A flush of desperate want rolled through him, slaking his lust for war with a wave of need.
The transformation had taken root.
His cock stirred, twitching with primal instinct. Obsessive, carnal want of a thing he had no business craving but couldn’t ignore.
He should have waited—the flaking scales and misted blood clouding his every breath was proof enough of that. That his body was failing. Gills shredded, lungs spitting fire, blood filledwith bubbles and too thin to endure the punishment of the surface for much longer.
But there she was.
Empty, waiting to be filled.
His human chalice.
His Siren bride.
The trident hummed in his grip. Whispering dark promises. Punishment and violence, an offer to claim her. Cage her. Mark his little human in a way she hadn’t yet imagined possible. Its pull was ancient, a relic of kings and tyrants.
Enticed, he dragged himself forward. One arm at a time. Bulk bunching and shifting behind him, as the thump of the trident crashed into stone.
When he reached her, he paused.
Just long enough to breathe.
To watch.
Memorize the light blooming beneath her skin, andknow.
She could run.
But she could never leave.
Nyx let his fingers slide down the trident’s shaft, releasing the insidious power. Abandoning the trident where it was embedded in the stone.
And then he threw all caution to the poisonous wind…
… and reached for his bride.
CHAPTER 18
She was clean.
Consecrated.
Unbroken by the cruelty of men.
“The Oracle commands you to give,”the high priest murmured in a voice that echoed and shivered, licking thin lips. Watery eyes watching her from beneath a heavy hood.“Your lord Apollo commands you to break.”
Bowing her head, heart in her throat, Kore nodded. Letting spotted, aged hands push the robes from her shoulders to reveal the nudity hidden beneath scratchy wool. He guided her back, spreading her across the altar where he would spill vestal blood to bless the Spartan army.
Kore submitted as she was trained to do. Watching dust motes spin through shafts of sunlight, painting Apollo’s inner sanctum in brilliant golds and deepest purples, she lay beneath a doughy weight and trembling forearms. Staring up at the high vault in the heart of the temple. The stone cool beneath naked flesh, her shoulder blades cutting into the unforgiving granite, her nose stinging with the scent of charred rosemary and sage.
She was warm. Floating.
Unable to feel the priest’s probing fingers, his frantic thrusts, for his paltry efforts were eclipsed. Drowned out by the monstrous ache already pulsing inside her.
Demanding every wayward drop of attention she might spare.
The sunbeam narrowed, growing sharp and cruel. Slicing at her skin with treacherous, savage heat. Burning what it touched—her arms and face, shoulders and spine—forcing her to cower away from Apollo’s unforgiving glare.
