Chapter 3
Valentina
Three hours have passed since we got trapped in this inferno, and it's wearing on me. Every breath feels like the air could have been scraped from the sun itself. The fireplace hasn't dimmed once. If anything, the flames blaze hotter, even showing blue at times.
Sweat owns my skin. My stained, silk dress clings to me. I already know there's no dry cleaner who could ever return it to its previous state, which pisses me off. I paid a fortune for this dress. And my inner gut tells me that whatever Omni decided to put me here, they knew I'd be wearing this.
Brax sprawls across the sofa like heat doesn't bother him, but his towel is soaked, his chest slowly rises and falls with what I've quickly come to learn is irritation. Every few minutes, he glances at me with his infuriating smirk, which makes me believe he's surviving only to torment me.
He teases, "Still memorizing your sacred inscriptions, Minx?"
"You should be thankful that I'm double-checking what I'm teaching you so you know every intricate detail," I inform. I scan the lines I scrawled across the back of a napkin again. The letters blur from the humidity in the room.
He chuckles. "You're cooking yourself alive in that thing."
I look up, arching an eyebrow at him.
He grins, twirling his finger at me. "That dress is just added torture."
I toss the napkin on the floor. "Your point?"
He prods, "How do you stay in it?"
"It's called discipline."
"It's called stupidity." He sits up. "You know what I'd kill for right now?"
"An air conditioner?"
"And..."
I shrug. "A beer."
His face lights up. "Steak. Medium rare. Grilled over an open flame, with a side of whiskey."
My lips twitch. "That's primal of you. But not sure how you can think about anything having to do with flames right now."
He slides on the floor and pins his face next to mine. "Since there's no steak, I'll take you without that dress."
My butterflies flip. "Yeah?"
Hope flares in his expression. "Yeah."
"Try the sink. That will fill you up."
"Tried it. Tastes like metal."
A laugh flies out of me.
His eyes cut to my chest. "Take it off, Valentina. For the love of God, take it off before it melts into your perfect skin."
I crumble the napkin and toss it next to the rest of the wet paper I've accumulated over the last few hours. I glare at him. "Do you have a death wish?"
"Probably." He murmurs in my ear, "You're drenched. It's distracting."
The heat of his breath teases my lips. "So close your eyes."
"Not a chance."
I don't move.
He jumps off the floor, stretches, and every muscle shifts under his glistening skin. The towel hangs low on his hips, ready to slip off.
My pulse jerks. I force my gaze to the fire.
He whines, "This is torture. Whoever thought to put us here is sadistic."
"I'm sure you've done worse to your enemies," I comment, rising off the floor.
He pins his blues on me, confirming my suspicion. I still know nothing about him other than his name is Brax O'Malley. That last name confirms he's part of the clan, but time hasn't allowed me to drill him about other things.
My pulse ticks up. I clear my throat. "Focus on your rules."
He moves closer, and a new ripple of heat hits my body. "Three hours of rules. I think I get it."
"Enlighten me."
He chants, "Blood remembers. Betrayal kills. Keep your mouth shut. Don't piss off the queen."
I cross my arms. "We don't have a queen yet."
He gives me a funny look, half amusement and half suspicion. "Why not?"
My loyalty to Kirill and the real truth fight.
"Cat got your tongue?" Brax pushes.
I lock the truth in my mental vault and lift my chin. "Because the king hasn't chosen her yet."
Sarcasm curls on his tongue. "Such a responsibility."
"It is," I snap.
"Don't have to get all touchy about it," he says.
I point at him. "You're disrespectful, and that's going to get you killed."
A crooked smile appears. He lifts his brows.
I shake my head. "You should take this seriously, Brax."
He groans. "I am. But you have to admit this is a lot for any normal man to take in. Kings. Queens. Next, you're going to tell me there are knights in shining armor, too."
I stare at him.
"You've got to be kidding me," he mutters.
I offer, "Look, I know this is a lot to absorb, but your mouth is going to get you in trouble."
He laughs softly. "Good. Let it. Take the dress off, Valentina."
A shot of lava flows through my veins. "No."
"Scared?"
"Of what?"
"Of wanting me."
I roll my eyes, but the tremor in my core grows. I accuse, "You're delusional."
He prowls closer until his breath brushes my temple. He grabs my wrist and plants his thumb on it. "You keep saying no, but your pulse says otherwise."
I pull my hand away. "Ha ha funny."
He leaves the room and returns with a fresh towel. He takes it to the kitchen, runs water over it, then wrings it out. "At least cool off before you pass out." He tosses it to me.
