Demigod Captive Page 12

  As I unfold and shake out Helena's outfit, though, it becomes clear it'll hide nothing. The top is half mesh along the bottom, with a soft athletic-wear style fabric that crosses over the breasts and joins at the back of the neck. Pulling it on and arranging over the fullness of my breasts, I'm not surprised to see that it creates a cleavage along the bottom of the mesh that won't be hidden. It also reveals the flat, toned muscles of my stomach, and does nothing to hide my more muscular shoulders.

  If it weren't for the tracker on the black T-shirt, I'd put it back on. The last thing I need is anyone around here seeing my body. But it doesn't seem like I have many options; probing the collar reveals that the tracker is very tightly sewn in, too small and buried in the fabric to easily remove.

  The top makes me look hot, at least. And the pants are close-fitting with a high waist that cinches beneath my abs. Pulling them on, I'm relieved to remove my old athletic shorts, which I wore as pajamas and rolled out of every afternoon to stumble into my latest bar. They were starting to smell like the bottom rung men I went home with and the cheap beer all of them bought me.

  In addition to the pants and top, there's a small belt with a flap that falls over my hip. It has room for a small sheath, but of course I have no weapons to put in it—and I wouldn't want to risk the guards' wrath again even if I did. I've already seen that while certain high-tier warriors and rich prisoners like Portia can get away with bending the rules, I can't. So I roll the sheath up into the belt and tie it tight, resolving to only use it when I'm ready to escape and know my way out.

  Staring at myself in the mirror, I'm struck by the fact that I look far more competent, capable, and athletic that I'd ever planned. The urge to put my old, grungy clothes back on and make do is overpowering. This outfit does nothing to keep me from getting unwanted attention—especially from men.

  Especially from two men in particular.

  And one who I thought I'd never see again.

  Maybe I should put the shirt with the tracker on. I can always rip it off when I escape, after all. I'm a demigod—running around half-naked with my breasts exposed isn't exactly new to me. I once went into battle with nothing but lion's blood smeared across my nipples and a leather thong covering my bottom. That was back when the Romans were easily frightened by naked barbarians brandishing even more naked swords at them.

  The Celts were some of my favorite warriors. It's too bad I'm not among them again. Those battles were so raw, so clean. They felt simple in comparison to modern warfare. Back then, Ares and his sons weren't quite so cruel and horrifying. When they killed they did it face-to-face with their enemy, and honored the fallen, foe and friend alike.

  Sighing, I reach for the black regulation shirt, only to catch Garnet watching me open-mouthed in the mirror.

  "Wow!" She rushes towards me, staring at everything: my abs, my shoulders, the tone in my arms. "I knew you were hot, Mora, but I had no idea those filthy clothes you came in wearing were hiding a six pack."

  "It's more like a food baby," I object, trying to slouch and hide it. "Just one of those ones that fools you into thinking it's muscle. All fat though, see? It's embarrassing—I was going to put the old shirt on."

  "Uh-uh. No way. You're not hiding that body." She jerks the shirt out of my grip and throws it over the wall of the showers, where it lands with a splat in a puddle of soapy water. "C'mon, let's go show you off to the others. I want to see what else you're hiding—including fighting tactics. No way you only know how to dodge a punch. I bet you can tell us how to knock someone out, too."

  The last thing the misfits need is to learn how to fight. They'll wind up getting themselves crushed underfoot—probably by one of the warriors ignoring them out there in the training room right now.

  But when I rejoin them in my new clothes, they're so enthusiastic to learn more than I can't stop myself from teaching them more than I should. In the process, I hope I don't come off as too strong, too confident, too capable.

  I can feel Vesuvius's red-hot eyes on me from time to time. When I look over at him, the sparks in the grey-green of his irises are blown wide, fire overtaking nature. He's practicing with a shield and a short sword, his stature and strength reminding me of the Roman warriors of old, who I fought with as well as against.

