God of War: Chapter 6

An hour later, I step outside the hospital, having survived falling down the stairs with a couple of bruises and no memories.

Oh, and I’m accompanied by a royally pissed-off Eli. Which can be described as his default setting.

He can blame himself for the tardiness, for all I care.

A girl can’t get ready in fifteen minutes, and even if I could, I wouldn’t miss the chance to bring down the devil a peg or two.

I might have made the horrible mistake of marrying him—sticking to my brain damage theory, thank you very much—but he’s not my keeper.

“The only reason I’m going with you is because I need answers,” I inform him as I stop in front of a Mercedes, which I assume is his, considering the short guy with sandy-blond hair who’s holding the door open.

Eli leans in behind me until his warm breaths send a hot flush against my ear. He’s so close, his height dwarfs mine and his scent shoots straight to my head worse than drugs.

“Whatever you say, Mrs. King,” he whispers in a deep tone.

I stiffen, my skin crawling with deep-seated annoyance and dangerous awareness.

Brilliant. That stupid part hasn’t changed despite the amnesia.

I slide into the back seat in a hopeless, slightly clunky attempt to escape his orbit. Eli places his hand on the roof inside the car to prevent me from hitting my head.

My mouth remains open in complete and utter surprise. Was he trying to be a protective gentleman just now or something equally ridiculous?

Someone call the imposter police and get this guy checked for authenticity.

On the outside, he looks quite the same, like a high-class replica, but something’s changed about this man.

Yes, he’s still the same crass Eli with enough unbothered audacity to give Satan a run for his money, but it’s different now.

Only, I can’t put my finger on it.

The blond guy, who I think I saw with Uncle Aiden in the past, closes my door with a respectful nod. Eli rounds the car, unbuttons his jacket, and sits beside me.

All of a sudden, the space is dwarfed by his titanic presence and I have to remind myself to breathe. Obviously, I’m shit out of luck, because I only manage to breathe him in with every inhale and fail to expel him with my exhales.

He smells like forbidden temptation and impending disaster.

Divine but so utterly wrong.

Sharing a space with him is entirely not in my best interest and could be considered a major test of my resolve, but I have to put up with it if I plan to uncover the truth behind whatever fuckery happened to me two years ago.

I refuse to believe I married him of my own accord but then, illogically, kept my closest people out of the loop.

There’s no way in hell I wouldn’t have told Cecy. Hell, I’ve always been so descriptive about everything, and she knows more about me than Mama or Ari. She’s my person. My confidante.

If I didn’t tell her why I insisted on marrying this glamorous Tin Man, something’s up.

And, apparently, Eli is the only person who knows the truth.

Getting him to divulge it, though, will be tricky. So my best shot is to familiarize myself with my new environment first.

I study the driver and the short man sitting in the passenger seat, and then Eli, who’s going through his phone.

My fingers clutch a pink kombucha drink that’s sitting in my side of the cupholder and I take a sip. The weird bubbly taste burns my throat and I grimace.

But hey, it calms me down, and at least the can is a beautiful pink, so that’s a win in my book.

I wonder how Eli knows I like this brand. But then again, it’d be weird if he knew nothing after two years of marriage.

And no, I’m still not used to the idea that I’m married.

To Eli.

If I were to write my seventeen-year-old self about this and be like, “Guess what? I’m married to Eli,” she’d probably have a stroke. Naive stupid bitch that she was.

“Where’s my ring?” I ask absentmindedly.

Still looking at his phone, Eli reaches into his jacket and retrieves a huge pink diamond ring that sparkles like a thousand lights.

It’s the ring I saw in the countless pictures Cecily showed me. Turns out, I also have a folder with 3,523 pictures of the marriage. The title is My Wedding ft Tin Man.

Which I buy, to be honest. I see myself naming it that. Other options would be My Wedding and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named as a Prop or I Got Married. He’s Only Here for the Pictures.

Eli holds the ring in midair, waiting for me to take it. Still not looking at me.

I jam the bottle of kombucha in the cupholder, my temper flaring as fast as the fizz that’s spilling over. “If you are actually my husband, then look at me when you give me my fucking wedding ring.”

