God of War: An Enemies to Lovers Marriage Romance (Legacy of Gods Book 6)
God of War: Chapter 12

With a stroke of luck—the luck being a passing waitress who looks like she’d get on her knees and beg Eli for forgiveness for walking by at that moment—I manage to escape to our table unscathed.

Mostly.

That is, if I don’t count my heavy heart and my shaky feet that barely carry me.

“No world war happened?” Creigh tips his glass to his mouth once I sit down. “I’m surprised.”

“My Tchaikovsky.” Anni grimaces after using her favorite composer as God’s substitute. “I love you, Ava, but you tend to be quite…impulsive.”

“Suicidal is the actual word you’re looking for,” Creigh says with his usual poker face.

“Stop adding petrol to the fire.” I huff.

“You’re doing that on your own just fine.”

“Well, your brother needs to learn that he doesn’t own me.”

“Repeat that.” Eli’s rough voice lowers with a threatening edge as he sits beside me, his presence confiscating all available air.

“Repeat what?” I fake a smile, then sip on my water.

“The part where I don’t own you.”

“You don’t.” My voice isn’t as confident as usual, probably due to the tension that, unfortunately, didn’t leave with Vance.

“I see.” The simmering anger in those two words seeps beneath my skin like a shot of poison.

“For the record,” Creigh starts with a smug tone. “I introduced myself as her brother-in-law and gave that tool a hard time on your behalf.”

Eli clinks his glass of water with his brother’s. I’d snort under different circumstances, but right now, it feels as if I’m being suffocated with his invisible hands.

Instead of ordering food like a normal human being, Eli is content with digging a hole in the top of my head as I narrowly avoid choking on every bite of sashimi.

Anni tries to lighten the mood, but she ends up only conversing with Creigh. I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to, and my dear husband seems to have woken up today and chosen the silent treatment.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m fuming.

Both at the unbearable silence and the fact that I’m letting it affect me.

Who cares about Eli’s opinion of me? He doesn’t like me, never did and never will, as he so blatantly put it. Our marriage is merely a business transaction that plays in both our favors.

I cannot and will not read anything into his caveman behavior, for its sole purpose is to drive away any prospect of my happiness.

He’s still the same infuriating Tin Man with not an ounce of emotion inside his metal exterior.

I excuse myself to the ladies’ room just to escape the ridiculously charged atmosphere. If someone lights a match, the entire place will catch fire.

Once I’m in the loo, surrounded by bamboo-decorated doors, sakura flowers hanging from the ceiling, and gold-colored sinks, I dump my bag on the marble counter and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

For a moment, it feels as if I’m back to two years ago, or more like a week or so since that’s the last thing I remember.

Drunk, high, aimless, and utterly hopeless.

The last two are still there, but in a way, I’m thankful for the disappearance of my less glamorous habits. I don’t even crave alcohol much, and even when I do, Eli loves to make a whole theatrical drama out of it.

There’s not a drop of alcohol in the house. I know because I snooped around, and guess what? The wine cellar that comes with our type of house? It’s full of buckets of candy floss instead of alcohol bottles.

Not that I’m complaining.

I wonder how the hell I got clean.

And I know I got clean, because the last couple of months I can remember—from two years ago—I suffered from a massive headache if I didn’t consume alcohol every three hours. I mixed it with my coffee and smoothies and consumed approximately a barrel a night.

The blow was easier since I wasn’t an addict and only indulged whenever I was offered. Alcohol was a different story.

To go from consuming a ton to nothing must’ve been hard. Cecy and Ari said Eli signed me up for this program, but they were vague.

Problem is, it’s impossible to imagine myself willingly getting locked up for anything.

Not with how creeped out I am about mental institutes and being labeled a madwoman.

How did Eli manage to get me from a raging alcoholic to this state? It must’ve not been too easy⁠—

A static-like flash lights up in my head and I grab the sink for balance as the bathroom spins.

An image appears before my eyes like an old grainy film in the mirror.

I lie in the dimly lit bedroom, the pink silk duvet gleaming under the soft glow of a bedside lamp. My sheer white nightgown clings to my trembling body as I pull on my wrists that are bound to the bedposts, my legs flailing and tangling in the swirling sheets. The bed is a chaotic sea of twisted fabric and rumpled pillows.

While the silk feels smooth and cool against my heated skin, the tight rope bites into my flesh. My legs kick wildly, my muscles straining and aching in protest.