It lands against my chest, damp and cold, but the relief only lasts a few seconds. I sigh. "That was nice but short-lived."
"Admit it felt good for a brief moment," he demands.
"I just did. Do your ears not work?" I tease.
His grin turns wicked. "Imagine if you could feel the relief longer."
I don't move. I'm pretty sure if I take my clothes off, it's only going to get hotter. I don't trust him or me if we're both naked.
He lowers his voice and firmly commands, "Valentina, take that dress off before you faint."
I remind him, "You don't get to order me around."
He shrugs. "Then think of it as a suggestion."
"Keep suggesting, and I'll—"
"What?" he challenges.
"I'll make sure your next breath hurts," I warn.
His smile deepens. "You're beautiful when you threaten me, Minx."
Minx.
Every time he calls me his little pet name, I don't correct him. I should, but I can't seem to tell him to stop.
The clock chimes for the top of the hour. A new crackle fills the air.
Brax moves toward the thermostat and spouts, "God dammit!"
"What?"
"It's at 103 now."
More sweat pops out on my forehead. It's not new. Every hour it's risen.
"For the love of God, take off that dress," he demands.
"Fine," I hiss, unable to stand the material any longer. "You want a show? Here."
I reach behind my neck and tug at the zipper, but it's stuck.
"Let me get that," Brax offers, sliding behind me before I can object. His fingers glide down my bare spine.
I gasp, then try to pull it together. I spin. "I'll get it."
"I already unzipped you," he claims.
I reach behind and confirm.
He adds, "You'll have to peel that nasty material off you."
"It's not nasty," I declare.
"Maybe not at the start of the night. But now? Ew." He wrinkles his nose.
I laugh.
"Off," he orders.
He's watching me.
So? It's not the first time a man's watched me.
Flashbacks of all the things I've done in the Underworld pummel me at once.
Pretend it's just another ritual.
I tug at the material. It falls to the floor, and a moment of relief fills me. I sigh, then my self-consciousness comes back.
I'm not naked. I'm in my thong and bra. But I feel naked.
For a heartbeat, he doesn't move. Then his eyes drag over every inch of me before he challenges, "Take the rest off, Valentina."
"I'm good."
He points to my panties. "Is that because I've been exciting you all night?"
I glance at the soaked lace, then slap the back of my hand against his arm. "Funny."
He tosses his own towel aside. "Don't be shy. I refuse to get heat stroke."
My breath catches, and I freeze.
The bar of silver gleams against the light. I saw the flash of metal earlier when he dropped his sweats, but the same coil in my gut reoccurs.
He smirks. "Like?"
I swallow. "You're ridiculous."
"Not what you were going to say."
I turn away, pretending to adjust my towel. "I always wondered why a guy would pierce himself there?"
He laughs under his breath. "Ever heard of the Kama Sutra?"
I force myself not to look at his dick again, affirming, "I'm familiar with it."
Cockiness erupts on his expression. "Then you know it's not just about positions. It's about precision."
"So you're worried you won't get your cock in the hole?" I tease.
He chuckles. "Never had a problem with that."
I stare at him, my heart racing.
He continues, "Centuries ago, men wore metal to honor the gods of pleasure. They believed it gave control. Power. Connection."
"So you're superstitious or religious?" I ask.
"Neither." He drags a fingertip down my damp shoulder. "Some things survive because they work."
My throat goes dry. "So Brax O'Malley is a scholar of ancient love rituals?"
He grins. "I'm a man who appreciates history. And results."
"You did it for results?"
"Let's say motivation." He circles me until we're face-to-face again. "You see pain. I see promise. Some men mark victories with ink. Others with iron."
I glance at the ink running down his arm. "You have both."
He grins cockily. "I cover all my bases."
I look back at the barbell on the head of his penis. "Doesn't it hurt?"
He lifts my chin, answering, "It did. Now it just reminds me that pleasure and pain share the same nerve endings."
My pulse hammers so hard it drowns the crackle of the fire. I want to scoff, to tell him he's disgusting, but my tongue won't obey. The image of his body, the glint of metal, the idea of ancient hands forging it in the name of pleasure...it all lodges under my skin.
"So what are you thinking?" he asks.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
I open my mouth, but he closes the space between us.
He demands, "Say it."
"Say what?"
"That you're curious."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not," I insist, though the air between us vibrates with the truth.
He reaches up, pushing a sweat-laden lock of hair off my cheek. "You keep fighting every instinct you have."
"Instincts get people killed."
"Or they keep them alive."
"Not in the Underworld. Rules and structure keep you breathing," I insist.
He smiles faintly. "Then maybe it's time someone rewrote the rules."