her.
Love had quickly morphed into rage.
The rage, though, had eventually cooled. She’d forgotten him. For the most part. Liar. Now, with his name decorating her back, she hated him with every fiber of her being.
Maybe—maybe—she’d overreacted when she’d done the same to him. Branded him forever. Impulsiveness had always been her downfall. For years, she’d even regretted her decision. Not that she would ever admit such a thing to him. Regret was not what she felt now, however.
She hadn’t lied to him. She would kill him for this.
First, she would have to find a way to remove the stupid collar around her neck. As long as she wore it, she was powerless. The thick gold did not remove her god-given abilities, but merely muted them. Substantially. Too substantially. Second, she would have to find a way to escape this realm.
The first, in theory, should have been easy. Yet she’d already tried clawing and beating at it, and had even attempted to melt it from her neck. All she’d done was cut her skin, bruise her tender flesh and singe her hair off. She should have known that’s what would happen. How many times had she watched Titan prisoners try the same things? The second, in theory and reality, seemed impossible.
Her gaze circled her surroundings. After the Titans had escaped, they’d reinforced everything. How, she didn’t know. The prison was supposedly bound to Tartarus, the Greek god of Confinement who’d once kept guard over the Titans, and when he’d begun to weaken for no apparent reason, the realm had weakened, as well. Everything in it became structurally unsound. But now, Tartarus was missing. The Titans didn’t have him and no one knew where he was. There was no reason the realm should be as strong as it was in his absence.
The walls and floor were comprised of godly stone, something only special godly tools—tools she didn’t have—could break through. And yet, even without Tartarus’s presence, there was not a crack in sight.
The thick silver bars that allowed a glimpse of the guard’s station below had been constructed by Hephaistos, and only Hephaistos could melt such a metal. Unfortunately, he resided somewhere else. As with Tartarus, no one knew where. Still, without Tartarus, she should have been able to bend that metal. She couldn’t; she’d already tried.
“Could you settle the hell down?” Erebos grumbled from one of the cots.
Nike flicked him a glance. From his dark hair to his dark skin, from his handsome features to his strong body, he was the picture of unhappy male, and all of that unhappiness was directed at her.
“No,” she replied. “I can’t.”
“We’re trying to plan an escape here.”
They were always planning an escape.
“Besides,” he continued, “your ugly face is giving me a headache.”
“Go suck yourself,” she replied. Though she’d been the one to hurt him all those centuries ago—unintentionally—he’d repaid her a thousand times over. Purposely. Not emotionally, but physically. He liked nothing better than to “accidentally” trip her, bump into her and send her flying, as well as to eat what little portion of food was meant for her before she could fight her way to the front of the line, starving her.
If she hadn’t been wearing the collar, he never would have been able to do those things. She would have been too strong. And he would have been too scared. Another reason to despise her captivity.
“Sucking myself would probably elicit better results than when you did it,” he retorted.
The handful of gods and goddesses around him snickered.
“Whatever,” she said, as if the taunt didn’t bother her. Except, her cheeks did flush. She was the epitome of Strength—or she was supposed to be—and she’d always been more mannish than feminine. That was why Atlas’s attentions had so surprised and delighted her. That gorgeous man could have won anyone, yet he’d chosen her. Or so she’d thought. And she’d fallen for his act because he’d somehow made her feel like a delicate, beautiful woman.
Stupid. I was so stupid.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a black-clad male stride into the guard’s station. She didn’t have to see him to know who it was. Atlas. She felt him. Always she felt his heat.
When her gaze found him, she discovered that he had his arm wrapped around a leggy blonde. A blonde who cuddled herself into his side as if she belonged there—and had rested there many times before.
The thought angered Nike. It shouldn’t have; she despised Atlas with all of her being and didn’t care who he slept with. Didn’t care who he pleasured. And yes, he would have pleasured the blonde with those talented hands and seeking lips. He was an amazing lover whose touch still haunted Nike’s dreams. But there it was. Anger.
She didn’t mean to, but found herself striding to the bars and gripping them for a better, closer look at him. Three other guards stood around him, all talking and laughing. While prisoners wore white, guards wore black, and he wore that darkness well. It was the perfect complement to his dark, chopped hair and sea-colored eyes.
His face had been chiseled by a master artist, everything about him perfectly proportioned. His eyes were the perfect distance apart, his nose the perfect length, his cheeks the perfect sharpness, his lips the perfect shape and color and his chin a perfect, stubborn square.
He was perfect while she was nothing but flaws.
She should have known he was playing her the moment he’d turned those dangerous eyes on her and they lit with “interest.” Men just didn’t look at her like that. Not even Erebos had, and he had loved her.
“Bastard,” she muttered, the curse for both the men in her past.
As if he heard her, Atlas lifted his gaze. The moment their eyes met, she wanted to release the bars. She wanted to step away, out of sight. But she didn’t allow herself that luxury. That would have been cowardly, and this man had seen her weak one too many times.
Just to taunt him, and hopefully make him feel as out of control as he always made her feel, she allowed her attention to fall to his chest, exactly where her name rested. She smiled smugly before raising her gaze and arching a brow.
Score. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
What does your lover think of your mark? she wanted to shout. What does the blonde think of my name on your body?
He jerked the stupid blonde deeper into his side and, without breaking eye contact with Nike, planted a lush, wet kiss on her mouth. Of course, the bitch reacted as any other woman would have. She wrapped her arms around him and held on for dear life. As Nike well knew, that man could make a woman come with the expertise of his kiss.
Nike’s anger intensified. Had she been able, she would have stomped down there and ripped them apart. Then she would have killed them both. Not because she wanted Atlas for herself—she didn’t—but because he was clearly using yet another woman. Passion did not glow from his expression. Only determination did.
Nike would be doing the female population a favor by snuffing him out.
“Erebos,”
