thoroughly as the obvious master of this decadent house.
Damn it.
If years of professional headhunting had taught her nothing else, it was that viewing a dude in his mancave spoke indisputable facts about him.
An obscene truth, especially now. Never had she seen a male more accurately matched to his space.
He dropped a knee next to her with more rakish confidence than every duke in the ton.
Slammed a hand against the back of the sofa as if preparing to snap his topiaries like toothpicks.
Finally, he dropped down until again aligning his face with hers, and mere inches separated their noses.
But unlike the first time, Wen was sure she wasn’t about to die beneath him.
Or was she?
His gaze flashed with we-meet-at-dawn ferocity. His nostrils backed up the promise with subtle but steady flares. Beneath them, his sculpted lips twisted with inherent demand, though it quickly turned into the real thing.
“Stay. Here.”
A crazy bubble of laughter nearly breached her own lips.
It beat a bunch of other options, most notably the consuming shiver that his black ice syllables scraped along her psyche, but no way would he get the satisfaction of seeing that either.
Instead, she mimicked his expression with the intent to copy his tone, as well—
But he never gave her the chance.
Her two seconds of deliberation gave him the opening to lurch up and away, wheeling toward a well-stocked wet bar with stained glass cabinet insets.
“You need to hydrate before I tackle your other wounds.” He pulled out a crystal water glass and filled it to the brim from the tap. “Healing is useless without support from your internal systems. After you drink this, we can get back to . . . ”
The hell we can.
While managing to stay silent about it, she still regretted the rebellion.
More precisely, her stupid word choice. Every syllable blared louder in her brain than whatever he continued to ramble about.
She peered past him, out the bay window overlooked by a striking array of bird perches, before analyzing the buildings beyond as if she’d just landed in a new city instead of a new dimension.
The colorful cityscape was like nothing she’d ever seen, dark but detailed, sensual yet somehow comfortable.
Shadowed mountains rose in the distance, etched along one side by a velveteen river.
It was as if Hades had allowed Hallmark to take over for filming a small-town romance flick.
“Shit.” It burst in a rasp as her spine jolted straighter.
Hades . . .
Then even straighter, as her synapses did race with his bold baritone again.
Hell, hm? If you insist . . .
Holy . . . shit.
No.
Holy . . . something else; some other spirit or saint that would make Sister Margaretta turn over in her grave. But what good would that do? Because if he’d been serious, and they really touched down somewhere south of the topsoil . . .
It wouldn’t change a thing.
The voltage in her spine switched wattage as soon as the affirmation struck her psyche. And then her nervous system. And then its decrees to her muscles and bones, kicking her whole frame up off the couch and across the room.