“Show-off,” I mutter, but my resolve is crumbling faster than the masonry at Marrow House.
I look down at my ruined clothes. I smell like Voren’s sex dungeon, ancient dust, and fear. Modesty left the building about thirteen orgasms ago, and frankly, I’m too tired to care if a god sees me naked. Again. I toe off my boots and peel off my leggings.
“Turn around,” I command, though my heart isn’t in it.
“Not a chance,” he replies cheerfully, his eyes glowing molten gold amidst the steam.
“Fine. Enjoy the show, pervert.” I strip off my hoodie and underwear, shivering in the biting air for a split second before I slip into the water.
It’s bliss. Hot, bubbling, moan-inducing. I sink downuntil the water laps at my chin, closing my eyes as the heat seeps into my bones.
“See?” Dastian says, drifting closer. “Chaos has its perks.”
“I suppose it does,” I admit, dunking my head under to wet my hair. The heat wraps around my scalp, loosening the headache that’s been threatening to split my skull open since I woke up to a ghost drooling on me. When I surface, pushing the sodden strands out of my eyes, Dastian is closer than before. The steam swirls around us, creating a private little pocket of tropical humidity in the middle of freezing Ireland.
“Don’t get used to it, slayer. I can’t be your personal water heater forever.”
“With the amount of trouble you lot bring to my door, a hot bath is the least you owe me.” I start rubbing my arms, desperate to get the layer of sweat, grime and Voren’s scent off me. I suppose it would be too much to ask for soap and a sponge.
Dastian watches, his gaze dropping to the water line where my breasts are bobbing just beneath the surface. He doesn’t even pretend to be gentlemanly about it. “You’re scrubbing like you’re trying to take the skin off.”
“Just trying to feel human again,” I mutter, turning my back to him to wash my neck.
“Human is boring,” he says, his voice right at my ear now. I stiffen, but I don’t move away. His chest brushes my back, hot and solid, sending a jolt of awareness through me. “And you, Nyssa, are becoming anything but boring.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“From the God of Chaos? It’s the highest praise there is.” His hands settle on my shoulders, his thumbs digging into the knots of tension there. I stifle my groan. Badly. Idon’t want to encourage him. I’ve already loosened my morals to unacceptable levels by fucking first Dreven and then Voren in quick succession. I can’t add a third god to my body count. At least not the sexual one.
“Good?” he murmurs.
“Don’t stop,” I reply before I can stop myself.
His thumbs work their way down my spine, finding knots I didn’t even know I had until he obliterates them. It’s embarrassing how quickly I melt back against him.
“You’re dangerously good at this,” I murmur, closing my eyes.
“I have magic hands. Literally.” He slides his palms around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard chest. The friction of skin on skin under the hot, bubbling water sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the temperature. Dastian is like a live wire, unpredictable and electric.
“Is this part of the therapy?” I ask, though I make zero effort to move away.
“Why not?” He kisses the sensitive spot just below my ear, and the water around us fizzes like Champagne, tiny bubbles popping against my skin.
I turn in his arms, the movement slow and heavy through the water, until I’m facing him. His eyes are molten gold, swirling with amusement and a heat that rivals the lake. “So, are you going to try and fix my soul, or just distract me until the next disaster hits?”
“Fixing is boring,” he whispers, his hands sliding down to grip my hips beneath the surface. “I prefer reinventing.”
“Reinventing sounds exhausting,” I manage to say, though my argument loses all structural integrity when I wrap my legs around his waist. “And frankly, I’m tired.”
“Adrenaline is the best cure for fatigue. Or lust. I find the two are often interchangeable.”
“You’re a bad influence.”
“I’m the God of Chaos, sweetheart. It’s literally in the job description.”
He doesn’t wait for permission, and honestly, at this point, pretending I’m going to stop him is a lie I’m too weary to tell. He kisses me, and it’s nothing like the other two. Dreven was a command; Voren was a desperate need. Dastian is a live wire snapping against wet skin. It’s frantic, fun, and tastes like popping candy and trouble.
Sparks skitter across the surface of the lake as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. I groan, digging my fingers into his wet hair. I’ve officially lost the plot. I’m naked in a magical jacuzzi with god number three, while a ghost likely watches from the window and the world probably ends in the background.