  His gaze skims over the fullness of my breasts, which are tightly pulled together by Helena's top, the undersides of my cleavage fully visible. When he swallows and shifts his weight, dragging his attention back to his opponent, the gap in the crotch of his armor pieces reveals a sizable erection against his left leg.

  Gods help me, but I want him. Bad. So bad I might throw myself on him, dangerous arena connections and all, and risk the wrath of War himself.

  Instead I make myself turn back to my training partners and start another round until all I can think about is the bruises rising up on my knees and arms. The pain, sharp and harsh now that Ares gold makes me mortal, is a welcome distraction.

  Soon I'm sweating, my long hair plastered against my back, dreaming of the showers in the back room. When the other warriors start to call to the end of their training and head to the showers, I feel the quench of cold water calling me. Maybe if I take a long enough shower I'll forget the fiery demigod's exquisite body and the thick bulge of his erection.

  "We should go." Sasha tugs on my elbow and glances around us worriedly. "The others are all ending practice."

  "Sounds great. I could really use a shower."

  "Are you crazy?" She shakes her head, looking distraught. "We're not welcome for the after party. Even coming for training was pushing it."

  Garnet sighs, sounding dejected. "She's right, as much as I hate to say it."

  "Too bad," Ferdinand comments. "I've heard all the best favors are traded during post-training training."

  I blink at all of them, feeling left out, until I remember something Portia said the other day. And the deliberate way Vesuvius invited me to come to training anytime.

  "Wait. So you're telling me... the sex parties are real?"

  Chapter Eleven

  "Real as sin. As the summer sun. And the winter rain." Leo sighs, sounding nearly as dejected as Garnet. "We should go before they start. No one wants us here."

  As if on cue, the guards around the training room start to slip out, locking down the equipment and weapons' racks on their way. And I hear laughter filter from the men's and women's showers. Along with some sounds of pleasure, as some people get started early.

  An orgy. I was invited to an orgy. Without even really realizing it. Normally I'm not this dense. Being underground must have rattled my brains—that, or Vesuvius's magnificent heat and stunning handsomeness is getting to me.

  Licking my lips, I consider walking into the back room, heading towards the men's showers, and finding out what happens next.

  "Cretins! Weakling!" One of Ares' sons, a young, newer dolt based on the look of him, scowls in our direction as he stalks towards us. "Get out, now. You're not welcome to our women or our wine."

  "Or our men," adds one of the other sons, a Bacchus man by the looks of him. "We're warriors and winners, not feeble losers. Only those who have won at least one battle in the arena are welcome to train with us—and last I checked, not a single one of you has made the cut."

  From the locker room entrance, her voice steady, Lyonne calls out, "Mora has. V invited her himself. She's welcome to join if she wishes."

  All the misfits are suddenly staring at me, their expressions varying levels of envy and resentment. Cheeks heating, I swallow and push my hair behind my shoulders, suddenly hyper-aware of the push of my breasts against my new cropped black top. An image of Vesuvius putting his broad palms against my flesh, his calloused fingers tweaking my nipples, heat radiating from his skin, is almost enough to make me give in.

  Then I remember the other godbloods who would be there. And the fact that I've barely been able to keep the arena team leaders from recruiting me as it is. Bending over for Vesuvius would break do
wn what little wall I've put between us, and I'd wind up in the arena sand, with Ares' eyes on me. It's the last thing I need—if I'm not careful, I'll wind up in solitary and never get out of this place.

  Not that I know what the War God would do if he sees me. Hell, I haven't been around him in centuries. It's possible he's forgotten what I did to him. Possible, but extremely unlikely. Gods may be easily fooled by their own egos and greedy desires, but they seldom forget their petty resentments. Revenge is one of few things that sticks in their celestial minds through all the fucking, killing, drinking, and more fucking. Even my often-flighty mother can list off every being she hates, mortal and otherwise.

  I have to think ahead and protect myself. Screwing Vesuvius now would feel good, but I need to find other options. Safer options. Ones who won't get me dragged into the limelight and make vengeful gods remember my existence.

