him laugh. I want to breathe in his scent. I want to bask in his presence.
He didn’t forget about me.
I’m just an anchor, a mortal, but he remembered me. I matter to him. That makes me so happy. My Aron wants me back at his side so much that he’s coming to the underworld to claim me. I can’t stop grinning.
One morning—at least, I assume it’s morning, since time is impossible to tell in the underworld—a trunk of clothing is delivered with the food. The hint seems pretty obvious to me, so I get dressed in the somber black gown trimmed with red. It’s better than the gray shift I was wearing, though I’m still not a fan of the color scheme. I take a few bites of food, and then an invisible hand touches my arm.
“What is it?” I ask.
I’m tugged at, indicating I should follow.
I get to my feet, take one last bite of food, and then brush my hands off. “Okay, but this better be good. Breakfast is sacred.”
The doors to my room open as I stand, and to my surprise, I’m staring right at the man I love.
Aron of the Cleaver.
Lord of Storms.
Butcher God of Battle.
He walks in, his axe sheathed on his back, and he wears studded armor that’s covered in blood, and thick, heavy boots. His hair is pulled back in its war-braid and he’s wearing an eyepatch.
He looks so fucking good.
I let out a squeal of happiness as his gaze locks onto me, and before he can say a thing, I launch myself into his arms.
Aron catches me. Of course he does. He’s amazing. He grabs me and holds my hips even as I fling my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips. His mouth crushes mine in the hardest, most delicious kiss ever, and lightning crackles between us.
I moan against his mouth. “Fuck, I missed you.”
“Faith,” he murmurs, biting gently at my lower lip. “I do not know whether I should throw you down on the bed and take you, or if I should put you over my knee and spank you.”
“Who says we can’t do both?” I ask him, breathless. I pepper his face with kisses. “Oh my god, Aron. I can’t believe it’s you. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Faith.” He kisses me back, equally as frantic. “Don’t you ever, ever do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Sacrifice yourself.”
“Spoiler, I’m already dead.” I nip at his jaw. God, I am so horny already. He growls low and I lift my head. “Wait. Am I dead? Did you make a deal with Rhagos?” I stare up at his face, at the eyepatch where a bright green eye used to be.
“Is it not obvious?” He gestures at the patch.
“Oh, Aron,” I say softly, caressing his cheek. I reach up and peek under the eyepatch, but he doesn’t push my hands away. Where his eye used to be is just a long, flat scar. It’s not grisly or gross, it’s just gone as if it was never there. He’s still handsome—maybe even more so like this—but I ache for his loss. “Are you sure?”
He grabs my chin between thumb and forefinger. “Faith. If you are asking me if one stolen eye is worth your life, then you are the most foolish mortal I have ever met.”
I bite my lip. “But I’m already dead, Aron. It had to happen. The Spidae told me.”
“I know,” he says grimly. “The moment I returned to the Keep of Storms, I immediately went to the Spidae and demanded that they work you into the web again. They said it had to happen. That anchors are the final sacrifice before one re-ascends.” His mouth curls with irritation even as he cups the back of my head and studies my face. “So I went to the High Father instead.”
I’m breathless at how much he’s done for me. Me. “You did?”
“I did. I told him that casting us out in an Anticipation every few centuries is a mistake. That we would retain our humanity far more if we were given an anchor constantly instead of just when we misbehave. That all of the gods have a companion at all times to keep us in touch with our human side.”
I gasp, clenching at the collar of his armor. “Does this mean—”
“You are my anchor. For now and forever.” His gaze is intently focused on my mouth, and he leans in and brushes his lips over mine with the softest of kisses. “As long