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Another little smile. “So self-righteous.”
Ithan held her stare, letting her see the wolf within, whatever bones of it remained.
There had to be a catch. But time was running out—and he didn’t see an alternative to getting out of this mess.
“Fine,” Ithan said. “One fight.”
“It’s a deal,” the Viper Queen crooned. She rose and stalked to the door, body moving with sinuous grace. “The fight’s at ten tomorrow night. Your friends can come watch, if they want.” She opened the door, an order to leave. Ithan obeyed, and she pulled out yet another cigarette tin—this one gold—and flicked it open. He was passing over the threshold when she said, “I’ll give you a worthy opponent, don’t worry.”
The Viper Queen smirked. And then added before she slammed the door shut in his face, “Make your brother proud.”
* * *
Lidia Cervos brushed out her hair, seated at her vanity in her ornate room in the Asteri’s palace. A monstrosity of gold silk, ivory velvet, and polished oak overlooking the seven hills of the city. The perfect room for the pampered, loyal pet of the Asteri.
No one had thought twice or even questioned her when she’d gone to Lunathion earlier to deliver a message to Celestina and make a pit stop at the Meat Market to pick up some “party favors.” Even Mordoc hadn’t cared.
But her allies believed she was their enemies’ faithful pet, too.
So here she was. Alone. Praying that Declan Emmet and his friends would meet her. Praying that she’d correctly judged the Sprite Queen, many levels below.
The door to the bathroom opened, steam rippling out, and Pollux emerged, wholly naked and gleaming from the shower.
“You’re not dressed?” he asked, frowning at her dove-gray silk dressing robe. The frown deepened as his eyes drifted over her hair, still down and unstyled. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”
Here it was—the beginning of an intricate dance.
“My cycle is starting,” she said, putting a hand to her lower abdomen. “Make excuses for me.”
Pollux slicked back his blond hair and stalked over to her, his heavy cock swinging with each step. His white wings dripped a trail of water over the cream carpet. “Rigelus personally asked us to be there. Take a tonic.”
“I did,” she said, letting a bit of her temper show. It wasn’t a lie. She had taken a potion—one of her emergency contraceptives, lest her usual plan fail. It had jump-started her cycle two weeks ahead of schedule.
Right on cue, Pollux sniffed, scenting her blood. “You’re early.”
He knew, because he didn’t like to fuck her when she was bleeding. She’d come to cherish her cycle. Pollux usually tormented someone else that week.
She met his stare, if only because his cock was in her face and she had little interest in looking at it for another second of her existence. The tonic did its job in that moment, and nausea churned in her gut—along with a slice of pain.
She didn’t have to fake her wince. “Tell Rigelus I apologize.”
Pollux observed her without an ounce of mercy. To the contrary—his cock thickened. A cat enjoying the suffering of its dinner.
But she ignored it, going back to the mirror. A broad, powerful hand stroked down her hair, brushing it aside. Then lips found her neck, his tongue flicking beneath her ear. “I hope you’ll feel better soon.”
Lidia made herself lift a hand to his hair. Run her fingers through the damp strands and let out a low sound. It might have been pain or lust. To the Malleus, it was all the same. He pulled back, a hand pumping his cock as he headed into the dressing room, wings glowing white behind him.
She was in their bed—a great mass of down pillows and silken sheets—when Pollux left fifteen minutes later, wearing a tux with devastating effect. Such a beautiful exterior, this monster.
“Lidia,” the Hammer purred, possession in his rich voice, and then he was gone.
She lay in bed, fighting past the twisting in her gut, the nausea that wasn’t solely from her cycle. Only after ten minutes had gone by did she rise from the mattress.
She hurried into the bathroom, still humid from Pollux’s shower—usually so hot she wondered if he was trying to scald the evil from himself—and pulled out the bag of feminine hygiene products that she knew he’d never open. As if touching a tampon might make his cock shrivel up and drop off.
Inside the bag lay a burner phone. A different one arrived in a box of tampons every month. She ran the shower again, blocking out any identifying noises that could be picked up from the palace’s cameras on the walls outside or by anyone on the other end of the line. Then she dialed.
An operator answered. “Fincher Tiles and Flooring.”
