“I realize it’s a little early in the game,” I tell him breezily, deciding that confidence is the best tactic with this asshole. After all, groveling got the prelate nowhere. “But yes, I need something done and you’re the only one that these dumbasses will listen to. So I’m asking—”

“Asking,” he repeats flatly.

I sigh. “Okay, begging, if that’s what you want to hear.” I gesture at the cluster of blondes in the back of the room. “But they’re going to sacrifice all those women at dawn in your name. As cleaver brides.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’?” I stare at him. “You want that to happen?”

“I do not care if it happens or if it does not. Why should I? I am a god. They are mortals. Their life is as fleeting as a speck of dust.” He slicks his thumb and forefinger together as if to indicate so. “Why should I bother myself with them?”

“Because they shouldn’t have to die to honor you. It’s barbaric and stupid. They could honor you in a completely different way.”

“Such as how I’ve been honored on this night?” His mouth flattens.

“Look, I’ll be the first to admit that these people are shit at being properly deferential to a guy of your status,” I say, deciding to play to his vanity. When he grunts acknowledgment, I go on, “But that’s no reason that these women have to die. They didn’t have anything to do with it. They’re just slaves bought up by some assholes and dragged here as offerings. It’s not their fault.”

He looks over at me. “You were one of them, yes?”

“I was. I was going to die at dawn.”

“And instead, you have chosen to serve me.”

“That’s right.” I don’t tell him that I’m having regrets, or that fate might have brought us together. That’s too corny even for me.

He watches the women with narrowed eyes. “Some of them are far more lovely and probably more servile than you. Are you telling me I can pick a different anchor?”

“It has to be freely given, remember? I’m the only one that stood up.”

“Truth.” His mouth twitches, and I can’t tell if he’s irritated or amused. Possibly both. After a moment of silent contemplation, he looks over at me again. “And why should I help them?”

“Because I’m asking real, real nicely?” I give him my brightest smile. “And we’re a team?”

“We are not a ‘team,’” Aron of the Cleaver says in that icy cold voice of his. “I am a god and you are my anchor to this world. There is no ‘team’ involved in any of that.”

Sheesh. This guy could give lessons on dickery, he’s so good at it. “Okay, then I’m begging you. Please save them. I can’t stand the thought of them dying in the morning. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“But no ‘butt stuff’ as you call it.” His tone is utterly imperious.

Is he teasing? I can’t tell. “Other than that, whatever you want,” I amend.

“You will do whatever I want anyhow.”

“I’ll do something extra special, then,” I tell him desperately. If blowing an arrogant asshole means I’ll save the life of two dozen terrified women, I’ll get down on my hands and knees right now. “Just say it and I’ll do it.”

“You can be silent,” he tells me.

Damn it. I open my mouth to protest his rudeness when he arches a silvery brow in my direction. Fuck. Is this a test? I can’t tell. Reading this guy is impossible. I close my mouth and slump on my stool, worried. I press my fingers to my mouth, anxious that I’ve not done enough. Should I have said something earlier? Bargained my “anchoring” to the god in exchange for all of our freedom? What if I’ve messed up and I have to watch all of them die? I can’t take it. I squirm on my cushion, miserable.

I look over at Aron, wondering if I should speak up again. Before I can open my mouth to blurt out another plea, the god raises his hand. “Prelate.” He flicks his fingers in that pompous way, indicating someone should trot over to do his bidding.

The prelate gets up from his chair and moves toward the god, his hands clasped in an attempt at piety. Something tells me he’s probably feeling a lot less pious at the moment now that he’s met Aron the Dickbag. He doesn’t get down on his knees right away, and the god stares at him so hard that I can practically feel eyes boring into the prelate’s skull.

The prelate clearly isn’t used to not being in charge. He’s practically bristling at Aron’s pompousness and he stands in front of the god, waiting. It feels like a battle of wills, and all the while, the storm overhead crackles and gets more ominous. The pressure change in the air makes my head hurt, and I wince at the battle of wills.

Of course, the prelate is the one to bend first. He gets down on his knees and presses his forehead to the floor again before sitting up. “How may I serve you, Lord of Storms?” His voice is tight and it’s clear he doesn’t like being at the beck and call.

Aron tilts his head, then holds his wine goblet out to the side, in my direction. Oh. I guess I’m supposed to take it. I do, and as I touch it, a spark snaps at my fingers, conducted through the metal. I bite back a yelp and manage not to drop the cup, but just barely. The god rests his hands on the ends of his throne for a moment before getting to his feet, and then I’m “treated” to a bird’s eye view of naked god butt.

OceanofPDF.com

8

I have to admit, it’s a pretty good butt. I guess that’s to be expected when you’re a god, though. It’s pale as the rest of him, but the globes are perfectly shaped and muscular. Not that I care, because it’s attached to a holy pain in the ass. Literally. He puts his hands on his hips and surveys the room. “Who are those maidens in the back that are not allowed to celebrate?”

The prelate’s gaze flicks to me and I get a chill down my spine. He knows I’m to blame for this. I lift my chin, unwilling to back down to him. I get a seat on the dais now, after all, and he doesn’t. That makes me more important. He can suck it.

Granted, it’s a seat at Aron’s feet, but it’s still a seat above his.

The prelate clears his throat delicately. “Those are offerings to the gods.”

He makes it sound so benign that I can’t help but speak up. “A bunch of people brought slaves to the temple. He picks the cream of the crop and then the rest are sacrificed at dawn,” I pipe in.

Both men turn to glare at me. Sheesh.

Aron of the Cleaver turns back to the prelate, and the thunder overhead rolls ominously. “Why are they sacrificed to the gods?”

“As an offering of our devotion, of course. It has been that way for many, many centuries, my lord.”

Aron crosses his arms over his chest, all pale naked body and stormy anger. “Have the gods ever asked for such a thing?”

The prelate is silent.

“I asked you a question. Have you been commanded by me—or any other—to sacrifice innocents?”

“It is tradition,” the prelate says faintly. “Slaves are given as cleaver brides every Anticipation—”

“I do not recall it being written in the sacred scrolls. Is it?” His voice is so casual and imperious at once, and I admit I’m hunching my shoulders every time he speaks, just because he sounds so darn mad—and the thunder crackles overhead constantly.

After a moment, the prelate licks his lips. “It is not, my Lord of Storms.”

“Is any of this in the sacred scrolls?” Aron flicks his hand at the crowded, trashed temple full of drunk, stuffed partygoers. At that moment, a naked woman squeals and runs from a man in red temple robes. “This carousing?”

I can practically feel the cringe of the prelate. “It is not, my lord. But it is all tradition done in your honor—”

“Then stop,” Aron snarls. He whips about and moves back to his chair, and I catch a glimpse of pale, hairless body and he’s just as muscular in the chest as he is in the backside…and I notice that he’s got large balls and an even bigger cock. Like, huge.