Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Instead, I turn in his arms, press my body against him, and close my eyes. It’s hours later when I wake up. I’m covered in his black robe, still naked, lying on the forest floor, watching the flames of a fire lick higher and higher into the sky.
“Hungry?” he asks.
I sit up, and his robe instantly falls, revealing half my naked body. I quickly cover up again. “Sorry.”
“Full moon.” He points up at the sky with one of the sticks he is using to stoke the fire. “You’ll be unable to transform back into fox form until it’s gone, so I figured you needed at least a few clothes.”
“Yeah.” I gulp. “I normally stay in my cave, but it’s loud there.”
“Let me guess, you hate loud noises. Most foxes I’ve met do. Just like your ears are so sensitive, there’s only one spot a male can touch that brings you pleasure.”
My ears burn. “You know a lot about foxes, god out of time.”
“I’m not out of time; I just took a detour, right? Besides, it’s getting more and more interesting the more you talk.”
I scowl. “I don’t have time for this. I need to hunt.”
“I’ll hunt for you.” He says it like It’s simple and stands, dusting off his black leather pants. He’s shirtless, with tattoos covering his left arm and another one specifically drawn across his left eye.
The Eye of Horus.
It’s magical.
I look away. “You’ll probably abandon me now.”
“Never.” His strong laugh seems to rustle the leaves on the trees overhead. “But if you’re worried, you can always give me your bead for protection.”
I gasp. “A fox never gives their most treasured possession! Least of all to a god who doesn’t need it.”
“It was a nice try.” He laughs; it’s a gentle sound that washes over me, caressing every inch of my body as sure as if he touched me with his hands. “Is it true that if you lose your fox bead forever, you’ll have to prove your worth through three lifetimes as a human in order to gain the treasure back?”
I mentally curse and stare into the flames. “You’re the god; you figure it out.”
“So it’s everything to you.” He nods, and his eyes take on a faraway expression. “Good to know.”
I sigh and decide to reveal, “My bead treats me the way your all-seeing eye treats you. Each of us is given something to treasure, something that identifies us in this world and the next. To give up my bead would mean a lifetime of searching.”
“I wonder…” Horus whispers. “What could be so valuable that a fox would ever even consider it?”
I lick my dry lips. He’s beautiful in the shadows of the fire and moon. His jaw firm, his white hair tucked down his back. He truly looks like a god.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “I wonder what could possibly be worth it.”
I don’t tell him I’m looking at it, that I’d trade my bead for a kiss and steal it back in the same breath.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Horus says, his eyes burning into mine. “Not unless you plan on doing something about it.”
I throw a stick and clear my throat. “It’s forbidden, a deity with a lesser fox in the human realm. Why don’t you just go back to where you belong, god? Don’t you have an empire to run? The heavens? Go back to your own.”
“Never truly liked my own.” He grins smugly. “Let me go catch you some food. Fish okay?”
I love fish.
My stomach growls.
“Thought so…” He tilts his head. “A few berries sound good too?”
My damn stomach just doesn’t quit.
Horus laughs. “You’re very entertaining for a fox.”
“You’re very annoying for a god.” I kick a rock that’s in front of me, and his robe falls off my breasts again, causing him to laugh.
I grip it and clench my teeth. “Good luck fishing.”
“Good luck sulking.” He winks and starts walking away.
Insufferable creature.
I stick out my tongue and lean back against the forest floor, tugging his robe closer to my chilled body. It smells like the sky.
My eyes become heavy as sleep overtakes me.
Only to jerk me back to the present, staring around at the dining room table after seeing some of my memories and feeling the need to burst into tears.
I grip the edge of the table with my fingertips and start to slowly tap my thumb against the wood.
He visited for years.
He swore he’d die for me.
Then he left.
He never came back.
The number of lifetimes of suffering, of abandonment, only to be brought to this one moment at this table, staring at the god who failed me and wondering all along what I did wrong to love someone so deeply, to listen to as he spoke promises from his tongue—then never speak to me again.
I don’t know why I lash out so hard other than the trauma pouring through my brain.