A faint scent of rose petals and frantic adrenaline lingers in the air, mixing with the musty smell of sweat and fear. Beads of perspiration cover my skin and my hair sticks to the sides of my neck. The thumps of my heart are so loud, I hear them in my ears. However, my entire attention is on the man hovering over me, his eyes hard.

Frosty.

Stormy.

His legs are on either side of my waist, then his fingers dig into my cheeks so roughly, I feel my jaw about to snap.

I clamp my trembling, dry lips shut and shake my head.

“Open your fucking mouth, Ava.”

I shake my head again and try to wiggle free, but he forces my mouth open and shoves something between my clenched teeth.

I bite.

He plunges deeper until his fingers are nearly down my throat.

I gag, and I swallow in fear that I’ll throw up all over myself.

Eli rises to his full height by the side of the bed, blood dripping from his fingers and slithering to the rug.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

My glazed eyes follow the crimson droplets as my defeated body slumps down. For a second, my skin dissipates into a cloud of nothingness and I’m floating inside myself.

As if I’m an imposter. A parasitic entity that shouldn’t exist here.

But I am here and I’m staring up at my warden. The man who shattered my life to pieces, prevented me from gathering them up, and is continuing the mass slaughter.

“Let me go.” My voice is low and weak.

“No,” he breathes out with unconcealed darkness.

“Please…”

“No.”

“Will you ever get enough?”

His hand wraps around my throat and he leans over until his voice vibrates against my ear. “Never.”

The door swings open and I’m thrust back to the present, my eyes huge as they clash with the same frosty coldness I met in the dream. Or perhaps a memory.

It felt too raw and gritty to only be a figment of my imagination.

Eli’s stare darkens like he wants to throttle me.

And he’d probably succeed.

“What do you want?” The question leaves my lips in a weak whisper.

The images—memories—that invaded my head still rattle me to my bones. I don’t see the Eli I’ve known my entire life.

He’s neither the man who broke my heart nor the man I played cat-and-mouse games with at uni.

Right now, I see a man who tied me up and forced me to swallow whatever poison he jammed down my throat.

The man who looked down at me as if I were a mission he needed to conquer.

Maybe that’s the reason I lost my memory.

Maybe Eli was already successful in destroying my life and the story ended. Or this is the sequel, where the wife is found dead in her bathtub.

He clicks the door shut behind him, the sound echoing around us like a curse. I hold the edge of the marble in a tight grip, tracking his movements through the mirror.

Eli has always been intimidating, but it’s tenfold worse now as he rolls his sleeves to his elbows, exposing muscular forearms.

No idea why he discarded his jacket and is performing this ritual. But for some reason, the image unsettles me.

Warmth floods the base of my stomach, but I turn around, stand tall, and square my shoulders.

“What do I want?” he repeats my question, still meticulously rolling a sleeve. Everything about Eli is precise, cold, and decisively calculated.

He’s too controlled, too damn emotionless, and yet he exudes a terribly destabilizing sexual energy. Without even trying.

“I should be the one to ask you that, don’t you think?” He steps forward.

I instinctively step back, and my arse slams against the marble counter. The cold shock makes goosebumps erupt on my overheated skin despite my clothes serving as a barrier.

Eli stops a few inches away from me, tall, muscular, and imposing. My air vanishes and I inhale through my tingling nose and trembling lips.

He has no business being so disturbing, but for the first time, he looks as terrifying as the monster from Nan’s stories.

“Care to explain the meaning behind your little stunt just now?”

“What stunt?”

“Wrapping your arms around another man’s neck in my presence.”

“V is my friend.” I’m beyond grateful my voice doesn’t crack under the pressure.

“Vance. His name is Vance.”

“Last I checked, you don’t dictate what I call my friends. As I mentioned earlier, you don’t own me, Eli.”

As soon as the last sentence is out of my mouth, I realize the colossal mistake I’ve made.

His fingers slide up my throat, leaving a war of tingles on my skin before he wraps them around my neck.

It’s not strong enough to choke me, but he exercises the right pressure to forbid me from moving even if I choose to.

My skin throbs beneath the pads of his fingers and I hold my breath, not daring to breathe openly.

