Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
I had half a mind to ignore the wretched tone that sounded throughout the entire house. However, there was a touch of something familiar in the air—a scent of superiority and the crispiness of ice.
Pia.
The next groan I made was not one of pleasure; it never had been with my ex-wife.
Without waiting for Charlee to register my next movements, I was already exiting her cage and slamming the door shut behind me. It took a mere wave of my hand to shift the lock in place, trapping her inside the barred structure that would be her home for the foreseeable future.
She scrambled up to her feet, rushing to the cage’s door. Her hands jerked on the bars aggressively, rattling the hinges, which were steadfast thanks to the quality craftsmanship and a little bit of my raw power sealing it.
“Wait! Where are you going?!” The panic laced her words, and if there were anyone else at my doorstep, perhaps I’d relish in the moment.
I didn’t acknowledge her questions, just kept walking in preparation for seeing what the devil woman downstairs wanted.
“Eryx!” Charlee shrieked.
It seemed she was quick to stop calling me theos now, wasn’t she? The bitter-hearted thought amused me enough that a nearly imperceptible smirk tugged at my lips.
Behind me, the sound of her hands hitting the bars would have been gratifying if not for the fact that I was walking towards the woman who had been one of Little Miss Cupid’s perfect matchmaking skills. I had been the collateral damage.
Stepping out of the room, the door shut with a quiet click. As I crossed the threshold and stepped out into the hallway, my apparel shifted back to something more put-together. A pair of steel-grey slacks and a navy button-up, concealing all evidence of the tattoos that lingered beneath the fabric.
I adjusted the collar, primarily out of habit, as I descended the grand staircase.
Pia’s hand pounded on the door with the patience of a woman with too much money and too little time. Apparently, her loathing of the doorbell overrode the convenience of pressing a button.
Small victories remained intact.
Eryx—three hundred and seventeen.
Pia—one.
A petty one at that. She had blessed my vintage sports car with a broken bottle of whiskey the day after our first divorce hearing.
Not that I was keeping score.
Approaching the front door, I saw Jamie step out from the sitting room to the right with the intention of bearing the initial brunt of my ex-wife’s rage. I waved him off—no need to inflict Pia’s presence on more souls than necessary.
I paused, bracing myself for half a heartbeat, before I opened the door. In typical fashion, Pia didn’t wait before gliding past me. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor, her chin held high as she entered the foyer like she still owned the place.
With a gentle push, I shut the door and turned to see her studying the entranceway. Folding my arms in front of me, I waited for her to announce the intentions behind her unexpected visit.
She turned in a steady circle, the modest length of her dress’s skirt fluttering around her knees, before she stopped to face me.
Pia’s white-blonde hair was pulled in a bun so tight that not a single strand dared to break formation.
Her manicured fingers plucked her designer sunglasses off her face with elegance and grace that mirrored centuries of being the most popular rich brat on the block.
Absentmindedly, she bit down on the temple tip of the frames as she surveyed the open area. Removing the hard plastic from between her teeth, she gestured vaguely around her.
“You do more work in here again? Something’s… different.”
Pia didn’t bother hiding the suspicion or judgment in her tone.
I shrugged. “I like switching things up now and again. Keeps things fresh.”
Her dark violet eyes met mine, looking for clues that I wouldn’t allow her to see.
Stepping closer, Pia pinned me with a look that could put some prosecutors to shame.
Too bad she never entered the legal field.
Her love for assaulting the olfactory senses of socialites everywhere was her true calling.
Designer fragrances for the wealthy. All of which smelled like superiority complexes masking raw sewage if you asked me.
Taking a dramatic sniff of the air surrounding her, I canted my head to one side in response to the scented notes coming off her. “Is that last season’s Consort Eau de Parfum I smell?” I smirked and tucked my hands into my pockets. “Scandalous,” I said mockingly.
“Have company over, Eryx?” She went straight for the jugular. Figured.
Feigning casualness, I shrugged. Didn’t confirm or deny.
Her eyes narrowed on me then as she stepped even closer, tapping my chest with her folded sunglasses. “The pickup out front. Not your aesthetic.”
She wasn’t wrong. I liked to seat myself in small things that made my blood sing.
Bitterness laced my reply, “What would you know about where my interests lie, Pia?”
Waving her hand dismissively, clearly already moved on from this line of questioning. “Doesn’t matter. Have your manservant prepare us lunch.”
I laughed humorlessly at her demand as she was already striding out of the foyer towards the back of the house.
“I’m in the middle of something, Pia,” I stalked after her.
Without turning around to acknowledge me, “Indeed. Having lunch with your ex-wife.”
Bitch always did demand priority over my schedule.
Grumbling beneath my breath, I caught up to her, falling in step at her side. Catching Jamie’s presence peeking around a corner, I gave a subtle shake of my head. No damn lunch today.
“You’re insufferable, as always,” I griped.
“You’re a bastard, as always,” she retorted, voice dripping with false sweetness. Hell, it almost sounded fond for her.
