Page 7 of Apollo

The crow cocked his head, as arrogant as a know-it-all teacher’s assistant. Yeah, that left Apollo to fill in as the grumpy principal. Not the comparison he needed at the moment.

“All right, all right.”

He punctuated with a dozen strained grunts while rearranging his hold on his little mystery assassin. But intentions were simpler than accomplishments in the moment, since her remaining wounds ruled out a lot—make that most—effective carrying points. She wasn’t helping either, thwarting his every move by flailing in ways that blatantly defied the physics of her situation.

“Zeus’s balls,” he muttered. “Want to work with me here a little, Mikró Thirio?”

Her responding snarl was weirdly comforting, counteracting the stupidly affectionate endearment that must’ve literally come from the idiot zip code in his brain.

“Go. To. Hell.”

Well, that worked too.

Sort of.

Not close to the extent she likely intended, based on both their reactions—her sharp yelp, his jerking cock—as he swung her downward, until their bodies were flush against each other. But damn it, he had no choice about the new position. Opening realm portals was a little like jacking off. Fun and games the first few times, draining and tedious after that. Even if he ignored the new awareness of her sweet little curves, the jump would be needle-eye close. They had to mash as close as possible, whether his crotch got on board with behaving or not.

But how much blame could he place on the stupid thing—and the mind of its own, freely feeding arousal to every drop of his blood, as he forced himself to lean closer to the trembling little mortal and rasp into her ear . . .

“Hell, hm? Well, Little Monster, if you insist.”

CHAPTER THREE

Asshole. Angel.

Tormentor. Healer.

Hell bringer?

Not the continued revisions to the bingo card she needed yet was unable to protest beyond the shaky whimpers from her blood and fear-clogged throat.

Well, Little Monster, if you insist.

He was being ironic, right? At the very least, symbolic. That had to be the case. The devastating dickhead was playing with her fractured body and weakened mind . . .

Then why did her intuitions scream otherwise?

Why did her thoughts rewind like a malfunctioning movie, freezing only at the memories that corroborated the impossible—the glowing golden arrow, the unearthly beauty of the man who’d shot it into her, even the odd serum vials that Ito had ordered her to shoot at him and his brother—now compelling her to believe it?

As if he gave her any choice about the matter.

Not a fraction’s worth.

His grip, uncompromising, already said that much—before he snapped his fingers with the force of a giant cracking a king-sized flint against a twenty-foot pine tree. The effect was the same. Giant flames whooshed up around them, raging into a blistering tornado, cutting off every view she had of Natasha Korra’s foyer. Not that she’d be paying attention anymore. She watched, morbidly enraptured, as the firestorm sucked out blood drops from her still-open wounds before sending them to the floor as dehydrated bits.

Until there was no more floor.

Until she scissored her dangling feet, scrambling for marble tiles that were no longer there. Her hair blew wildly into her face, obscuring her balance even more. The last of her thoughts were like demon fireflies, buzzing away from her mind’s desperate grabs.

The only thing that felt real . . . was him.

The steely strength of his hold. The steady pulses of his breath against her nape. The thump of the heartbeat in his chest smashed so tight to hers, as sure and safe as the stars for which he was named.

Oh, shitballs.

No, no, no. Just no.

Not safe. And what loopy moon child named their kid Apollo? So there was that delusion too, on top of the other bizarre chunks of this insane fever dream. Tetris blocks that refused to line up, falling way too fast through the fire, stacking in her brain until they blocked every reasonable thought except one.