“I’ve been more than accommodating. I allowed your pointless rebellions and spoiled-princess behavior. I have turned a blind eye to your attempts to provoke me with every inhale you take and piss me off with every exhale. I have looked the other way when you plotted to infuriate me with every word out of your mouth, but you seem to mistake my tolerance for a green light to indulge in your old repulsive, attention-seeking patterns. It is not. And I advise you not to mistake my patience for foolishness. The show from earlier is the last time you let another man touch what’s fucking mine. Are we clear?”

His grip tightens with each word, still not suffocating, but it’s engulfing enough to drive every sentence with a punch.

My thoughts are possibly the toxic ingredients of a suicide attempt, especially considering how pissed off he appears. It doesn’t matter how calm and collected he sounds. I feel the lash of his disapproval and his barely concealed rage simmering beneath the surface.

But how dare he threaten me?

After everything he did—and continues to do—to me?

And because I’m in the mood for a war, I go with confrontation.

“I’m not yours. Also…” I get on my tiptoes and stare at his frosty eyes. “V didn’t touch me. I was the one who was hot and bothered and couldn’t keep my hands off him.”

One second passes of us staring into each other’s eyes.

Two…

Three…

Four…

On the fifth, Eli grabs my waist roughly and flips me around in a blur of movement. My stomach pushes against the edge of the counter as he shoves me down.

I’m disoriented as my head rests on the marble, his hand wrapped around my nape like a noose, keeping me immobile.

“Eli, what are you⁠—”

My words get caught on a startled sound of fear and anticipation when he uses his other hand to bunch my miniskirt to my waist, exposing my arse and the white lace panties I had to change into this morning after he caused me to dampen the previous ones.

I smell my own arousal and a whiff of Eli’s cologne as it mixes with my flowery perfume. My senses overflow with him, and my body feels like a pawn in his hands, completely under his control. My exposed thighs tingle with anticipation, adding to the pool of electrifying energy between us.

His palm strokes my arse cheek gently, almost lovingly, and I suppress whatever alien sound is pushing itself into my throat.

I’m not supposed to be attracted to this bastard, but I can’t help it when he touches me. I blame it on the sexual frustration he awakens every time he’s near me.

Or the way he provoked that carnal part of me this morning before we were interrupted.

The urge to tell him to stop is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t say the words. Not when his fingers skim my skin in a slow, torturous rhythm. Sharp tingles start in my tummy and spread to my aching pussy.

“You seem to need a reality check on who the fuck you belong to, Mrs. King. This”—he pinches my arse cheek until I whimper, then slaps it, hard—“is mine.” Still gripping my arse with one hand, he releases my nape and reaches beneath my blouse, crumpling it and freeing it from the skirt, and then moves to my breast underneath the bra and squeezes my nipple in a painful, erotic pull. “These tits are also mine. But above all.” He slides his grip from my arse, cups my pussy through my panties, and strokes his finger on my swollen clit. “This cunt is fucking mine. The next time you offer it to someone else, I want you to remember that.”

His fingers trace the curve of my breast, his thumb grazing over my sensitive nipple as he bunches my underwear against my clit, rubbing, sliding the fabric up, down, and up again with practiced precision. A flush erupts on my skin and my lips part in a gasp before I bite the lower one.

I can’t stand the man, but he touches me, and I’m so close to begging.

He releases my nipple sooner than I’d prefer and then his hand disappears from beneath my shirt and he fists his fingers around my hair and tugs my head up. The scent of my arousal fills the air as his hot breath dances over my skin.

“I want you to remember this view, Mrs. King.” He thrusts the middle and ring fingers of his other hand inside my mouth. “Suck. Show me how much you want me.”

Or more like, my lips remain open for him to use as he sees fit. My mouth waters with anticipation, a soft moan escaping me as he lathers his fingers against my tongue and forces me to lick him. His intense touch ignites sparks of pleasure and I arch against him, needing something. Anything.

I don’t recognize the reflection in the mirror.

Not my crimson-colored face, my saliva coating his fingers, my hooded, lust-filled eyes, or the way my hands tremble as I grab onto the edge of the counter for dear life.

A deep part of me recognizes I should stop this. That I’ll regret it when it ends.

But right and wrong blur in a magnitude of indifference.

No, not indifference. Reckless impulsiveness.

I always knew my tendency to go with the flow would get me in trouble. I just never thought it’d lead to this.

Eli stands behind me, looming, like a God of War right in the middle of battle. His fingers tangle in my hair, gripping tightly as his dark, commanding eyes bore into mine.

His touch is both sensual and violent, a paradox that leaves me breathless. His intense gaze holds more weight than any words, nearly pushing me to the brink of madness. My sanity hangs by a thread as I’m trapped in the grip of this enigmatic man.

