Bonds of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #2)(3)

“I think s-so.”

“Perfect.” Hades cracked his neck. “I can’t wait to watch you fight this summer in the coliseum, daughter.”

I have to do this.

I would make my husbands pay for trapping me.

Hades stepped closer. “You and I are two of the most dangerous Spartans on earth. But danger is nothing without power—and power doesn’t exist without fear … Make them fear you, daughter.” His voice dropped an octave, like he was letting me in on a treacherous secret. “What have I taught you? Repeat it to me. One last time before we leap.”

He stared down at me expectantly.

“No one fears the sane,” I said on numb lips.

You’re already there, and no one is afraid except you.

“Don’t forget it,” Hades said as he extended his hand and pointedly looked down at his outstretched arm.

I laid my trembling hand atop his, and tendrils of his vicious power wrapped around my forearm, embracing me.

The House of Hades was synonymous with evil, and I was its favorite daughter.

“Domus.” Hades’s voice faded as darkness exploded around us.

Crack.

The landscape changed.

For the second time in my life, I stepped into Hell.

This time, I went willingly.

Smoke rose around my feet as pale moonlight filtered through an ice-covered forest and a frozen breeze whipped our togas. Hades dropped my arm and stepped to the side.

A long jet-black geometric building sat inconspicuously in the shadows of snow-covered trees—the Assembly of Death’s unofficial outpost.

Six Chthonic assassins stood in front of it.

Location: Siberia.

Every hair on my body stood on end.

Two men looked particularly murderous. Their gazes scoured the side of my face with knifelike sharpness.

Three months ago, they’d placed me on an altar. They’d kneeled before me, worshipping my flesh with soft lips and reverent touches.

Now vitriol wafted off them in punishing waves, its intensity more biting than the icy wind. They were wrathful gods pretending to be men.

Run for your life, my inner voice screamed.

But I was done fleeing.

Straightening my spine, I matched their unnaturally stiff postures and pretended I wasn’t intimidated by the Chthonics.

Loaded armpit and thigh holsters stretched across their black T-shirts and cargo pants.

Spartan helmets sat atop their heads.

Ancient warriors dressed as modern killers, ready to induct a new cultist.

I was ready.

No, you’re not.

I ignored the voice of reason; there was no place for it here.

Rural Montana had prepared me for two things: selling my organs on the black market, and cult life. For some reason, dark times were a breeding ground for uncomfortable group participation in dangerous activities.

Nyx slithered under my toga. “It’s so cold, I want to die,” she hissed in an inspirational display of mental toughness.

Hades shifted beside me. Cerberus, stoic and calm, stood at his feet.

In contrast, Fluffy Jr. dug in the snow. Ears perking up, he bit the end of a stick, then gulped it down his throat.

Not now.

Everyone watched as my protector hacked.

Finally, just when I was about to intervene, he regurgitated the half-eaten piece of bark, and looked back at me with his tail wagging.

God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers.

I prayed for death.

A familiar scoff echoed.

I looked over, before I could remember why I shouldn’t.

Dear God.

The Devil had answered my prayer.

Ice-blue eyes met mine, and the temperature in the forest plummeted. Frostbite dug its frozen claws into my sternum.

Kharon’s lips curved up with a predatory promise.

“Furia” flashed, the tattoo stark across the front of his pale throat.

Dried blood was also smeared across his mouth; his nails were painted black; holsters stretched obscenely across powerful thighs and the chiseled lines of a cut torso; ink covered his right arm, shading his skin in an illusion of skeletal bones that mirrored what lay beneath the skin.

Time slowed.

“Honey,” he mouthed slowly, not a sound falling from his crimson stained lips. “I’m home.”

My heart stopped beating.

Complete cardiovascular meltdown.

I’d forgotten what it felt like to meet his gaze; I’d forgotten how my cells froze with abject terror as a deep animalistic instinct screamed at me to get away from him; I’d forgotten how he’d mockingly called out the greeting each time he’d leapt to Corfu.

Now I remembered.

“Hello, carissima,” Kharon mouthed silently. His posture was hostile, his expression downright disrespectful.

Carnivores like to play with their prey.

The Hunter stood before me, a creature capable of unholy depravity, and he wanted one thing.

Me.

I looked down, turning slightly so he was in my blind spot, faint with panic.

He was searching for a weakness, desperate to exploit me. This was nothing but a power trip for him.

He can never know about my eye and ear.

Two hellhounds crouched at Kharon’s feet, their bones flickering in and out of existence as if they were glitching. Blue flames danced in their eye sockets.