He lifts his head, a flash of anger appearing in his stormy eyes. Under different circumstances, I’d probably run or cower.

Hell, under different circumstances, I’d never allow myself in a closed space with Eli. That’s just asking for trouble.

Right now, however, I don’t see a way out.

Instead of focusing on the confusion and the loss I feel without my memories, I direct that energy at him.

“Watch your mouth.” He speaks in a deep, firm tone.

He has a way of moderating his words to intimidate his adversary. And while I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t affected, I’m more pissed off than anything.

“Should’ve thought about that before you married me.”

“A decision I question every day.”

“As do I, for sure.”

“For sure,” he repeats with a hint of dark amusement. “Except for the small fact that you’ve been infatuated with me for years and then proceeded to beg me to marry you.”

I can feel my cheeks warming and probably turning bright pink, and for the first time, I’m not a fan of my favorite color.

“Me? Beg you? You must be out of your mind.”

“Out of my mind for tolerating your presence? Yes.”

“I did not beg you to marry me.”

“Does that mean you remember the proposal night?”

“Just because I don’t remember it doesn’t mean you can spout nonsense. Why on earth would I beg the person I hate the most to marry me? I’m neither desperate nor suicidal.”

A hint of something unfathomable passes in his eyes as quick as lightning, and then they’re back to their status quo—aka an unreadable gray cloud. “And yet you ended up marrying the person you hate the most. The irony.”

“The horror.”

“The reality, Mrs. King.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“But you are. We have the wedding certificate and the ceremony to prove it.” He grabs my hand and slides the ring on my finger roughly, with no patience or softness whatsoever.

But then again, there isn’t a gentle bone in the devil’s body.

I stare at the ring, and for some reason, it seems familiar. Comforting.

What kind of disturbed thought is that?

Choosing to steer clear of that territory, I cross my arms. “Well, there’s something that can undo it. It’s called a divorce, and I want one.”

A burst of laughter rips from his cruel lips and fills the car with a dreadful undertone before it comes to a sharp halt. “There will be no divorce, Mrs. King.”

“Well, I demand it.”

“Demand declined.”

“I have every right to decide the status of my marriage, and I want it to end. As soon as possible.”

“Our marriage.”

“What?”

“You said the status of your marriage, but it’s our marriage, Mrs. King.”

“Well, our marriage is obviously an anomaly, considering we can’t stand each other. No idea what went on in my head when I agreed to this ridiculous wedding, but I’m no longer possessed and would like to do the right thing. Please and thank you.”

“Possessed…” he repeats the word slowly as if he’s letting it sit on his tongue to taste it, dissect it, probably slash it open like the countless hearts he’s broken to pieces, often unknowingly and without regrets. “Do you believe you were possessed when you said ‘I do’?”

“There’s no other explanation for that daft decision.”

“Interesting.” He focuses back on his phone, completely and effectively erasing me.

This prick has a PhD in raising my blood pressure. If I were still hooked to those hospital machines, they’d be beeping all the way to the sky.

“I’m talking to you,” I grind out.

“I’m not.”

I snatch the phone from his hand and contemplate throwing it out of the window. But that would make me look both dramatic and impulsive—two descriptions Eli loves shoving down my throat.

So I regulate my breathing and let the phone drop to my lap. “I said I want a divorce.”

“And I said you won’t be getting one.”

“I’ll take you to court.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“If you’re in the mood to lose your money and time aside from your feeble thought process, sure thing. I suggest you stop being impulsive for once in your life and think about this logically.”

“This is the most logical solution. There’s no love lost between us, Eli. Why the hell did you even marry me?”

“As I said, you begged.”

“Let’s say I did, which is by no means true, by the way. You just said yes?”

“I’ve always had a soft spot for begging.” His eyes shine with a gleam of lethal intensity and I swallow, feeling suddenly parched.

“Be serious,” I breathe out.

“I’m dead serious. Remove the idea of a divorce from your head. The sooner the better.” He reaches for his phone, but I hold it out of reach.

“I’m high maintenance.”

“Just the way I like it.”

“I have extremely expensive tastes.”

“Good thing I come from old money and I’m rich enough to outshine a few countries’ GDP.”

“I’ll drive you crazy.”

“Nothing new there.”

