Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 123065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
I put on a pair of flip flops, a sweatshirt, and keep my sweatpants on. Then I open my bedroom door. Like a kid sneaking out, I look up and down the hall. The coast is clear. I quickly make my way from the guest house down the path and into the kitchen then come to a screeching halt.
Cyrus is in front of the fridge, completely shirtless and in nothing but black silk pajama pants.
He looks like the god he claimed to be in my dream standing in front of a freaking microwave pulling out a mug. I give my head a shake. I’m definitely losing it and reading into the stories and myths way too much. Plus, other than the bell on my ankle, everything is normal this morning, right? No water, no gods, no monsters, no fire lining the water and creating a bridge. Hah, that was a stretch of the imagination even for me.
“You were tired,” he says, all nonchalant and without turning around.
“Yeah, I had a rough night’s sleep,” I snap, maybe saying it in a way that sounds disrespectful but at this point, I’m done. “I had some nightmare about a tiny man claiming to be a god.”
He hits his coffee mug against the counter, spilling half his cup before righting it. He cleans up the mess then leans against the counter; muscles flex in his biceps as he grips the granite.
It’s been three days, and I feel like someone ran me over with a truck and asked me to say “thank you” afterwards. I hold my head between my hands and try to focus while Cyrus drinks his coffee and goes back to being calm. Maybe if I don’t make eye contact, I’ll be able to focus on something other than his muscles.
“I see you got your gift.” He turns and looks down at my right ankle even though I have sweats on I swear he can see through them, to the bell. “Has a nice little ring to it.”
I glare. “It’s creepy that you put this on me last night. I’m assuming you brought me to bed, right?”
“You passed out.” He shrugs and takes another slow sip of coffee. “I figured you’d rather sleep in bed than on the sacrificial slab downstairs.”
“Sacrificial slab, why does it seem normal that you’d own something like that?”
“I like history.” He grins. “And I didn’t put the jewelry on you, nor can I take it off. Then again, you probably already know that.”
My temper begins to rise, I wouldn’t normally yell at my host, but all things considered, I think I deserve a free pass. “Take it off.”
He starts lowering his pajama pants.
I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my tongue to keep from screaming. “I mean the anklet.”
“I already told you. I can’t. It belongs to you, and it won’t leave until…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. I lock eyes with him. “The end.”
“Of the world?”
He laughs. “That’s dramatic. No, your end.”
The panicky feeling returns as do the rest of the scenes from my “dream.”
“So, I have this until I die?” I shriek.
He shrugs. “It won’t be long.”
“Can you stop for a minute? Just stop saying cryptic things like that and pretending that you’re some ancient deity. You need a therapist, seriously.”
His gaze turns to me. “You can pretend all you want, but you’re mine now, aren’t you? And yet you ignore it, the most primal thing.”
“And what’s that?” I ignore his tone, hands shaking while I pour a cup of coffee.
He walks over to me.
I gulp and try not to look like I’m nervous as I pour into my plain white mug.
He stands behind me.
I can feel his warmth, and I want so badly to lean back into him, to let him embrace me as if it’s going to be any sort of comfort from someone so violently cruel, even in my dreams.
Nothing makes sense.
I clear my throat and take a sip of coffee. “I think I’ll just work in the warehouse today for a few hours, unless you needed something?”
“Need.” He laughs. “What a funny word. How’s the memory? Better yet, how were your dreams again? Care to recite them to me?”
I frown and stare into my coffee. Do I admit it? Or pretend not to have dreams, feelings, thoughts, emotions? I feel like a kid who closes her eyes and imagines that things in front of her don’t exist. But I have no other choice.
“More like dark nightmares,” I snap. “I think I might go see Dag later and ask about my brother. Apep might stop by later too. He’s been super helpful and also not creepy and rude like some people.”
Behind me, Cyrus freezes; it’s almost like I can feel the heat from his body evaporate into thin air. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” I turn and stare up at him, attempting not to shake.