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“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.