God of War: Chapter 8

“Let me go, damn it!”

I can’t kill my wife.

I cannot lock her up either.

Those thoughts jam-pack my head like a chant. As much as I pride myself in being a fucking ice cube when faced with pressure, one woman is able to drill a hole in my frozen exterior, hollow out my black soul, and start a fucking riot.

“Eli!” she whispers-yells, then smiles at the cameras flashing in our direction.

Her dainty hands wrap around my neck, and even though she offers the world her blinding smiles, she pulls on the hairs at my nape, nails digging into the skin with intention to cause pain.

I grind my teeth and she grins. “Oh, I’m sorry. Does that hurt, hon?”

“No more than how you’ll pay for this stunt, darling.”

Her eyes flare up in a bright, intoxicating, and absolutely ravenous blue. My favorite color until further notice.

“Put me down. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Not more than your attempts to embarrass yourself, Mrs. King.”

I contemplate dumping her in the passenger seat like a sack of potatoes but think better of it and deposit her caringly, like the gentleman I’m not.

But then again, the confusion in her eyes at the mixed signals is worth it.

So I slide into the driver’s seat and lean over. Ava pushes back against the leather, the squeak filling the car and drowning out the outside world.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, her chest rising and falling in quick succession, her full breasts brushing my shirt with the teasing of a soft-core show.

My dick takes notice of her smaller size and how easy it’d be to conquer her.

Own her.

Once and for all.

But my brain recognizes that would be no different than shoving her back to the clusterfuck of a state she was in prior to the ‘incident.’

If anything, I shouldn’t be here, but she had to push my fucking buttons. She can’t help it.

“What do you think I’m doing, Mrs. King?”

My face is so close to hers, I feel her shallow breathing against my mouth and watch the slight tremble in her chin and the parting of her pillowy lips.

I even catch the small scar near her hairline and the flecks of forest green in her wide eyes.

She slams both her small hands on my chest, and I suppress a goddamn growl.

Bloody fucking hell.

This woman exists in my vicinity, and I’m tempted to shred every ounce of control that flows in my veins.

“Don’t touch me.” Her low yet firm voice fills the car.

“Is that a threat?”

“A warning.”

“And yet you’re the one who has her hands on me. Can’t resist me, huh?”

“You wish, prick.” Her words are merely a whisper as she pushes me away.

Or attempts to, anyway.

If I decide this is the place where I’ll exist for the rest of my life, this is exactly where I will be and there’s nothing she can do to alter the decision.

That uncharacteristically reckless part of me that needs to be burned at the stake finds the idea tempting.

Dangerously so.

I pull the seat belt over her chest, fighting the urge to ogle how the dress hugs her breasts and curves.

A fucking dress she paraded in front of a bunch of fuckers who have no business seeing her like this.

I wonder if Henderson is Superman enough to blow up the entire club and everyone in it, then somehow pin it on aliens.

I snap the seat belt into place and retreat into my seat, a taste of something sour clinging to the back of my throat.

A sigh of relief leaves Ava, but as I pull away from the club, she crosses her arms—and legs for good measure. “Why did you follow me?”

“You hit my car and nearly crashed it, spent a small fortune on people you don’t even know, and were attempting to recreate your miserable alcoholic days. Need I say more?”

“Told you I’m high maintenance. You said you like it.”

“There’s a difference between being high maintenance and a spoiled brat who’s an embarrassment.”

I can see her eyes flashing in my peripheral vision, like two orbs of burning lava. “No one forced you to marry me. If you dislike my behavior, give me a divorce.”

That’s the second time she’s demanded that in the span of a week, and I swear to fuck, if she says it again, I might lock her the hell up.

“So you can pick up the scraps of your useless, empty life, participate in blow parties, and fill your body with enough alcohol to give you liver failure?”

“What I do with my life is none of your concern.”

“It is now. Get used to it.”

“I’m warning you, Eli. You can’t control me. The more you force me, the harder I’ll rebel.”

“The harder you rebel, the more insufferable I become.”

“You’re always insufferable.”

Can’t argue with that.

I steal a glance at her to find her digging holes in my face with eyes that were made to only see exotic things—namely me. “I’ll take the dreadful, outrageous behavior up a notch, then. Whether or not you’ll be able to endure it is another story.”

“You can’t do anything to me.”

“Do you dare test that theory?”

