God of Love (House of Gods #1)

Chapter 1

Charisma

Ihad been awake for some time, and though I frequently postponed the beginning of my day because of my life’s rigid routine, today, my reluctance was not for the usual reasons.

I stilled at the sound of respiration—not just my own, but dozens of shallow breaths, rising and falling in unison—and couldn’t help but wonder if I was experiencing sleep paralysis, even if the idea sounded absurd. Dreams visited me far less often than sleep did.

While I refrained from labeling myself an insomniac, I regularly likened my sleeping patterns to those of a killer whale: I bedded down with half my brain awake, always on alert for danger.

I wasn’t in any way unsound of mind, but I had made a promise to myself long ago.

A promise I was determined to keep until I was just another sack of bones in a cemetery (assuming I was fortunate enough to even receive a proper burial).

My pupils darted frantically beneath my closed eyelids as I focused on my senses, desperation crawling at my skin.

Where was I?

I wasn’t at home in my bed, that much I knew.

I would’ve recognized the harsh touch of the bedding, the rumble of my mother’s words, or the whiff of dust and vomit sneaking into my nostrils like an alarm at the crack of dawn.

And yet, as my hands twitched the slightest on either side of my body, soft sheets crinkled beneath me with a soothing melody.

Even the smell was peculiar. I filled my nose with air, trying to distinguish between scents: body odor that I didn’t identify as my own and the floral perfume of the linens.

A boot’s crunch on the ground broke the silence, and my heart hammered against my ribs.

If I had been waiting for a sign to persuade me to open my eyes and quit sinking into the obscenely, treacherously, and infuriatingly comfortable bed, the disturbing sound posed as my clue.

I was insulted by how quickly my body betrayed me in favor of a sheer sensation of comfort.

With a parched throat, I snapped my eyes open. Now I was convinced that I wasn’t home. The room was as foreign as the people inside it.

One door.

One painting.

Twelve beds.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Eleven people. Twelve with me.

My mind took the reins and fell prey to the only thing that had stuck with me for so long that I forgot it hadn’t always been a part of me.

Each time I’d hear my mother repeat those same words over and over, I’d drown into a state of panic.

No matter how many times I attempted to help her, I failed without end.

It was then that I began counting, searching for a pattern that could predict when she would finally stop.

On the good days, 233 times she’d say that phrase. On the bad days, 721.

Slowly, it became the only method for locking my anxiety at bay.

My nose scrunched as my gaze fell upon the eleven people dressed in black uniforms. Their pants, made of a stiff fabric, had cargo pockets stitched to the sides while the blouses sat tight on their bodies.

Every stitch lay perfectly on the smooth, ironed material, and even their shoes were spotless.

I strained to remember my sneakers ever being as clean. From the moment I could fit into my mother’s shoes, I had worn hers, which were far from new.

Watching them was as if I were gazing upon a display of dolls—though far superior to my childhood toys.

I didn’t dare to search myself, aware of my uncanny resemblance to those people. Someone must’ve stripped us naked… The image was so graphic, I recoiled from the thought.

With hushed whispers and ragged breaths sailing in the air, I shook my head, redirecting my attention to something less disturbing, and scanned the narrow room with concrete walls that absorbed every noise.

The beds lined up in a rigid row were identical: metal frames painted a dull gray, topped with thin mattresses that sagged slightly in the middle, and clean white sheets.

Between the beds, the space was barely wide enough for someone to squeeze through.

The area strangely reminded me of a hospital, but there were no medication carts and no beeping sounds to fit the image.

“Does anyone remember what happened before you woke up here? Any clue?”

The sound of the man’s voice was like a sudden plunge into freezing water. This was real. I wasn’t dreaming.

My monotonous life suddenly felt like a better alternative compared to the unsettling events I was now experiencing.

With a turn of my head, I located the source of the voice, dragging myself to the edge of the mattress.

Two beds away, the man was touching his white hair with his fingers, bright blue eyes lingering on everyone else in the room.

Beside him, a man holding the same features as his, with eyeglasses on his pointed nose, offered a subtle nod of approval.

Twins, I thought.

I truly pondered his question, the gears of my mind turning. The last thing I recalled was putting my mother to sleep, dragging the shredded and dusty duvet over her trembling body as she whispered those cursed words like a mantra.

They are coming. They are coming. They are coming.

Then, I leaned down, pushed aside a few stray locks of red hair—identical to my own—from the damp spot beside the corner of her mouth before my lips met her forehead.

Afterward, my last memories flickered in endless darkness.

“I just went to sleep. Nothing else,” a woman replied, short dark hair draping her round face.

The twins shared a look.

“It was the same for me. Do any of you have your phones?” another one chimed in.

A woman with a vibrant blue streak of hair nuzzled it back behind her ear. She checked her pouches, but even before she tugged out the pocket bags, I knew they’d be empty. If we had been abducted—an initial presumption—our phones would’ve been the first items to be taken away.

“No.”

“Me neither.”

The man beside me choked out, “M-mine’s gone too.” His voice itself was a shiver, and his body seemed to shrink as he pressed his round glasses farther up his nose.

There had to be a rationale behind it all.

Yet, as my mind worked frantically, a whirlwind of scenarios and possibilities, no plausible explanation surfaced in my mind.

The thought was all I had to hold on to—at least until I could find a theory, a solid foundation to build an understanding, a theory that didn’t, heaven forbid, resemble the fantastical stories I consumed in my books.

“I need to go back to my daughter,” a woman whimpered as her arms crossed over her chest, yanking me from my reflections. Not that they served any good, considering I still hadn’t grasped what was happening.

Daughter? I was twenty-two, but I couldn’t decide if the woman whose face carried the freshness of youth and eyes that held a quiet storm was fifteen or the same age as me.

