Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I might be trapped in a snare of my own making, but I really could do worse for a spouse than Dionysus. He’s Olympian, but he’s gone out of his way to try to make me feel safe and comfortable. Even when he himself wasn’t feeling safe or comfortable.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Go on. All we have left is dessert, but they’re bound to get drinks and make this stretch for at least another hour before someone starts a fight.”
I hastily murmur an excuse that no one listens to and slip away from the table. The bathrooms are tucked in the back corner of the restaurant, and the stairwell is cleverly hidden around the corner from there. I make it up one step when an arm comes around my waist and a hand clamps over my mouth.
This time, I don’t bother to scream. I know this hand, this arm. Asterion.
He releases me after a beat. “You’re learning.”
I don’t dignify that comment with a response. Instead I turn to face him. Even standing one stair above him, he still towers over me. I take in the sight of him, my breath stopping in my throat. Asterion always looks good, and there’s a part of me that has suspected for years that he gives off some specific pheromone I’m weak for. But seeing him in a suit? It’s a different experience entirely.
When some people wear a suit, it tames their sharp edges, serving them up in a more palatable form. Not so with Asterion. With his long, dark-red hair, big body, and scarred face, all the suit does is showcases his brutality. No one will look at him and assume that he’s an executive. He’s a warrior right down to his bones.
“Did you come to fuck me on a table in front of everyone?” I mean for the question to come out sharp and sarcastic, but my voice is a little too breathy to quite pull it off.
He gives me a long look as if I’ve disappointed him somehow. Then he steps back and holds out his hand. “Those peacocks won’t miss you for a while yet. Come with me.”
It’s nothing more than Dionysus already said, but I can’t help shooting a guilty look at the hallway leading back to the restaurant as I slip my hand into Asterion’s. “I don’t have much time.”
“You have enough.”
I’m not really sure what I expect, but it’s not for him to lead me down a different set of hallways deeper into the employee side of the restaurant. We pass a handful of servers, each balancing trays filled to the brim with beautiful food, and then Asterion pulls me through a door into a small and meticulously organized office.
“Whose office is this?” I look around, but the answer is readily apparent in the sticky notes with comments about different flavor profiles and appetizer ideas and the calendar with a color-coded employee schedule. This must belong to the head chef. “I’m not fucking you in some stranger’s office.”
Asterion’s still got that disappointed look in his eyes. I don’t like it. Before I can say anything, he snorts. “All I’d have to do is crook my finger at you and you’d fall to your knees and beg for my cock, so don’t pretend otherwise.” He turns for the door. “But that’s not why I’m here. Sit down. Don’t touch anything. I promised him we wouldn’t fuck with his stuff.” He’s gone before I can pepper him with further questions.
Part of me didn’t believe that he’d come tonight. The Olympians don’t necessarily have a price on his head, but he’s hardly safe here. I eye the rolling chair—it’s a fancy wide-set one that probably cost a small fortune. It’s remarkably comfortable when I sit down. There’s a part of me that wonders if Asterion thought of even this, but surely that’s a step too far.
He returns a few minutes later with a covered plate on a tray. It looks absurd in his large hands, and he doesn’t carry it with the same grace the servers at the restaurant do. Still, he manages to place it in front of me with a little fanfare.
He removes the lid and steps back, and I’m left staring at a replica of the main course that I ordered but was too nervous to eat earlier. I don’t know how he timed it so perfectly, but steam rises from the pasta, and the parmesan has barely begun to melt.
I shift my attention to him, noting the way he stands perfectly still as if he’s holding his breath. As if he’s not quite sure of my reception. “Why?” I finally manage to ask.
“You never eat at political dinners. Your nerves get the best of you and then you spend the rest of the night starving because you’re too ashamed to admit you’re still hungry.”