Chapter Seven #3
She nearly laughed. Oh yes, right here and now, despite the inches of filth on her body and the layers of desperation on her soul. But did corvid warriors get the nuances of punch drunk like her human counterparts would? And why, all of a sudden, did it matter?
Because it didn’t.
Not as she watched the squad take flight together, aligning into a formation that’d have even the Blue Angels taking notes, black wings forming a flawless double triangle as they soared higher and higher.
They didn’t break form by a millimeter, even after reaching the top of the atrium and veering right, disappearing out of sight.
Leaving her suddenly aware that, yet again, she was inextricably alone with their human commander.
No.
Not human.
When—how—had she dropped that awareness like nothing more than a candy wrapper?
Littering was bad, especially when a girl prided herself on being a top tier headhunter. Doubly so when it came to factoids like don’t be caught alone with the god of the fucking sun.
She needed to pick up that stupid wrapper. Fast.
Nope. Not fast enough.
Not when Apollo swiped it up faster but refolded it like Olympian origami: in short, with a few smooth swipes of his supernatural fingertips on the air.
Within seconds, his tapered digits transformed the gold bird perches into padded clothing rods, and the atrium’s glass windows into brocade-lined walls.
Materializing on each of the seven rods was a different ensemble, clearly meant for her measurements.
“What the hell?”
She sputtered it with passable humor, succeeding at masking the gasp of delight to which she was first tempted.
Living most of the time in Kevlar and meta-aramids didn’t mean a girl couldn’t appreciate the cushy red track suit with fluffy slippers or the Asian-inspired caftan with hand-painted flowers and matching hair wrap.
The other five looks were just as unique and luxurious, a recognition that had her fighting the fashion lust yet again.
Because no way was all of this meant for her.
Oh, damn.
That was it.
She was in the way here, wasn’t she? In the way of a date night for which the god was pulling out all his dazzling stops.
A quick rack of her brain, hauling out random snippets from one semester in high school mythology, only returned one name from Apollo’s long list of lovers.
But Daphne had never loved him in return.
She’d transformed herself into a tree to avoid him. So that couldn’t be right.
No matter what, she’d outstayed her welcome. Time for an extrication, at least for the night. A classy but funny one . . .
“Sorry, buddy. I’m afraid doing the life-sized Barbie thing isn’t my kink.
But you do you, okay?” Not classy. Barely funny.
Just move on to the point and spare him the Awkward 101 lesson.
“I’m sure you’ve got someone on supernatural speed dial, and I won’t get in the way by a single inch.
You’ve got an upstairs to this place, right? I’ll just—”
He cut her off by using just two fingers, clamped and commanding to the bottom of her chin.
He squeezed hard then jerked up, compelling her flared gaze to endure the green and gold fires of his, as he shifted close enough to press a coiled thigh against her side.
With her hands still braced against her waist, she couldn’t even wiggle her knuckles without brushing dangerously close to the divot where those muscled tree trunks came together.
Shit. It was a glorious divot.
“Fascinating as it may be to consider playtime with my own Little Monster dress-up set, I don’t play with toys that stink.”
The divot wasn’t as magnificent as his husk, delivered close enough to warm her face with its every syllable. Before she could course-correct she swayed his way in return, pulse jumping and blood heating, until his context fully sank in.
“Uh . . . wha?”
“You heard me.” He pulled back again, leaving her behind to deal with another uncontrollable reaction. As she shivered, zapped yet chilled at once, he indicated back at the clothing racks with a commanding nod. “Pick something you like and follow me. You need a bath, Ms. Steed.” Now.
Though he might as well have issued the qualifier aloud, it would’ve been redundant by the time Wen got done agreeing with him—inside three seconds, right after her furtive armpit check.
Her senses swam from the disgusting proof of what her pores had endured in the last few hours.
Amazing, what dried blood and falmouth residuals could do to one’s own sweat.
“Okay, this time, you’re right,” she muttered, too embarrassed by now to care about what ensemble she actually grabbed.
Thankfully it was the track suit. Though the fabric was as red as a ripe apple, it was the texture of spun butter: a symbolic combination that had her suddenly hungry for a whole apple pie—
Until she turned to heed Apollo’s lead and realized what “ensemble” he’d picked for himself.
The breath-haltingly shirtless one.