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A large, oval-shaped bath was nestled in the middle of the stately bathing room. Steam curled from the surface of the heated waters, its reflection dancing on the ceiling above. Twin sinks sat on the same wall as the doorway, a long mirror hung over top.
Centuries ago, when I designed the layout of the bathroom, I possessed hope that one day, I would find my mate—that was why I put two sinks in. But it was a notion I had long since given up on. Over my eternal span of life, I had seen countless other gods and goddesses find their fated mates, but the Creator had chosen not to bless me with one. So, like a flame at the end of its wick, the hope I once possessed had long since burnt out.
“Wait, I thought you would drink from me? Isn’t that how this works?” the blonde said, her bare feet padding against the floor as she scrambled behind me.
“Why would you think that?” I asked as I grabbed the top cloth from a pile of folded ones. A small stream of water rushed out from the faucet when I turned it on. I placed the cloth underneath it, feeling the warmth of the water chase the coolness from my fingers. A few seconds later, I shut the tap off and gave the cloth a single-handed squeeze. I handed it to the girl, nodding to her sex. “To clean yourself with.”
She looked dumbfounded, like she hadn’t expected that. As she took the cloth, she started, “Because your sister—”
“What about my sister?” I snarled.
“She . . . she said you needed to feed, th-th-th-that you haven’t since you were dethroned from the other two realms,” she stuttered, her fingers shaking so badly she dropped the cloth on the ground.
I growled, my shadows snaking around me, beckoning for release.
The girl scrambled backwards until she bumped against the wall—the unexpected touch of it forcing her to yelp.
Reining my shadows back in, I scrubbed at my temple before I drew my hand down the length of my face. A sigh fell from my lips. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You’re not?” she whimpered, still cowering against the wall. She pressed her thighs together so tightly, it looked as though she were trying not to piss herself.
“I’m not,” I reassured her. I conjured a thin, silk robe and offered it to her, my gaze snagging on the horizontal scar below her abdomen—a jagged white line of thick skin, running from hip to hip. Scars that remained on the soul’s shell in the afterlife were usually an indicator of how they passed from the Living Realm.
Cautiously, she took the robe from me before she quickly put it on, covering herself.
I tipped my head to the side, curiosity getting the better of me. “I’ve never seen you before today. How long have you been in the Spirit Realm?”
“Just over a few weeks,” she said, cinching the robe at her narrow waist.
“Your scar—” I nodded to it, but clipped my sentence short when she turned ghastly white.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I do not wish to speak of it,” she stammered, and as if those were her parting words, she quickly scampered out of the bathing room, over to the bed, grabbedher clothes that were sitting on it, and then ran out the door, leaving one lonely sock behind.
I walked over to it, glanced at it, and then sent it to her. If she were to look down, she would find it neatly folded on her stack of clothes.
Where are you, Saphira?I growled through our private channel.
Seconds later, she strode into my room, shadow walking through the wall.
“I take it you didn’t like the little snack I arranged for you?” she said in her clipped, arrogant tone. She ran a gloved hand over her black, velvet gown laced with silver, smoothing it. Her eyes fell below my waist, a grin touching her lips. “Okay, so you enjoyed her in other ways.”
Unlike mortals, immortals didn’t feel shame for their nakedness, even if it was in front of a sibling. That was due to a few reasons: the first being how long we lived—shame evaporated when you’d seen it all. The second was because we were not siblings in the same sense that mortals or immortal offspring were. Mortals were born from the union of a father and a mother, whereas immortals were forged in batches at the great anvil, by the hand of the Creator.
“Your insolence in the throne room this morning was one strike. Consider this your second. Do not push me, Saphira.”
Her expression twisted, a scowl painting her ethereal features. “And yet, I will, because I’m tired of watching you starve yourself. Tell me, brother, is it so impossible for you to believe that I care?”
I threw my head back, laughing. “You don’t care. We both know that you do nothing unless it servesyou.” I narrowed in on her. “What’s your angle this time?”
“What it has been sinceyoulost the realms,” she said, stepping around me, circling like the vulture she was. “I wantto take back what is ours from those ridiculous abominations—those . . . thoseNew Gods.” She snarled the title like it had personally insulted her. “I want war. You are the most powerful god and it will be you who wins the realms back for us. But if you don’t eat, you will grow weak and then we’ll never get back what has been lost.”
War. That was all she had talked about since the Creator stripped me of the other two realms. She had brought it up this morning, even though I told her not to. Continuously, she pushed against me—against my rule, seedingherwishes amongstmycourt as if she were its queen. Seeding them . . . in me.
She quit her circling, her defiant emerald eyes meeting mine. “Just think of it—”
“Saphira.” My voice was a steel blade, cutting her off. “We would not just be going to war against the New Gods, but also the Creator—we would be going against their wishes.”
“The Creator stole your birthright from you. You simply would be taking back what is rightfully yours,” she said, a wicked twist to her red lips. She brought her wrist to her mouth and sunk her teeth into her flesh. She raised it in offering to me, ichor pooling in the bitemarks.
