Bride of War (18+)

13

My eyes flutter open, my head banging, brain-rattling in my skull. I hold it, before wincing. Extending my arms I take a survey of my body. It's littered with bruises and hickeys. I sit up a little further, wincing before flopping down.

"Just rest," Slade orders, coming over to the side of the bed and pulling the satin covers over my body.

"Po," he waved her in. He stands over me his arms crossed. His gaze ventured out to the window, his eyes narrowing for a millisecond before returning to me.

"How do you feel?" He asked softly, turning around and looking at his armor once more.

Po sets a tray of food in front of me, and I eat, scarfing everything down.

"Fine," I say between bites. "Just tired."

He glances at the window once more, narrowing his eyes.

"I brought you a rose from the garden," he set it next to the nightstand, approaching the side of the bed, putting his large hand on the back of my head, his forehead pressed against mine.

His eyes close.

I drop the toast in my hand. I've never...felt something so intimate in my life. My eyes close on their own, as I press my forehead closer to his, our noses touching.

We stay that way for a moment. The air is silent. There's just us in this moment, in this fragment of time, I'm connected to him.

I feel his affection for me, flowing into my veins. I wonder where it comes from? He barely knows me. But I feel it. It's undeniable, tangible, in fact, I'm touching right now.

Soft, warm, persistent.

Why is it even there? I'm a stranger to him? A woman left to die by the people who were supposed to care for me most.

What is it about me?

I try to pull back. He doesn't let me. His hand is firm, unmovable. I'm once again reminded he is a god.

His gentleness is a deliberate choice. It sways me and rationalizes him to me.

Slade's hand slips from the back of my head to the base of my neck. I breathe out, sighing. He inhaled, taking my breath into his lungs, exhaling.

Maybe I'm dead. Sometimes I think maybe I am. That he's a figment of my imagination. Some specter meant to give me closure.

I'm not sure. But I want him closer.

He kisses me gently, pulling away, offering me a singular rose, it's thorns gone. I take it between my fingertips with a smile.

He turns away, his eyes back on his armor. I look down at the rose.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He says nothing, glancing over his shoulder and giving me a small smile. He's a god but he is the definition of a man.

His stubble covering his jaw for now. Sometimes he keeps it. Sometimes he doesn't. The guarded way he does everything. The way he softens his mannerisms, his touch with me.

His back flexes. He's thinking about saying something. He thinks it's wrong. Whatever he's thinking of saying.

"What is it?" I prompt him, setting my tray aside.

The profile of his face is lit up by the sun filtering in through the window. He's glowing. I smile despite myself, looking away for a moment.

"Did I hurt you?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine."

He turns around. "Then...I want to do it again. I've been holding back but you're too enticing."

My thighs clench, a heartbeat forming between my legs. Warmth pools in my stomach, between my legs.

He glanced down at the area as if he can sense it. His eyes flash, before looking away.

"I thought I was yours," I joke, pushing my hair behind my ear idly.

"You are," he says simply. He swallows. His brow furrows in frustration. Something he wants to say. Doesn't seem to know how.

It's sweet. Those looks of frustration. When he can't word something in the right way, in a way he thinks is palatable.

"Will you sit down next to me?"

He does so silently, sitting on the bed, looking ahead for a moment, before turning his attention to me. I lay my head on his shoulder.

"I think I need a day," I admit. "You're very...well. You're a god," I smile.

But I don't look at him. I don't think I've had to deny him anything before. Maybe I should—

His lips press against my head, as he tucks me under his strong arm, into his chest. I press my ear against his chest.

It faintly sounds like a beat.

"Tell me about Dion," I whisper. I can't see his face. I imagine he's frowning.

"200 years ago...I had a few more temples than I do now. I'd been wandering. Looking for next war."

His finger strokes my arm.

"I wanted...I didn't know what my purpose was, anymore. I felt myself losing my grip. And then...one night, in one of my last remaining temples, a little orphan boy, wounded by hunters, stumbled to my altar. Spilling his blood. And his soul called my true name."

Slade looks down. "So I took him home with me. Raised him. I trained him to be a warrior. He was my out, you see. In case I lost it. My purpose is balance. Not utter destruction, but I was losing that."

His eyes close. "Dion stayed with me for 15 years. Grew into a man. And...I turned him. Gave him my blood. A little of my power."

He sighed. "And then he went on his way."

"Then...he really is like your son?"
"I'm no one's father."

But he loves him. Not a father he says. I smile. It's nice that he wasn't always alone.

We let the quiet simmer over us. "Slade?"

"Yes, my goddess?"

I shiver before smiling, leaning harder into him. "I change my mind."

He chuckles.