“I don’t like you.”

“That’s because you love me.”

“In your damn dreams. I’m way out of your league.”

“I can rope you back in if I choose to.”

I’m fuming. My fingers tingle with the need to throw the phone at his stupidly gorgeous face and ruin it once and for all.

“Are we done?” he asks in a bored tone.

“No. I still don’t understand why this marriage happened.”

“Because it’s beneficial for both of us. Now quit the pointless dramatics.”

“In…what sense is it beneficial for both of us?”

He releases an exasperated sigh. “I needed a wife for my image and you needed a husband to safely leave your parents’ orbit and hide your self-destructive nature, reckless behavior, and alarming mental breakdowns. Does that answer your question?”

He jerks the phone from my slack fingers as I stare at him, speechless.

A hollow, bitter taste sinks to the bottom of my stomach and nausea climbs up my throat.

I knew things didn’t add up, but I hadn’t thought I’d make a deal with the devil to put a stop to the ticking bomb in my head.

My marriage, just like my life, is one big embarrassing sham.

The rest of the drive is spent in tense silence. Eli never looks up from his stupid phone and I look at everything but him.

The familiar yet strange London streets. The driver and the assistant, who I realized belatedly probably heard everything, including my humiliating realization of what went down in my life.

Two years later and it’s still the same mess from my last year at uni.

According to Cecy and Ari, I married Eli the summer of my graduation and haven’t done much since.

It was their way of insinuating that I’m still the fuck-up I remember. I haven’t participated in any competitions since the one I ran offstage from. Haven’t gotten any contracts or invitations to any orchestras or even events. I simply withdrew from the music scene as quietly as a dwindling star.

And just like that, I set my talent on fire and drowned in copious amounts of alcohol as it turned into a huge rubbish can.

Brilliant.

Apparently, I still play sometimes, but what’s the point if I’m my only audience?

I’m on autopilot when the car stops and my door is opened. I step onto the property’s asphalt entrance, and my Jimmy Choo heels release a squeak when I come to an abrupt halt.

The grand Edwardian building sitting in front of me looks imposing with its signature brick structure and massive windows, surrounded by a vast garden and a greenhouse decorated with multiple pink indoor plants.

But that’s not what makes me halt in my tracks. I swear I saw this house in my dreams once. Down to the gorgeous pink greenhouse.

However, I’ve never been here before. I mean, I don’t remember the last two years, so I was here before, but I forgot. Is that why it feels familiar?

“I assume the house gets your stamp of approval.”

I flinch as Eli’s rough voice sounds so close to me, my senses short-circuit. I clear my throat as I look up at him. “When did you buy this?”

“My family has always owned it. It was a wedding gift from Grandpa Jonathan to both of us.”

“But I’d never been here before that?”

“No.” He coaxes me forward with a hand on my back. I resist the shiver, but it’s tragically pointless.

I can feel the pads of his fingers nearly burning holes in my soft-pink Ralph Lauren dress.

We stop at the entrance when we’re greeted by well-groomed, impeccably presented staff I’ve never seen in my life.

A short, lean woman with Asian features and thick-framed glasses precedes them.

“Sam!” I exclaim.

Her usually standoffish face breaks into a rare yet small smile. “I’m glad you’re well, Mrs.—”

She hasn’t even finished the sentence when I attack her in a hug. Might have to do with the fact that she’s the only familiar face I’ve seen here or that something finally makes sense.

“There, there.” She pats my back mechanically, her movements stiffer than Eli’s nonexistent morals.

No wonder she’s his nanny. Or ex-nanny or whatever.

“You’re so standoffish.” I push back and pull on her cheek. “Relax a little.”

She steps away from my touch. “I left all the relaxing to you, Mrs. King.”

“It’s Ava. And was that sarcasm?” I tilt my head at the other staff. “Must be so much fun to be around her, am I right?”

None of them moves or even acknowledges me.

“You let Sam handpick her clones, didn’t you?” I give Eli the stink eye.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms and ankles crossed and looking more amused than a king watching his personal clown.

“Anything for you, Mrs. King.”