At the end of the hall, she paused to look both directions thoughtfully. “Shall we dine out by the decaying garden, or will the dining room suffice today?”
My hands curled into fists inside my pockets, clenching them tightly several times before forcing myself to relax.
“Garden. You’ll be pleased to see that I kept the dried-out corpses of your favorite orchids.” Let her see that they were as dead as our marriage.
“Hm. Delightful,” she said, unfazed, before turning down the hall towards the back door.
Once we were outside, seated at the wooden patio table, I leaned back in my chair to brace myself for whatever had brought her here on a whim. Waving my hand, a cigar appeared in one hand and a lighter in the other.
I had just flipped the top of the lighter and was seconds away from lighting up when Pia chose that moment to reveal her intentions.
“I’m getting married.”
All movements ceased, not even daring to blink at this announcement that was dropped onto my lap with the finesse of a grenade with the pin pulled. I sat there frozen for what likely was only a second or two but felt like several minutes.
Forcing my body to move, I lit the cigar pinned between my teeth.
“Hmph.”
It was my only outward reaction to news of Pia’s engagement. Other than a curious glance at her left hand, bare.
Interesting.
“That’s all you have to say? Hmph? Most polite company gives some congratulatory sentiment.” A mix of offense and amusement hung on her words.
I laughed as I exhaled a smooth stream of smoke. Maybe the scent of tobacco would drown out that gods-awful perfume she wore.
“We both know I’m not polite.” I grinned as I took pleasure in the scowl etched onto her face.
Sitting up straighter in my seat, I tossed the lighter onto the table and took another thoughtful draw on the cigar.
Using the time to collect my words. Finally, I spoke around the smoke seeping out of my mouth.
“You want best wishes, Pia? Here you go: may the gods have mercy on the poor fucker’s soul after you wring every ounce of pain you can from it. ”
“Charming,” she deadpanned. “At least Zane knows how to treat a woman like a queen, not an afterthought.”
I almost choked on the air itself. Coughing on a few fits of laughter, I placed a hand to my chest to alleviate the spasms of my lungs.
“Zane?” I choked his name out in disbelief. “Fuck. Good luck with that, Pia. Seriously. Man treats anything with two legs like a queen.” That was being generous. The number of legs usually didn’t factor into his extracurricular activities.
The skies above us darkened threateningly, a pop-up thunderstorm or just one pissed off fiancé eavesdropping on our conversation.
“Respectfully, of course.” I grudgingly muttered.
Coincidentally, the clouds slowly shifted, but the grey lingered above as a distinct reminder of the looming presence.
Ready for another pull from my smoke, I lifted it to my lips only to be interrupted by the sound of something hitting glass. Specifically, one of the windows above us on the second floor.
The Fates really must have been pissed at me today.
Pia’s thin brow twitched upwards, her eyes following the sound.
Any hope of dismissing the one-off interruption was destroyed when Charlee’s shouting began. The only saving grace was that the thick glass panes muffled the noise, making whatever colorful language she was using unintelligible.
The Fates were definitely pissed at me.
As Pia parted her lips to question it, I spoke first.
“Houseguest.” A simple explanation. One that I hoped she’d accept. I didn’t need her to believe it, just leave it be.
No such luck.
With piquing interest, a curious smile widened across her lips. “Your houseguest sounds… emotional.”
I scoffed. She had no idea.
“She’ll live,” I grumbled around the head of the cigar, pulling in a mouthful of its acrid smoke. The resulting sharp exhale through my nose forced the white plume out, reminiscent of a slumbering dragon on the verge of being awakened.
Typical of the woman seated across from me, she saw through my clipped response.
“Now, now, Eryxander.” She rose from her seat with controlled fluidity, one typically seen amongst royals.
I stared at her in horror, both at the use of my full name and the look in her eyes set in rich amethyst hues.
“Pia.” Her name only. A warning.
Ignoring me and with intentions set in stone, she stepped back from the table and made her way to the door that led back inside. On her way by, she trailed her hand across the backs of my shoulders as she whispered, “You always did make a horrific host.”
Shit.
The cigar fell from my fingers to the ground, rolling beneath the table to be left forgotten.
Pushing out of my chair, I beat her to the door in several long strides. I slammed my hand against the frame, barring her entry without physically restraining her.
Without so much as breaking her stride, she ducked under my arm and slipped inside. Each unhurried step told me that she had a vested interest in what was happening in that upstairs bedroom. Not for the safety of who was inside, but for whatever leverage she could wield over me.
I dropped my hand away from the frame as I watched her disappear around a corner.
Caught between chasing and intervening or shameless resignation, the frustration caused my fingers to curl into a trembling fist at my side.
Ultimate frustration took over, and in one violent movement, I pounded my knuckles into the frame.
The resulting impact sounded like a crack of thunder.
I was the god of discord. I didn’t chase others. I allowed the chaos to come to me.
But in that moment? I did the unthinkable: I ran.
…And I hated myself every step of the way.