Golden hair framed her face, pale and lit from within, with fear flickering in her wide, gentle eyes. Silent tears rolled down onto her chin as she placed a hand on the wall behind her, sliding to the ground.

“It’s my week, and—she’s just two.”

My lips drew into a straight line, shoulders dropping.

“Georgie?” A woman pushed through the small group, her sharp elbows making way as she shoved people aside. Her steps eased when her gaze finally landed on Georgie, muscles tensing under the tattoos that snaked up her arms and neck.

“Yvonne? Oh my god.” A relieved breath rushed out of her as they threw their arms around each other before kissing in desperation. Yvonne’s thumbs wiped Georgie’s tears as she kept her face between her hands.

“We’ll go back to Sara, I promise,” Yvonne guaranteed after breaking the kiss.

Not one to invade someone’s privacy, I diverted my attention to the sole door in the room. I didn’t dare to believe the exit would open to my freedom, but as it stood there, tall and imposing, I couldn’t help but admit it was luring me to try it.

“Should we go and see if—if it’s unlocked?” The man’s extremities trembled as he spoke, his voice a murmur.

I glanced at him, watching as he absentmindedly picked at his cuticles, his chin nearly touching his chest. He then looked to the side, avoiding my gaze.

“I’m Theo,” Theo said, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Charisma,” I offered.

“That’s a beautiful name. Your parents must love you.”

I scowled at that. “I guess you could say that.”

My mother did. But my father? My father would sell me for a glass of beer.

Theo glanced at me, brows furrowed. He must’ve sensed the irony in my tone, but when his head tilted and his attention stalled on my face, I knew whatever he was about to say had disappeared from his mind.

“Your eye,” he muttered, mouth agape.

My thumb rested under my left eye, as if it was the first time I had ever heard about it.

After a lifetime with it, one would think I would’ve gotten used to it, learned to accept it—that if my father wasn’t Lane Sinclair, a man who had never failed to remind me it was nothing but a flaw. Among many others.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want—mean to upset you.” Theo’s face burned at his cheeks, painting them with a deep shade of red.

I found the reaction to be entirely harmless compared to others.

Heterochromia wasn’t an unknown condition. Some people considered it beautiful, unique, an admirable quality even. Only mine wasn’t like most people’s. One of my eyes was jade, and the other was a hue of gold filled with threads of orange—colors perceived as an anomaly.

If my father had the funds for it, he would’ve undoubtedly forced me to wear lenses, as if that would make it disappear.

And maybe, maybe, if I had a better financial situation and didn’t depend on the paltry amount he brought home, I would’ve kicked his ass out of the house.

With no mercy, second doubts, or pity. All I needed was a life without Lane Sinclair and enough money to hire a caregiver to look after my mother while I worked to put food on the table.

My throat bobbed with a gulp. I had to put those thoughts on pause. Not only because I knew the three of us were bound to die in that shack, but because as miserable as my life was, I had to return. My mother needed me.

Whatever this place was, I was going to find my way back home.

The door piqued my interest again. No matter what awaited me on the other side, it was for my mother that I wouldn’t cower.

Though the unknown lurking beyond the door concerned me.

What was I going to walk into? I knew what was inside, and knowledge offered me a sense of security, but outside?

Outside was something utterly different.

I tapped my finger on the side of my leg before I abandoned the bed with a determined look on my face. My steps made a song on the wooden ground, the floorboards groaning in response to my weight as I approached. The room quieted, breaths held.

Light spilled into the area under the exit, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

With a sharp intake of air, my wrist pressed down on the door handle. The door clicked open, a loud sound blasting into the deadly silence. I cast a glance over my shoulder, finding Theo staring at me with such frightened eyes that it sent a jolt of the same feeling to my limbs.

Georgie’s eyes grew wide, startled by whatever was behind me, but before I could even recoil, something flew past me. Instincts kicked in, and my hands came up in front to guard me from the dozens of them, eyes fluttering shut.

Three sounds.

Wings batting. Gasping. Whispers.

As the cacophony eased, I forced my eyes open, arms falling down from the defensive position. My back straightened. I blinked. Repeatedly.

There is no way, I thought, refusing to believe it even with the indisputable evidence floating in front of me.

My eyes narrowed at the creature whose wide smile crinkled the skin around its eyes. I caught it in my palm, pinching and stretching its colored wings. The shades spread across like veins, nearly transparent.

It was tangible. It was real, not some kind of projection. I was holding a fairy in my hand.

After I let go of him, as if offended, his hands smoothed over his white shirt, searching for creases. My ears tuned out the surrounding chatter as everyone spoke with a fairy, focusing all of my attention on the one in front of me.

“Quite the miracle, right?” He pushed his lips forward, basking in the way my eyes followed every curve of his body. So thin and sharp, the fairy’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard, surely fitting with the most unsettling sounds I’d ever heard.

“Now…” His voice thickened dramatically. “On a more serious matter…” He snapped his fingers in the air, and a papyrus bolted out of it, swinging from side to side toward my open palms. “I have been entrusted to deliver this to you.”

I caught the paper, skimming over the words and occasionally stealing a glance at him, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he was a fairy.

My heart slammed like a drum in my chest, the room suddenly too small, too crowded.

All my life, I had longed for a moment of chaos, envisioning myself in the pages of my books, where destiny transformed with each passing night.

I imagined myself as a heroine, even a side character, anything but ordinary.

I pictured the thrilling chase of the next challenge, danger creeping at every corner, and battles that emerged with the promise that the good would win.

When I was younger, I would spend hours in my room, mimicking sword fights with a broom handle, attacking enemies. There, I had always won.

I realized, as I found myself in the shoes of those who I so badly craved to be, that here, victory might not be mine. Perhaps being the main character wasn’t as exciting as I imagined.