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Fumi rolls her eyes. “Elsa, you’re a great lawyer. But I am aruthlessprosecutor because I can’t be lied to. I mean I literally cannot be. I see right through that shit.”
Mercifully, that’s the precise moment the espresso machine finishes with a ding. Laughing as lightly as I can manage, I turn and then take my time picking up the little ceramic cup and blowing on it.
“Believe me, Fumi, I wouldn’t dare try.”
“Well, youwould, because you just did. But now you know. Bullet-proof, baby. So spill.”
I swallow back the heat from my face, turning to her as I sip the espresso.
“There’s really nothing to spill.”
It’s been two days since the insane night in Hades’ back seat. The night where I fell into sinagain, because I’m clearly completely unable to control myself around him. Which is a problem because one, he’sHades. But more to the point two, given that his family employs me, he’s technically my client.
And that’s abigproblem. Not just morally and ethically, but alsolegally. If one is following the very strictest letter of the law, a sexual relationship between a lawyer and their own client is considered sexual abuse.
Technically, this could cost me my license.
And yet somehow, this isn’t throwing me into a tailspin. I’m not in panic mode, worrying about this thing looming over me, ready to wreck my life or blow it to smithereens.
I’m mainly wondering when it can happen again.
God, what is wrong with me.
Because not worrying about the implications of whatever this thing is between Hades and I isn’t the only thing going on with me right now. The other one also has to do with that same night.
Pascha.
I’ve seen dead bodies before—on morgue tables, at crime scenes, when I had to identify our mom, heck, even at Ares and Neve’s wedding.
But I’ve never seen someonebecomea dead body. I’ve never seen someone murdered right before my eyes.
Never, that is, until two days ago, when Hades strangled Pascha out of existence not three feet from me, in my office.
This should have me falling to pieces. I should be a fuckingwreckof anxiety, panic, and moral quandaries.
And I’m not.
I thought for sure that yesterday, when I had to walk into that same office and act like Ihadn’tseen Hades choke the life out of a man there the night before that I’d have a nervous breakdown. But I didn’t.
And this morning, I’m not even sure I could tell you exactly where on the floor it happened. I even picked out a new rug online.
I don’t know…does that make me some kind of psycho, devoid of empathy? I mean,shouldI have even a little empathy for someone losing their life, if that person was a monster? This morning in the bathroom mirror, I decided I didn’t.
And I’m fine with that.
“No?” Fumi needles. “So you just decided to randomly bring neck scarves back into your rotation again? For absolutely no reason?”
Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t blush—
I blush.
It’s not for no reason. It’s because I’ve got fresh battle wounds courtesy of the god of the underworld all across my neck. And my breasts. And my ass, and hips, and thighs.
Apparently, fucking Hades Drakos is a full contact sport. Or maybe a gladiatorial match to the death.
Fumi grins. “You’re totally fucking someone.”
“I amnot.”