  "Tell him thank you, but I should go," I tell Lyonne, hating myself even if I say it. "You should go enjoy yourself."

  "Oh, I don't partake." She shakes her head. "Perks of a broken heart: no one drags you to the godblood orgies anymore."

  As she says it, her eyes skim over the outfit I'm wearing, and it's not hard to figure out who broke her heart or why.

  In the back room, the raucous noise heats up. I hear grunts, groans, and moans. A glance inside reveals a female godblood bent at the waist, her bottoms pulled down, one of Bacchus' larger sons fucking her with his cock. She moans with pleasure as he digs his fingers into her hips and screws her thoroughly. Behind them, others start to go at it similarly, in all different positions and pairings. There's no need for privacy or embarrassment when every single one of the participants is a toned, muscular, attractive half-immortal.

  Would that I could join them without worry. Maybe if I... but no. Vesuvius is the one who invited me. He'll want to fuck me if I make my way inside, even if I try to proposition other men and women. There's no joining without joining.

  They certainly are going at it, though. As soon as the large Bacchus son pulls out, another male godblood appears to have his way with the female—while a third male gets to his knees and uses his mouth to make the first erect again for a second round, his own cock bobbing merrily between his thighs, in need of servicing. The large male grabs the back of his head and fucks his mouth, moaning as he watches the female get fucked.

  Raising my brows, I sigh and tear myself away. The misfits are already near the doors—except for Garnet, who's lingering, looking over her shoulder. Then Lyonne joins us, and she switches her gaze to the warrior instead, speculative.

  At least I'm not the only horny demigod leaving the sex party without getting my orgasm in.

  * * *

  Sitting in my cell with Portia, who's silently pouting on her bunk over something or other, I consider everything I've learned about this place since coming here.

  I'm starting to think I might be ready to try taking my cuffs off. Not completely—but I could drain them a bit, weaken them and move them around. Today during training they pinched my skin; if I could get them to settle further up my wrists, I'd be able to do more, especially with a weapon.

  I might not be armed now, but a new plan is forming, one that involves stopping by the training room to get a weapon on my way out. The guards may have locked them up before the sex-crazed madness began, but things are more relaxed around here than I thought they would be.

  All of Ares' mortal flunkies seem to rely on the threat of his wrath and the weakness the Ares gold causes to keep their imprisoned godbloods in line. But they're susceptible to bribery, as the sex parties themselves show, since they don't bother to stay around and guard them. They may be sadistic motherfuckers—they've definitely proven that to me—but they lack discipline and consistency.

  Alek's men were never so loose and undisciplined.

  He led them with an iron fist.

  Now he's asking to lead me. But I can't trust him—not anymore. Maybe if he'd come to me after he rose from the dead... but no, even then. There was so much between us when he died. Love, yes, but other things as well, obstacles that got in the way.

  I've changed so much since the last time I rode into battle beside him to feast on the death we left behind. We can never go back to the way things were. If Alek has yet another grand plan to fight his father and overthrow him, he'll have to put it into motion without me. He's been in this prison before—he can survive being here again.

  But I can't. Not for much longer. Not with temptation on every side and the every-looming threat of a visit from Ares. I have to get out before it's too late, even if part of me wishes I could live as a mortal forever, with no demigod worries or cares. Somehow I'll face my mother after I escape—if she even notices I've gone missing. I doubt she's checking up on me ever since she led the god hunters to my door.

  Pressing my fingers against the cuff on my left hand, I check to make sure that the hallway is clear, and reach inside to find that bit of death in all things magic.

  So few mortals know—or even half-immortals, for that matter—how magic is made. It doesn't come from wide-eyed innocence. Virginity doesn't fuel it, but neither does rage, or might, or power.

  Magic is built with death.

  With agony and absence. Grief and pain. Just like the bones of dinosaurs are today's oil to fuel humanity's sins, yesterday's mortal deaths are today's magic, molded by gods and demigods alike. Ares more than any other god has taken the death his reign over earth produces and turned it into new things.

