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He barely registered the beep of the door unlocking or the soft padding of footsteps toward him. They stopped at the table, out of sight, and he didn’t bother lifting his head to see who was there.
It was Odin.
It was always Odin.
Hunter continued to gaze into the fire. “I’m tired.”
There was silence for a moment, and then, “Come to bed.”
It wasn’t spoken suggestively, more matter-of-fact. If Hunter was tired, he should get some sleep. It was logical. Clear-cut.
He sat up slowly, finally turning to take in the other man.
Odin looked sexy as sin as per usual. When they’d been younger, growing up under his father’s ever-watchful eye, he’d been forced to wear pressed suits with his hair styled and his shoes always at a shine. He still wore a suit once in a while, but for the most part, Odin preferred a darker appeal.
He was in leather pants now and a red fishnet t-shirt with nothing underneath. The material did wonders in showing off every dip and divot of his toned body, and of the harsh black lines of ink that trailed down his side and across his collarbone. Shout ink. Ink mixed with the blood and the ash of his relatives.
Shouts could gain power in one of two ways. Either they were freely gifted it from a family member, through blood or ash after the person was deceased, or they found themselves a Whisper. Unfortunately for them, blood from another Shout had repercussions. It drained the power straight from the giver, for one, making them weaker—so not typically something a person was willing to do, even for family—and only worked once or twice. Ash was the best and only guaranteed way.
When a Shout was going to die, they would verbally gift their ashes to whomever they wanted to take on their power. After death, their body would be burned and the ash would be mixed with ink.
Rumor had it Odin was inked with his father’s ashes, a powerful man who had instilled fear in all of Sanctum.
In the end, that fear hadn’t saved him from betrayal either. His wife, Odin’s stepmother, and Isa’s birth mother, had made it seem like an accident, but everyone knew the truth.
His natural hair color was dark brown, but he was constantly changing it, and currently, his hair was the same shade as melted caramel.
A similar color to Hunter’s eyes.
“I’m tired,” Hunter repeated, allowing the truth of that statement to be heard in the exhausted way he spoke it.
Odin tipped his head. He was calculating and attentive. Remarkably few things ever escaped his notice. “If you want out of this room, Little Whisper,” he said softly, almost cajolingly, “all you have to do is ask.”
Hunter snorted and closed his eyes. Because he knew what it was he’d need to ask, and it wasn’t for Odin to graciously allow him out.
The power was with the Whisper in more ways than one. It was their blood that granted a boost to Shouts, ten times more potent when freely given. Their word that sealed a mating bond, again something that could be forced under threat, but much more powerful when given because the Whisper wanted to. If they were made to do it unwillingly, it would dilute their blood to the point the type of boost a Shout would receive from drinking would be minuscule at best.
If Odin’s goal was to use Hunter against Isa, he’d need him willing.
“I want something more than that,” Hunter said.
All right. If there was no escape, and this was truly to be his fate, then he may as well stop fighting against it and instead make it work in his favor. There were worse things than being tied to a man like Odin Snow, a gorgeous man who had the power and station of a god. Who was both feared and revered by all. Not to mention rich.
When he’d been on the run these past ten years, Hunter had become painfully acquainted with the feel of an empty stomach. It was a miracle he’d managed to maintain any muscle, though he was all lean now, not the same bulk that he’d been when they’d been teens and he’d been a guard in the manor.
He’d been trained to put his life on the line for the Snow family. Trained to believe that they came first. In a sense, Odin had always owned him. He’d simply been in denial.
So, okay. There were worse things than being with Odin. Than being his.
But it wasn’t enough to make Hunter set aside his pride and give up his freedom. No, he wanted something else.
“If I’m going to give myself to you,” he continued, “I’m going to need something in return.”
“What is it?” Odin was giving him his full attention now, clearly trying to contain his anticipation, obviously for fear that showing it would scare Hunter into cutting this conversation short.
He wasn’t wrong. Hunter was already regretting it, and yet…There was no other way. And he’d been telling the truth. He was tired. Tired of fighting the Snow Dominus, sure, but more so tired of fighting himself.
He wanted Odin Snow.
