"Time's up," he says, his voice carrying the weight of the Underworld's authority.
Brax doesn't move.
Panic hits me. There's more to teach Brax and I don't want to be held accountable for not doing the job that was assigned to me. So I argue, "It hasn't been six hours."
The man's gaze flicks between us, then lingers on the scattered towels and the faint steam rising from the floor. "I don't make the decisions."
"Of course you don't," Brax sneers.
The man tosses a duffel bag on the floor. "The king is waiting for you."
"Me? Or Brax?" I question, with more anxiety brewing.
"Both of you. Get dressed." He grabs our clothes off the floor and puts them in a trash bag.
"What are you doing with my stuff?" Brax barks.
"Orders," he says, then disappears through the door.
Brax turns, annoyed. "Guess class is over."
I nod, saying, "For now," but wondering if I failed the test. I pick up the duffel bag and unzip it. I pull out two pairs of sandals, shorts, T-shirts, and zip-up hoodies. I hand the men's to Brax. I step into my shorts.
He slides into the sandals, drops the clothes, walks to the doorway, and steps into the foyer area. He holds his arms out and spreads his legs.
I stare at his ripped shoulders that V to his muscular ass and thighs, asking, "What are you doing?"
"Cooling off. Not sure how you can put those on right now."
I pull the T-shirt over my head, put on the flip-flops, grab his clothes and my hoodie, and walk over to him. I hold out his shorts. "The king is waiting. Get dressed."
"I need a minute."
My voice rises. "You don't get a minute. Let me teach you another lesson you should never forget. When the king is waiting, you drop everything and go."
He sarcastically taunts, "Why? Is he going to behead me?"
I stare at him, my chest tightening.
His eyes widen. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."
I wiggle his shorts in front of him. "Get dressed. Stop messing around."
He shakes his head and releases a frustrated breath. He slides into the shorts and pushes the elevator button.
"Aren't you going to put on your shirt?" I ask.
"Nope."
"Fine."
The metal opens, and more cool air hits me. We step into the elevator, but the burn beneath my skin doesn't fade. The ghost of his voice, lecturing about ancient promises and metal forged for pleasure, haunts me as we make our way through the lobby.
Outside, it's a cloudy morning. There's a harsh chill in the air, and the gusts of wind turn my sweat cold.
Vito stands outside my SUV. He sees me, opens the back door, then pins his scowl on Brax.
"Ma'am," he says as I slide inside next to a blanket.