  One of those is his gold.

  Mined from far-flung parts of Earth and threaded through with magic, the gold is forged into new shapes in the Celestial Realm by Hepheatus himself. The God of Fire, of Forges, of Heat and Metallurgy takes its magic and turns it into something new.

  When Ares gold forms a circle, as it does in these manacles and in the chains his hunters use, it dampens magic completely.

  Except for one type of magic, the type it's forged from, the most foundational type of magic that all are built on top of: Death's magic. My magic.

  There isn't as much death in magic as there is in an actual dead body, or even in a powerful orgasm—I've made some mortal men practically see the Great Beyond in my time—but it's enough to take. To drain. And hopefully, once I've gotten the cuff off, I'll be fueled enough to change its shape, move it down my wrist, and reforge it.

  I'm not ready to escape just yet. But I'd like to know that when I have all my plans in place, escape will be possible. Permanently.

  Thankfully the cuffs on my wrists are made from a thick forging of Ares gold. Nearly an inch thick, each are fueled by at least a tenth of a mortal's painful death, maybe even an eighth or so.

  Given the way the mortal world bombs, plunders, and needlessly lets their fellow humans die, there's more than enough misery to make millions of manacles and miles of chain.

  It's hopefully enough that, once the cuff is off and some of my godblood is active again, I won't be completely starved. Ideally I'd wait until after powering myself up with a good sex romp or two or five, but beggars can't be choosers. I'll just have to find some way to get one of those Bacchus fools alone and away from the sex party so I can have my way with them and not wind up part of Vesuvius's squad.

  Besides, I don't share my men. Not specimens like the fiery demigod, at least. He's too fine to let him fuck someone else. It's a shame the best sex around here is of the group variety. I'd love to go to town on that tall glass of warm handsome without any onlookers to spoil the fun.

  As I think about what that would be like, my hunger for death instinctively reaches out and yanks much of the death-fueled magic from the cuffs at my wrist. I startle as it weakens and opens at the hinge, revealing my rubbed raw flesh beneath.

  The hunger hits me all at once.

  It's worse than it was the moment I brought Omar back to life. That was the sharp, persistent hunger of an empty body in need of a meal. I'd just tasted his life force and spit it back out again. If
I'd found another death that night I would've made it through to the morning okay.

  Instead I was captured.

  And in the couple of days that have passed since, my body has grown hollow in the middle with the need for death.

  My godblood surges in my veins, so hot that my skin feels like it's burning. I gasp in agony. The urge to scratch at my skin, to dig my fingernails in and get the damned godblood out of me, is overwhelming. My half-mortal flesh can't hold the primal celestial power inside of me. Especially now, when I haven't fed in so long that my mother's blood thrashes and strains within me like a monster.

  Once I saw my mother when she was hungry past the point of starving. The look in her eyes was the most frightening and feral thing I've ever seen. In that state she lost all control and decimated an entire village.

  I never want to see the same expression in the mirror.

  Clenching my jaw around the tortured cry of pain that begs to leave my lips, I move the Ares gold cuff further up my wrist and press its hinges together. The pain is so great, so shocking, that it's hard to focus on what I'm doing. My fingers slip more than once, and I start to tremble, wondering if I'll ever get it back on.

  Then it clicks together. All at once my godblood quiets, the hot simmer of it dying down. Sighing in relief, I close my eyes and swallow, reflecting that escape is going to be even more difficult than I'd thought. I could wind up here for months trying to refill my well of power with little deaths and bits of magic.

  I may have to join an arena team after all, and hope that Ares' keen eyes pass over me without recognition.

  "What was that?" A sharp voice, raised in anger, yanks me out of my thoughts. "Looked like you were messing with your Ares' gold."

  Tia, the cruel guard from yesterday, stands outside my cell and stares at me with a hard expression in her eyes. "Guess you need to be taught the same lesson twice. Hey Cara," she raises her voice, "come help me out with something. We got a live one over here, real tough piece of shit who thinks she gets to do what she wants."