Anger pushed in. An anger he’d lived with many long years. He waited for the familiar burst of longing that always followed, for the soul mate pull, which was like a magnet, dragging him toward Isadora. Yes, it was there, calling to him, but it wasn’t as intense as before. And he couldn’t help but wonder why.
Maybe he was finally hardening inside, losing what little humanity he had left. Or maybe Isadora’s bond with Demetrius was so strong Nick just didn’t matter anymore. His brother and Isadora were bound to each other now, with all the pomp and circumstance the stupid Argolean ceremony imposed. But more than that, they’d solidified their side of the soul mate bond through the act of making love, something Nick seriously didn’t want to think about.
His own bond with Isadora had never been sealed like that. Not that he hadn’t considered it…only a bazillion times. But even as he fantasized about the possibility again, he knew it was no longer even an option. He was going to die in this miserable place. It was only a matter of time. Which meant his brother was going to wind up with her all to himself. Just as the son of a bitch wanted.
The thought was more depressing than Nick wanted to admit, so he pushed his mind back to the battle in the arena. And this time when the dark energy surged, he relished it. Yeah, his death might be imminent, but he wasn’t dead yet. And before he went out, he planned to take a few satyrs and that sick fuck Zagreus with him.
“Enough,” the taller of the two guards barked, looking over his shoulder. “Leave the clothes. Wrap yourself in a towel.”
The towel was new. Usually—if Nick was granted a turn in the baths—he was required to dress in the same filthy garments he’d worn the day before. He eyed the now-dull razor once again and for a fleeting moment considered his chances against the three guards, then dismissed it. If Zagreus wanted him clean, it meant someone was coming to see him. And someone coming to see him meant he might have a better chance at a vengeance even more destructive.
“My sweet Cynna has something special planned for him.”
His fingers stilled on the towel at his waist, and a rolling heat spread all through his torso, his hips, and down into his groin.
Cynna… The name fit. The female who’d directed his torture these last six months was sin in every way imaginable. Caramel skin, long blonde hair that didn’t match her coloring, almond-shaped, exotic eyes, and a body…
That arousal sharpened, bringing his cock to life as he imagined her pert breasts, which were always on display in some revealing corset top, her small waist, and those long, slender legs she flaunted in the black leather stiletto boots she wore everywhere.
He couldn’t quite read her relationship with Zagreus. The sadistic god was attached to her, though Nick was sure it wasn’t love that kept her around. And though she didn’t flinch when Zagreus touched her, she didn’t warm to the god or melt into him the way Isadora did when his brother touched their soul mate. No, Cynna’s link to Zagreus was something more, something darker, and every time Nick saw the dead look in her eyes when Zagreus drew near, he grew more and more convinced she wasn’t the captor in this twisted version of hell like they both wanted him to believe.
The guards came in as Nick finished knotting his towel. One stood to the right holding a spear, glaring at Nick. The red gash across his cheek was Nick’s doing, from yesterday, when the son of a bitch had come at him in the hall for no apparent reason. Nick had gotten in three good punches before a handful of guards had come to the fucker’s rescue. Nick smirked.
“Something funny, mortal?” the injured guard growled.
Nick didn’t answer. Taunting would only garner him a beating. And though he’d love to have another go at this prick, right now he was too interested in seeing what Cynna had planned to care what these two thought.
They led him out of the baths and back down the corridor toward his cell. The rocks were cool against his feet, and a chill swept through the tunnel, bringing the fine hairs along his nape to attention.
The guards swung the steel door open and pushed him into his cell. No windows, no light. The injured guard lit a torch on the wall, illuminating the damp space made up of nothing but rock walls and his pile of blankets where he slept in the corner.
They maneuvered him around until he was standing in the center of the room, facing the door. One guard uncuffed his wrists, and for a moment, he thought of taking them down. But voices were already resonating through the corridor, growing stronger, coming closer. And one stood out, causing his stomach to tighten and arousal to rush back through his body, bringing every other thought to a halt.