I grind my teeth to keep from falling into the trap he’s goading me into and proving to these people who I’ve never met that I’m a fuck-up. “Well, this atmosphere sucks. Totally not a fan.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Or we can change things up. Sam, I love you, but you need a chill pill and a proper introduction to smiling. How about a staff reshuffle like the prime minister does?”

“I’ll have to decline.”

“But why? It’s going to be so much fun if you let me help.”

“I have my doubts.”

“How can you be so cruel?” I pout.

“Henderson already briefed me about your situation, so I’ll reintroduce myself.” She completely ignores my earlier statement. “I’m the house manager and I cook Mr. King’s meals. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask me.”

“Henderson?” I ask.

She points at the blond guy who’s standing by the car.

“Leonardo Henderson,” he says in an eloquent tone. “I’m Mr. King’s special assistant.”

“How special?” I ask.

“He’s just an assistant,” Eli says with a grumble.

“I prefer special assistant. Seems mysterious and cool.” I grin at Leonardo, who smiles back.

“I’ll take you to your room,” Sam says.

“I will do it.” Eli slides to my side. “You can get on with your tasks.”

She nods, turns, then leaves, followed by an army of her mini-mes.

“She totally scoured the entirety of the UK and Europe to find her own world-domination minions,” I mutter. “We’ll talk about that reshuffle later, Sam!”

She doesn’t even acknowledge me.

What a thrill. Not only do I have to deal with Eli, but also with his most loyal sidekick and the woman who loves and nurtures his monstrous nature.

While I love Sam, mostly because Aunt Elsa loves her, she’s too standoffish and uptight for my liking.

I glare at Eli. “Is this like a punishment?”

“Believe me, you’ll feel it when I punish you, Mrs. King.”

He waltzes to the stairs, leaving me in an alarming state of hyperventilation. I slap a hand on my chest, willing my heartbeat to slow down and stop being in utter shambles.

What the hell is up with that?

Was he flirting with me or threatening me?

At any rate, I shouldn’t feel warm because of it.

I follow him, partly because I have no choice and partly because I need a distraction.

I catch a glimpse of the sitting area’s decor and pause upon seeing pink paintings, sofas, and even a pink-and-white rug.

Did Eli and Sam let me decorate?

They had to have let me since Eli’s favorite color is the shade of his soul, black, and I’m pretty sure Sam is allergic to bright colors and would contract a serious case of nausea at seeing all the pink.

The sitting area upstairs also contains a grand champagne-pink sofa. A huge pink crystal chandelier hangs from the high platform ceiling and the halls are filled with artistic pink paintings.

Ten out of ten for taste. It’s mine, so of course it’s perfect.

My head bumps into a wall, and only when I inhale the intoxicating scent and get assaulted by the warmth do I realize it’s actually Eli’s chest.

I was so preoccupied with my spotless taste that I momentarily forgot I wasn’t alone. And the bastard definitely stopped abruptly and turned around on purpose.

I glare up at him. He smiles.

I glare harder. His grin widens.

“My, Mrs. King. We just got back and you’re already throwing yourself into my arms? Control yourself, would you?”

I jerk away. “It was an accident.”

“One of many.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Being a dick, for starters.”

“And now we’re talking about my dick. That desperate, huh?”

“Hell will freeze over before I let you touch me, Eli.”

“You look adorable when spouting lies. Besides…” He lifts my chin with a curled index finger, spearing his cold eyes into my soul. “I already touched you. If I want to fuck you, you’ll bend over and take it.”

“Lie.” My whisper is barely audible as my chin trembles.

“Want to bet?”

“You’re messing with me because I lost my memory. I’d never sleep with you.”

“There was no sleeping involved. I must say I wasn’t impressed, but I can give you a chance for a redo.”

“Fuck you.”

I storm into what I assume is my room and slam the door in his face.

There’s no energy left in me to even appreciate the glorious pink princess room that greets me. I slide down against the door and pull my knees to my chest as a tear stains my cheek.

I clearly remember making a promise to myself that I’d never cry because of Eli again.

Never, ever again.

And yet another tear follows and another and another.

Because I realize with crushing clarity that I’m mourning a part of me that I thought meant something.

Something I wanted to only give up for love and yet I handed it over to the devil on a silver platter.

What the hell have I done?