He swipes his fingers out of my mouth, parts my underwear, and thrusts both of them inside me. I slide forward from the force of it and stare down at the golden sink, catching my erotic face.

I know he said we’ve had sex before, but I’ve never felt as full as I am right now. The delicious, slightly painful sensation sparks my insides with novel excitement.

I’m so wet, my thighs are sticky with evidence of my pleasure. The in-and-out of his fingers is loud and erotic, echoing in my ears like a spell.

“Your tight cunt knows who it belongs to.” His muscular chest covers my back as he angles my head with his grip on my hair and whispers in my ear in hot words, “Me.”

A throaty moan leaves me when he rubs a sensitive spot inside me. My vision dances and I lower my head, unable to face the alien version staring back at me.

Eli tightens his hold and tilts my head back. “You will look at your face when you come on my fucking fingers. The ring you wear isn’t a decorative item, Mrs. King. You’re my wife. My property. Fucking mine. It’s time you properly start acting the part.”

“Not yours…” I whimper the words, even as I lose the battle with my flimsy control. I rock back and forth on his fingers, flat-out chasing my pleasure and reveling in every lick of pain and control he holds over me.

“The fuck you just say?” He speaks so close to my mouth, he nearly kisses me with every word.

The impulse to seal my lips to his is as overwhelming as the pressure pooling in my belly. But the reminder of bleeding lips and a broken heart makes me say, “I’m not yours, husband.”

And then I fall.

My body trembles with the force of the orgasm that rakes through me. It starts at my pussy, rips through my stomach, and expands to my heavy-lidded eyes.

My legs shake so badly that I’d drop to the ground if it weren’t for Eli’s savage grip on me. He’s still thrusting his fingers in me as I ride my orgasm. His touch is firm and his face no different than a tyrant warlord about to order the massacre of a few villages.

My insides liquefy and I replace myself lured into that gaze and the dangerous promise in it.

This man can hurt me, in more ways than one.

And yet as he strokes my clit with his thumb and adds a third finger, I’m there, ready for the free fall and all.

“Not mine you say?” His eerily calm tone should alarm me, but I’m too horny to care, too close to another explosive release.

I’d do anything for a bit more pressure.

“Mmm,” I whine.

While I hate the man with every fiber of my being, he’s hotter than sin and infuriatingly knows the right buttons to push.

Which he does, again and again, hitting that spot inside me while stroking my clit.

White stars form behind my lids and the rush of adrenaline nearly engulfs me. “Yes, yes, yes…right there…”

I’m downright begging now, but I couldn’t care less.

If I’m suffering the misfortune of being married to Eli, the least he can do is satisfy my basic needs.

“Here?” he asks with an amused tone, but he’s not fooling anyone. I can feel his engorged cock against my arse and I wiggle some more, rubbing against him and sliding my covered breasts over the edge of the sink for friction.

“Yes, oh God. More.” I moan as a wave stronger than the first grabs hold of me. My core tingles in preparation for the orgasm.

Before it can hit, however, Eli slips his fingers out and rips my underwear against my starving pussy.

“W-what?” I try to turn in his direction, but his grip on my hair keeps me in place.

The savage shoves the scraps of my knickers in my mouth with his fingers, stuffing me full. “Lick them clean, Mrs. King. I want you to swallow every last drop.”

My tongue laps around the fingers, which is a bit awkward with my underwear in the mix. I don’t know how or why I do it. Maybe it’s hope that after I do, he’ll finish what he started.

My cheeks warm the more I taste myself. On Eli’s fingers.

God. This is fucked up.

But I do it more enthusiastically, lapping my tongue around his fingers and deep-throating them as I stare at his eyes. Then I slow my pace and bat my lashes at him.

A muscle clenches in his jaw as he slips out his fingers. “Don’t flirt.”

I spit out the underwear and slide my arse up and down his erection. “Finish what you started.”

“You lost that opportunity when you challenged me. Only good girls get rewarded.” He shoves the underwear in my mouth again, releases me, and retrieves his phone.

I’m disoriented as he snaps a picture of me propped against a bathroom sink, skirt bunched to my waist, arse in the air, and my underwear filling my mouth.

“Fascinating,” he whispers before he turns around and disappears.

Leaving me unsatisfied, infuriated, and feeling dreadful about how this little episode changes everything.