Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
The only sound in my study was the soft ticking of the mantel clock above the fireplace. There hadn’t been a fire burning bright in there for years. It was cold and covered in soot, much like the fragments of my soul most days.
Funny how chimneys were only ever clean on the day they were created. After their first burn, they’d never see that same level of pristine condition again.
It reminded me of love. Grotesquely beautiful destruction that violently sullied pieces of you. No matter how brightly it burned, the flames always got snuffed out. Left in its wake were ashes cloaked in the scent of burnt offerings. Suspiciously, heartbreak smelled just the same.
Sitting in an armchair that was more decoration than comfort, the expensive leather creaked as I shifted in my seat. My arm draped lazily over the side of the armrest, my hand hung low with the glass suspended from my fingertips.
I traced the rim of the rocks glass with the blunt edge of my nail.
The whiskey was long gone, just like yet another year of being stuck in this fucking house.
Everything in these walls was another damn reminder.
Another memory masquerading as a weapon designed to torture and inflict pain.
Another haunting vision lingering in the shadows of a lifetime spent sowing discontentment.
No matter how hard I tried to make the house mine, it never had been in the truest sense of the word. Years of renovations, upgrades, remodeling, and still, I knew exactly which room echoed the four historic words that altered the course of my life forever.
“I’m filing for divorce.”
It hadn’t been a request or a desire. It was unavoidable certain death for my marriage.
The place had belonged to my ex-wife, Pia. Her family owned it throughout generations, and after we wed, it belonged to us. Up until I fucked her over in the split. I’d thrown every accusation, every misstep, and every damn roadblock at her during the proceedings. Nearly bankrupted myself doing it.
And for what? Spite. Greed. Revenge. All motivators that were ugly at their core.
The recollection of those dark and turbulent days stained my mind with something I’d never be able to wash away.
With disgust, I growled deep from my gut, either at myself for being sentimental or at the situation for even transpiring in the first place.
It didn’t matter. The case was closed, and I had gotten everything I wanted from the contentious dissolution of my marriage.
I lifted the glass to my lips absently. My body moved on autopilot while surfacing from my thoughts. Pausing before the rim touched my lips, the scent of oak and grain lingered inside the glass, but the well remained dry.
Fucking hell.
Lowering the glass from my mouth, I twisted it in my hand, observing every designed cut in the expensive crystal that caught the dim overhead lighting. Then, with determination to wallow just a little longer, I pushed myself up from the chair.
The bar cart located against the wall of the study was fully stocked; my butler made sure of it. After crossing the room in three large strides, I didn’t hesitate to pick up the decanter filled with amber liquid crafted to soothe a man’s soul. Or drown it.
Before a single drop of whiskey could find its way inside my glass, that ridiculous doorbell rang throughout the entire house. It was one of the few things I kept the same post-divorce.
Secretly, I hated the damn thing. However, Pia absolutely despised it with a passion reserved for men who didn’t bow down before her. Men like me.
Keeping that lively tune installed, no matter how obnoxious, was my way of giving her the middle finger even if she wasn’t around to hear it.
The bell rang again. And again. And motherfucking again.
My grip on the neck of the decanter tightened to a point where it threatened to crack the glassware.
Every press of the chimes further locked my jaw in obscene annoyance, a sensation that left me feeling the pressure pulsing from my teeth straight to my temple.
Just when I thought that I was going to have to march downstairs and inflict my presence on whoever had such pathetic self-control, the sound of the front door swinging open provided immediate relief.
Peterson, my butler and house manager, had been in service with me since the day the estate became my permanent residence. He had a keen eye and ran a tight ship here. He knew when to ask questions and when to remain silent. All the other hired staff deferred to his expertise in all matters.
After the auditory assault stopped, the tension in my body bled away. The promise of another sip of the magic elixir these immortals crafted had me slipping into a temporary state of relaxation.
Halfway back to the armchair, I noticed the faint outline of my body in the black leather still lingered. Even my furniture bowed to my presence.
I drew a long sip of whiskey. The burn that slid down my throat was welcome, creating a warmth in my chest that mimicked anything mere humans compared to feelings of happiness and contentment.
Settling back into the chair, I lay my head back and closed my eyes.
It was a half-hearted attempt to shake off the unease that always clung to my soul this time of year.
Valentine’s Day, a farce of a holiday, was full of false promises and saccharine gestures in the name of such fickle emotions of love and passion.
To erase one’s mind of all thought was not a task easily done, especially when there were thoughts that harkened back to the dawn of all gods. However, I set forth an effort to clear them all from my head, if even for a heartbeat or two.
Somewhere in the depths of my awareness, I heard the front door click shut downstairs. Peterson’s polished loafers gently clicked against the gleaming hardwood floors, making himself scarce somewhere into the depths of the house.
Blessed silence at last.