I catch a glimpse of her lips pursing before she releases a long breath, clamps that beautiful mouth shut, and stares out the window.

Silence has always been a quality of mine, a strong preference, so to speak. It’s a skill when used properly and an advantage to wield in dire times.

Ava’s silence, however, has always been an irksome, absolutely maddening experience. It’s like reaching an oasis in the middle of the desert, only to find out it’s a mirage.

“What do you want, Eli?” Her soft voice fills the car as she continues staring out the window.

“Some peace and quiet would be fantastic.”

“From me. What do you want from me?”

“Behaving properly is a satisfactory start.”

She swings her head in my direction and bats her long, curled, and fucking glittery lashes at me. “And how am I supposed to do that, exactly? Turn into your puppet? Worship at your feet?”

“Distancing yourself from the wrong crowd and refraining from throwing tantrums is enough.”

“Aw. But those are my favorite pastimes. You know, since, and I quote, I’m lazy, shallow, and would rather splurge a fortune than use my airhead brain.”

I let a smirk tilt my lips. “And who are you quoting exactly?”

“You, prick. And here I thought I was the one with the memory loss.”

“In sickness and in health, Mrs. King.”

“I hate you.”

“By all means.”

“If I wasn’t struggling and didn’t feel guilty about implicating my parents, I’d never stay with you.”

“Lucky me.”

“If I had a redo, I’d marry any man but you.”

“Good thing you’ll never get a redo.” I pause and count to ten, a method I need to use so I don’t accidentally bash her head in. Once I’m done, I look—or probably glare—at her.

She’s fully facing me now, and if eyes could kill, I would’ve been murdered in cold blood, cut to pieces, and thrown into the Thames by now.

I stare back at the road because I can’t trust myself not to get us into a freak accident. “What are you struggling with?”

“What?”

“You said if you weren’t struggling, you wouldn’t stay with me. So what are you struggling with?”

“Hello? Have you forgotten that I lost two years of my life?”

“And?”

“You’re my therapist now?”

“Try me.”

“So you’ll use it against me in the future? I’ll have to pass.”

“I’ve never done that.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Didn’t you say you don’t want me to control you? If we’re going to find a solution around that and reach some middle ground, you’ll need to communicate with me.”

“Says the one who thinks glaring and staring are the hallmarks of communication.”

“They can be. Now, stop fighting for the sake of fighting, and tell me what’s on your mind.”

She stares at her nails, some shimmering pink with a fuck ton of sparkles. “Were you there that night?”

“Which night?”

“The last night I remember. When we met at that VIP room and you were such a delight.”

“A delight as always, you mean.”

“Naturally.” She rolls her eyes in an epic theatrical show. “So you recall that night?”

“Yes, why?”

“I…clearly remember leaving the club and, well, I was driving to Raj’s place, but there was a strange car without headlights following me. I called the Met Police, and I swear…I swear I had an accident.”

I tap the wheel once. “But?”

“But Cecy, Ari, Mama, and even Gemma said there was no such thing. I went home as usual. There was no accident.”

“What’s the issue, then?”

“What’s the issue? If that’s not true, then there’s something terribly wrong with me.”

“Yes. It’s called alcohol.”

“Alcohol doesn’t make you imagine a whole scenario.”

“Drugs do. You took a hit or two of blow that night aside from your medication, didn’t you?”

She opens her mouth, then clamps it shut, breathes shakily for a few beats. “Did you follow me out?”

“Why would I have?”

“You threatened me to go home. Besides, you tried everything under the sun to make my life miserable at the time.”

“I did, huh?”

“You still do. You really didn’t follow me?”

“And if I did?”

“W-what…” she trails off and swallows. “What did you see me do?”

“You stopped by the side of the road, probably too drunk or high to realize where you were. I drove you home.”

“You did?”

“It was either that or leave you to be kidnapped, assaulted, and murdered. Not specifically in that order. Before you get any ideas, I did it for Mum.”

Her expression lights up like a myriad of fireworks. Fuck me. The innocence painted all over her face stabs me in the chest.

Good thing I have nothing there.

“You made sure I went home?”

I nod.

“Oh, thank God.” The words are a low whisper. I don’t think they were intended to be said out loud.

We arrive at the house and I stop the car at the entrance. “Go in. Have a lovely evening.”

She stops with her hand on the handle. “Why aren’t you coming in?”

