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“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” said Delilah.
“Bitch, sarcasm suits me just fucking fine.”
Delilah laughed.
Needing to use the bathroom, Wynter pushed out of her chair and headed to the half-bath. She did her business and then washed her hands. Catching sight of herself in the mirror above the sink, she reached up to swipe her bangs into place and—
Saul’s face suddenly appeared, making her heart slam in her chest.
Motherfucker.
He laughed, low and cruel. His eyes slid to her arms just as she began to lower them. “Cain’s seal. You let him claim you? You are more foolish than I thought possible.”
“And you’re looking even worse than you did during our last conversation.” More gaunt. More drained. “Suffered some blood loss, did you?” Ha.
A muscle in his cheek ticked. “You should not have ignored my warnings about Cain.”
“You mean you thought that your effort to divide and conquer would work? Wow. I suppose you also thought I’d find you appearing in my mirror sort of creepy. It’s not, Saul. It’s just sad, really. Psychological warfare clearly isn’t your strong point.”
His nostrils flared. “You will not be so cocky when I get my hands on you. You think you know pain. You will soon realize you have no clue what true pain is.”
She scratched her cheek. “Yeah, you make all these promises about how you’re going to make me suffer and so on and so on . . . but you don’t live up to them. And when shit got serious, what did you do? Oh right, that’s it. You fled. You ran from my monster like a fucking coward.”
“Your monster,” he echoed, his eyes narrowing. “Just what is it that you host?”
She smiled. “Something you’re not up to handling. You’d be wise not to try that again. But I sure hope you do.”
He sneered, and his face faded away.
Damn, that shit was just weird.
Wynter left the half-bath and returned to the kitchen . . . just as a blister on Anabel’s cheek burst. Again, tiny droplets of water splattered out of it. The others grumbled at her while she shot them glowers from hell.
Wynter cleared her throat. “So . . . I just had a little talk with Saul.”
The grumblings stopped in an instant.
Hattie turned to Wynter, her lips parted. “A little what with who?”
*
Reading an ancient book on deities in his solar room, Cain lifted his head on hearing the fast click-clack of heels coming along the hallway outside. There was also the muffled voice of Maxim, his tone edged with annoyance.
Ishtar barged into the room, fury etched into every line of her face.
Knowing her as well as he did, Cain could guess what had brought her here. She’d heard that he’d claimed Wynter as his consort.
It would account for the indignation that she made no attempt to hide. An indignation he’d anticipated. To Ishtar, it wouldn’t matter that he hadn’t touched her in centuries. She was a territorial creature who experienced jealousy on a grand scale. She would take it as a personal jab that he’d laid a claim on Wynter that he hadn’t once tried to lay on Ishtar.
Maxim gave Cain an apologetic look—not unusual, since Ishtar never had any qualms about storming through the Keep before an aide had the chance to inform Cain of her presence. “I’m sorry, Sire—”
“As per usual, you are not the one who needs to issue an apology.” Cain pinned Ishtar with a hard glare. “You have two choices. Apologize to him, in which case you can stay and say your piece.” It would be better to let her get it over with. “Or refuse to apologize to him, and be subsequently forced to leave. Choose.”
She sneered. “And how is it that he could possibly force me to leave?”
“I didn’t say he would do it.”
Her lips setting into a firm, angry line, Ishtar tossed Maxim a dismissive look. “My sincere apologies, darling Maximillian.” Pure sarcasm coated every word, as always.
