She turns to Erik, extending a hand with the elegant grace of someone who's had millennia to perfect the gesture. Erik, our resident master of stiff composure, looks flustered— like a diplomatic vampire caught without his backup plan.
"My lady," he bows slightly, all proper Victorian manners. "I am Erik, Rhyland's brother."
"Ah yes, the vampire brother." Her eyes sparkle with ancient knowledge. Erik clears his throat—holy shit, is Mr. Stoic nervous? File that away under 'things I never thought I'd see.'
"Yes, madam," Erik manages, his usual refined confidence wavering slightly under her knowing gaze.
Shewaves away his formality with a gesture that somehow manages to be regal and motherly. "Please, none of that 'madam' business," she laughs, the sound like silver bells. "I am Frigg and any family of Rhyland's is family of mine." Her smile could probably melt glaciers—"even the vampiric ones."
Erik's face softens into one of his rare genuine smiles, and Frigg beams like she just won some achievement for cracking Erik's armor.
"Come," she gestures with ethereal grace. "Let us get you settled. You must be exhausted from your journey, and I'm sure you'd appreciate a chance to refresh yourselves before dinner." Her eyes sparkle with knowing humor. "Odin awaits your company this evening—though perhaps with fewer layers of winter gear."
Oh god, yes. The thought of a hot bath and getting out of my yeti cosplay makes me want to weep with joy. Don't get me wrong, this expensive snowsuit probably saved me from becoming a frozen statue, but I'm pretty sure I'm sweating in places I didn't even know could sweat.
"Thank you," I manage to say with what I hope is appropriate gratitude, though I keep getting distracted by the Herculean statues lining the halls. Each one depicts some ancient Norse deity looking appropriately badass and immortal, and I'm pretty sure I should know who they are. However, my brain is too busy dancing about the promised bath to remember my mythology lessons.
"Heimdall has informed us of your arrival," Frigg's melodic voice drifts back to us as she leads our little group through hallways that could probably fund a small country. "We have prepared a feast in your honor, and eagerly await the pleasure of your company this evening."
I can practically hear my stomach doing a happy dance at the mention of food. Apparently, trudging through the arctic tundra and riding magical horses really revs up the old appetite. Though considering this is Ásgard, I'm guessing the menu isn't exactly burger and fries. Probably more like roasted bilgesnipe and mead served in golden chalices.
"That sounds wonderful," I manage to say with a smile that hopefully doesn't scream 'I'm hangry enough to eat my own arm.' "We're looking forward to it." And by 'it,' I mean stuffing my face with whatever delicacies they place in front of me. Manners are great and all, but at this point, I'd wrestle a Valkyrie for a dinner roll.
Rhyland's arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against his side like I'm his personal teddy bear. I glance up at my beefcake, and my heart does a little flip—his ocean-blue eyes practically glow with joy, like a kid who just discovered he inherited Disneyland. Can't blame him though—this is literally his ancestral home turf. The power radiating through our bond feels like pure electricity, hot and wild as a lightning storm.
Let's hope my sexy demigod can keep a lid on all that power before he accidentally turns someone into a S'more.
Lucian
23
"Lucian," Seraphina's angelic voice drops to that sweet-but-dangerous tone that makes my dick twitch. "If you don't put down that phone, I will have to get creative with my heavenly persuasion." She bends down, her golden hair brushing my cheek while her honey-warm breath teases my ear. I'm trying to text Alaric about our psychotic maker, but holy fuck—having a literal angel whispering in your ear is one hell of a distraction.
"Cupcake, if you're looking for some quality time with this walking disaster, all you gotta do is ask," I groan, already fighting a losing battle with my self-control. I've been spamming every vampire contact on my phone like a teenager with an Instagram addiction, trying to get any intel about that Psycho Dick-Tator. It's been quiet as fuck these past few weeks, and I know Lilith—that crazy cunt's got a few screws loose in her pretty little head. When she's this quiet? It means she's plotting something that'll make Lucifer's ass clench.
With Team Thunder Buns, Mr. Stiff Upper Lip and our resident scientist are off playing tourists in Cloud City (and no, not the cool Star Wars one), I'm stuck here holding down the fort like some supernatural building manager. Because, being the fun brother also means being the responsible one when everyone else decides to go dimension-hopping. Go figure.
"Just let me finish up with this, I know she's planning something, and I can't—"
Seraphina's lips find my neck, trailing soft kisses that make me groan with need. The phone slips from my fingers, forgotten. "I know. But you've been driving yourself insane since Lilith returned." Her breath whispers against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "She's not getting in here, Lucian. We've taken every precaution—Emily and Sable's magic, Dani holding the deed..." Her tongue traces a sinful path along my throat, and my cock practically salutes. "It's time to unwind."
Christ on a cracker. A fucking meteor could be hurtling toward Earth, and I wouldn't give a single shit—not with my angel working her heavenly mojo to drag me back from the edge of this anxiety-fueled hellscape I've been trapped in. I've been losing my mind since Lilith strutted back into our lives as some demonic fashion show reject.
Finding out my brothers went full supernatural genocide on the Hawthornes to keep Satan's Side Piece locked up? That was one hell of a plot twist—killed an entire witch bloodline because they couldn't trust them to keep their magical mouth shut. Fuck a lot of good that did—now we've got their pissed-off descendant playing tag team with our maker.
Seraphina rises like sin in silk, sliding those mile-long legs between my knees as I sprawl in my favorite chair. Her fingers toy with the belt of her robe, and Mother of Merc with a mouth—that glacial smirk promises heaven beneath that flimsy fabric. My mouth goes desert-dry.
Please let her be naked. For the love of all things holy, let there be nothing but angel under that silk.
Emily dragged Sable out for some "witch gone wild" dive bar and Damon's downstairs in Vamp Kindergarten class, probably angsting his way through a few blood bags.
So it's just me and my celestial snack cake, and she seems determined to make me forget my own name. Not that I'm complaining—I'll take any distraction from the shitstorm brewing outside these walls.
"Don't be a tease, Angel Face. Give me a peek at the goods." I shoot her my patented panty-melting wink and reach for her, but she twirls away like a ballerina, that silk robe staying firmly in place.
I collapse back into my chair, grinning like the lovesick fool I am. This heavenly minx is playing coy, and it's adorable as hell. She toys with the robe's edge, drawing out the suspense until I'm ready to beg. Then, with a flutter of silk, my world detonates.
Sweet merciful fuck.