“I have other engagements.”

“So you get to go out and have fun but I don’t?”

“Our ideas of fun are different. You go out to drink. I go out to earn money to afford your expensive tastes.”

“In that case.” She smiles sweetly, which I know is as fake as her social circles. “Have a horrible evening.”

She nearly rattles the goddamn door off its hinges as she slams it shut and storms to the entrance with a ferocious yet entirely enticing sway of her hips.

I shake my head out of the reverie I’m in when I catch myself watching the door long after she goes inside.

Count to ten.

You can’t fuck the attitude out of her. Yet.

Get it together.

I shoot Henderson and Sam a text, reminding them of their pending execution if they let her out of their sight.

Sam replies with a thumbs-up emoji and Henderson reacts with a thumbs-up to my text.

Bunch of unfeeling wankers.

My favorite type of people.

“Nice of you to grace us with your mythical presence.”

I smile at my father as I grab a flute of champagne from a passerby. “No need for a standing ovation, Daddy dearest.”

He’s not amused by that. Not one bit.

But then again, my father is one hundred percent bulletproof to my impeccable charms and finds my shenanigans extraordinarily tiring, insufficiently creative, and massively headache-inducing.

“Mind explaining why you left in the middle of a meeting?”

“An emergency.” That caused damage to a one-of-a-kind car, a ridiculous liquor bill, and a migraine I had to down a few ibuprofens to drown. All because of an infuriating woman who has pink, glitter, and my pending demise up her sleeve.

I throw a fleeting glance at the men around us. Gentleman’s club. Naturally, I was introduced here when I hit puberty and my father—and grandfather—decided I’d be the perfect successor for their empire.

I am.

Don’t believe anything my cousin Landon tells you. He’s not my competitor or my counterpart.

He definitely is not the best King grandchild as he claims. He’ll have to work harder to be me when he grows up.

The men around us mingle in circles, wearing stuffy Ralph Lauren blazers, smoking cigars, and discussing the latest tax laws and ways to keep their money out of the king’s treasury.

Old money reeks from the dark wallpaper like a stench I enjoyed wallowing in.

My father steps into my space, looking sharp in a tailored dark-brown suit Mum got for him. She spoils the man too much, if you ask me, but she loves him.

A useless emotion that’s done no one any good. Except for producing me, but I’m a miracle for everyone’s existence.

“If you have no intention of taking your role seriously, kindly piss off to your mother’s side of the family and leave the grown-ups to do business at King Enterprises.” His calmly spoken words are neither a threat nor a jab. They’re simply a statement.

One would think that since I’m a clone of him—same jet-black hair, build, frosty gray eyes, and deep-seated disregard for people’s intelligence, or lack thereof—he’d spoil me more.

But then again, he’s probably jealous because I’m better-looking than him. After all, I have some of Mum’s genes, and he’s beneath that woman’s league. Just saying.

“You and I both know I’ve brought the most profit to the company since I became CFO, and my numbers are only exceeded by you and Uncle Levi. So how about you be proud of me and consider stepping down sometime soon with Uncle so I can do things my way?”

“If your way is alienating possible partners by keeping their children on a leash and threatening to expose, imprison, or have them killed, then I’ll have to pass.”

Well, well.

He knows.

After my grandfather stepped down as CEO and became the honorary chairman, my father took his place. My uncle is the COO and, honestly, I expect him to step down sooner than my father since he prefers his extended family’s company and was never as ruthless a businessman as Dad or Grandpa.

I need them both gone so I can do things my way. Something neither of them will give me unless I fight for it.

And fight I will.

I pretend to take a sip of the champagne, measure my words—ironically, a trait he taught me—then smile. “If you have a choice between being loved and hated, it’s better to be hated.”

“Not if we need to expand the business. And this isn’t the Roman Empire.”

“I’ll handle it.”

He raises a dark, sardonic brow. “Will you, now?”

“Trust me, Dad.” I squeeze his shoulder.

“I don’t trust your destructive methods.”

“They won’t be used unless absolutely necessary.”

He shakes his head, a mysterious look taking refuge in his eyes. “If you don’t focus and step up your game, Landon will come after your position.”

“That prick hasn’t taken a business class in his life and is more content sculpting statues and pretending the entire population are peasants who should start a cult to worship him. How could he ever be a threat to me?”