Yet the sensation of darkness weighed down heavily on me, my mother’s presence. Not in any physical form, but in the rawest of elements unseen on the mortal plane. The same way fear felt cold on your skin, happiness created light in your eyes, and broken pride tasted like acid on your tongue.
The feeling left as quickly as it had come on. Mother had retreated.
Little did I know that retreat was only in preparation to surge forth like a tsunami swallowing the shore.
In the brief reprieve of her absence, everything stilled. Perfect harmony in the quiet. True peace was an elusive state of mind for me, and often the calm before the storm. Still, despite myself, I craved scraps of it.
Pl-pl-plin-plu-pla-ling.
My eyes snapped open like shades wildly retracting.
The rare moment of equilibrium in my mind didn’t just shatter, it disintegrated in an instant like the crash of a wave onto a castle made of sand and innocence.
There was no waiting for my butler that time. I rose to my feet, pitching the whiskey glass into the cold hearth. The whiskey left a trail of splatters to the wreckage of broken crystal that evidenced the result of my snapped temper.
Stomping to the study’s door, I flung it inward hard enough to rattle the frame. Didn’t stop moving to check any damage done to the hinges that squealed in protest.
Every step forward resulted in a thud against the flooring that sounded the alert to anyone foolish enough to cross my path before I reached my destination.
I needed a split second to gather my composure when I reached the front door.
My hands tugged at each sleeve of my suit jacket, straightening them out forcefully.
It was that momentary reset that drew a deeply rooted sense of control over myself, establishing a steel core inside me—cold and unyielding.
Shoulders squared, spine straight, I pulled open the door with more force than necessary.
The sight before me threatened to compromise the walls I had just erected. Not just anyone stood there on my doorstep, but I was greeted with the sight of a goddess. One of our kind.
Her beauty was secondary to the shimmer of the air that wafted from her skin. Unnoticeable to mortal eyes, but recognizable to the gods who hailed from Olympus itself.
The muscle in my jaw twitched under the tension applied to it. I allowed her to see just whose doorstep she found herself on. My stormy expression was set in stone, a stark contrast to the ever-changing movements of her facial features. Shock. Awe. Curiosity.
A hint of fear.
That was what sent the thrill of victory through my veins.
My espresso eyes remained on her, observing every tweak and twitch she made. Her long locks of hair cascaded well beyond her shoulders. The sun captured the rich burgundy of the strands, but it was the wind that rustled them just enough to reveal flickers of a deep shade of pink hidden in them.
The dusting of freckles across her cheeks and bridge of her nose drew my gaze to her eyes. Those fucking eyes. Doe-shaped. Oceanic blue with seafoam green that made them look alive in a way I never knew existed.
Spice contaminated the air around her, the type designed to heat the blood of a lover. The scent of desire and matters of the heart. Our devoted matchmaking goddess.
The raspberry sheen of gloss caught my attention as her lips moved, her words stuttering in my presence. I ignored them all.
“You,” I pointedly said. It was an accusation of who she was.
She fell silent, wide eyes unable or unwilling to look away from me.
When I spoke again, the words came out in a broken growl. “What are you doing here?”
I wanted nothing to do with her ability to inflict feelings of contentment on others. Those feelings had failed me once before.
“I, uh, well, you know. Business as usual.” Her tentative smile wobbled with uncertainty as my unimpressed expression remained despite her explanation.
“Business,” I repeated flatly. “Here.”
Unacceptable.
Her chin dipped as she nodded in confirmation.
With deliberate slowness, I leaned over until my face hovered inches from hers.
“You have no business here. You are nothing but a peddler of pain wrapped in pretty packages. I bet if you even felt a fraction of what your failure does to others, you wouldn’t carelessly spread it so freely.” Each word came out bearing the venom of a thousand hydra.
The disdain for everything she represented washed over me, and without thinking, my hand shot out and grabbed her upper arm. My grip like iron, unyielding and punishing at once.
One firm jerk, and her small form stumbled over the threshold into the foyer with me. She gasped in alarm, already tense with resistance.
I slammed the door shut, my decision made to put an end to her role in spreading lies in the name of some mortal-born holiday. A holiday in which fools became trapped in torturous cages of their sentimentality.
“H-hey!” she squeaked out in protest. “Let go! I bruise like a peach!”
I snorted at the analogy. “Good.”
Focused on disrupting her efforts to inflict love on anyone else this Valentine’s Day, I had just the solution in mind. Striding over to the stairs, I tugged her along like a disobedient puppy.
Hauling her up the grand staircase, she was light enough to keep upright despite her feet struggling to keep up with my pace.
“Where are we going? I have other deliveries to make!” The panic in her voice rose with every step, and something dangerously primal inside me relished in it.
Guiding her forcefully down the hall, I arrived at a closed door. A door to a room I had designed in tribute to artifacts from the lore of our kind. It would be all too fitting to contain the goddess of desire.
Shoving the door open, a dark smirk tugged at my lips.
“Welcome to your new home, Heartspite.”