“He’s studying for an MBA at Harvard. We both know he’ll speed through it like lightning and roll back in here for your throne, even if it’ll be purely out of spite and to prove himself to Levi and my father.”

I grind my teeth. Just another complication to add to the list of fucked-up nonsense I have to deal with lately.

For the sake of my sanity, I blame a blue-eyed, pink-obsessed little minx who gives me a hard-on with a single glare.

“You’re going about this entirely the wrong way,” my father tells me matter-of-factly.

Though I respect the hell out of him, I seriously loathe that knowing look he directs at me as if he has me all figured out.

“Humor me,” I say with no emotion. “Is this concerning business decisions?”

“It’s more related to the reason you’re losing concentration.”

“No idea what you’re insinuating.”

“Marriage is not a joke, a bet, or a way to inflate your mega-sized ego.”

“Took that last one from the best.” I wink at him.

He doesn’t smile. “The moment you think you’re in a competition with your wife, you’ve already lost, son.”

“We’re not in a competition.” Except for the fiery back and forth that somehow ends up happening whenever we’re in the same room.

“What did I tell you before?” It’s his turn to squeeze my shoulder. “Women need space. Doesn’t matter if it’s an illusion or if you can confiscate it whenever you wish. It’s the gesture that matters.”

“Ava would take that space, drown it with alcohol, fill her nose with white powder, then drive her car over a cliff while laughing like a maniac. She needs discipline, not space.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He drops his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

“What?” I nudge him. “Can’t wait to go home to Mum?”

“Some of us actually miss our wives. I certainly prefer her company over this charade.”

“Oh, the drama,” I deadpan.

True to his word, Dad finishes the introductions, seals two business deals, and finishes two drinks in the span of an hour and a half.

Then he’s out of the picture, leaving me to deal with the fallout.

I’m thankful for any opportunity that keeps me away from the house as long as possible.

It’s become increasingly difficult to exist around the bane of my existence and not touch her.

Which could be considered an innovative form of torture, if you ask me.

By the time I reach the house, it’s a bit after midnight.

I walk in and pause at the threshold, and that’s not only because of Sam’s and Henderson’s alarmed expressions as they stand by the stairs.

Or the absence of any other staff.

The sound of the cello coming from upstairs fills the space like a haunting doom.

“Why the fuck didn’t you call me?” I snap at Henderson, my ears prickling at the damned sound.

“I did. You weren’t picking up,” he replies.

“How long?”

“An hour,” Sam says.

“Has she been taking her meds regularly? You didn’t skip a day?”

She shakes her head. “Every morning with her strawberry and banana smoothie, and she takes her nightly dose with her usual glass of milk.”

“Fuck.” I climb the stairs two at a time and stop in front of her door. Images from the last time I heard the cello slip into my head, and all of them end with a haunting smile, a scream, and a fuckload of blood.

One, two, three…

It’s under control.

Four, five, six…

She doesn’t remember.

Seven, eight, nine…

At ten, I open the door and stop at the entrance.

My wife is sitting on the bed, facing the window with her back to the door. She’s wearing a baby-pink satin gown, the straps hanging off her pale shoulders, and her hair is tied in a messy bun.

The sad and absolutely lethal sound penetrates my ears like a doomsday song.

She’s nearly wrapped all around the cello as she plays on and on, like a robot.

I walk toward her slowly, carefully even. “Ava?”

No reply.

Not that I was expecting one.

I stop beside her, and a crushing weight lands on my shoulder and stabs my nonexistent fucking heart.

For a long, horrendous beat, she keeps playing, eyes lost, expression muted.

Face closed off.

She looks up at me with the same empty eyes, not blue. Ice.

It’s the stranger again.

The demon who possesses Ava and leaves this hollow being in its wake.

A metamorphosis of failed existence and shrinking presence.

It hasn’t been long. She shouldn’t be having an episode so soon.

And no, there’s no way in hell I’d take Dr. Blaine’s alternative option.

My fingers trace her face, gliding over her cheek and touching her lips. They tremble beneath my touch and she breathes so heavily, I can taste her exhales on my tongue.

A frown appears between her brows and then a curious blush follows.

The bow halts on the strings as her eyes widen. “What are you doing here? Get out, pervert!”

Bloody fucking hell.

A rush of life rips through me and the noose slowly loosens from around my neck.

It’s not the stranger. It’s my fucking wife.