Demigod Captive

by Lucy Auburn

  Thousands, maybe more. Including whether or not she swings in my direction—a mortal life force wouldn't be much, but it'd be better than nothing. Propositioning the staff around here seems risky, though, so I just shake my head.

  "Great. I'll be back in just a few."

  She disappears around the corner. While she's gone, I double check the room for any weapons or resources, which I've done a hundred times since waking up here. But there really is nothing useful; everything is locked up or bolted down, including even the shower head in the bathroom. I'd probably have to hurt myself destroying the furniture to get a weapon of any kind.

  At least I'm clean and well-fed. Godblood Prison may have its drawbacks, like the regular beatings and risk of dying in the arena, but Ares knows how to take care of his pawns, just like he always used to take care of his toy soldiers. I've gotten the best treatment possible while here—all the better to make sure I'm ready to get beaten to death in his stupid little battles so he and his ilk can feed on the war energy.

  My fingers run across the edge of the manacles around my ankles. I've got a checklist in my head now: suss out as much of the prison as possible while being escorted back to my cell, find a few hot idiots with sex drives among the Bacchus sons to screw silly, and escape in the middle of the night. Ideally before the next arena tournament is scheduled, but if that's not possible, by the end of the month. Definitely before Ares shows up to take a tour of his favorite prison and watch his prisoners brutally kill each other.

  The doorknob turns, and I sit up straight, pulling my top down so it fits snugly. But it's not Damien who comes in through the door. Instead it's a guard I don't recognize—and the nurse is nowhere in sight.

  My stomach sinks.

  I get the same feeling I had when Tia caught me fiddling with my Ares gold cuff. Only this time, I have the feeling it won't end with me getting treated by a doctor.

  "You must be Mora." This male guard has bright blue eyes and impossibly blond, close-cropped hair; his guard uniform is tight and gloveless, unlike Damien's, and also unlike Damien he smirks as he openly checks out my body. "I heard you were a bit of a slut, and I have to say, I'm not disappointed. A lot of these godblood bitches show their tits off, but not usually quite so much of them... and there aren't usually quite so fucking big, either. You look like you'd give a good tit job with those puppies."

  I do, but not to sleazy fuckers like him. I have the feeling he's not really asking though. So I slip my hands and wrists beneath the bedsheet as I try to keep him talking and distracted.

  "Where's Damien?" I ask, hating the hot rise of trepidation I feel I've never had to depend on a mortal for protection before, and I don't like the way it feels. "He's supposed to escort me back to my cell, and I have the feeling he didn't send you in his place."

  "Oh, he's on the way. But he's gotten a little held up." The guard's hand meaningfully rests on the electric baton at his hip. "I'm here because I heard you would be alone, and thought after everything you've been through, you might want to make a deal for protection."

  "From you, you mean."

  "Me?" A faux-innocent expression crosses his face. "No, no, of course not. I meant all the other guards. The ones who don't take bribes because they're in it for different reasons. Sadistic reasons. I'm not like that."

  I can't quite stop myself from rolling my eyes, even though I'm wary of angering him. "I'm sure you're a knight in shining armor."

  "Some might say so. I'm more modest. I tell it like it is." Pacing over to my bed, he leans a hip against it and stares down at me with nothing but possessive desire in his face. "Those others are all about pain. Me, I prefer pleasure. And I know you prisoners do too. We've all seen what you get up to in the training rooms. With me, you don't have to pay someone off to get a little pleasure on the side... all you have to do is say yes."

  "And if I say no?"

  He smirks, the expression in his eyes sliding most definitively towards sadism. "Oh, I don't think you want to do that, little Death whore. Especially if you'd like to get out of this place. Some of the patients have to check in overnight for further treatment."

  I find myself wondering if the doctor with the sad eyes knows about all this. While I doubt it, he wouldn't be the first seemingly fine, upstanding mortal to thoroughly disappointment. No doubt the nurse knows about it—her timing is far too suspicious.

  Beneath my clever fingers, one of my Ares gold cuffs begins to melt open. It's been drained of death energy so many times that the clasp is easy enough to fiddle with, but the painful hunger that hollows me out is far from simple. It occurs to me that the bastard standing meaningfully by my bed with his crotch thrust towards my eyeline might be able to at least curb my hunger, but I know already that I don't want him anywhere near me—and I especially don't want him inside me.

  Men like him rarely accept a one-time invitation into your bed. They rarely want the invitation at all. I'd rather teach him a lesson right here, right now, before he can get any ideas. Maybe if I'm able to I'll even be able to feed off him a bit—not that it's wise, given how much it would expose me, but it's better than what he's proposing.

  "Well?" His hand darts out, and he yanks on my hair, pulling my head back and exposing my throat. I think very hard about how much I want to kill him. "I bet you look pretty with a big ol' cock down that throat of yours."

  I open my mouth to tell him the only way his dick is winding up between my lips is off I tear it off with my teeth, but there's a jiggle at the doorknob. The guard turns and frowns, staring at it. "That should be locked."

  It is, until a key is slid into the lock and turned. My so-not-romantic would-be suitor drops my hair and moves a step away from the bed just in time for Damien to stroll into the room, a strange, pale expression on his face. His eyes dart from the guard to me and back again—then down to the guard's crotch, which I also look at.

  Wouldn't you know it, the wannabe rapist has a chub of a pecker that's hard inside his pants. He shifts a little as if to hide it, but it's clear as day. And repressed, ever-gloved Damien doesn't look happy about it.

  "Caldwell. I thought we agreed I was on duty for prisoner escort today."

  "Yeah, well, I got bored." He shrugs. "Needed the hours."

  "You got bored or you needed the hours—which is it?" Damien's voice is cool, almost as cold as it was to me the night he caught me and wrapped me in Ares gold. I don't envy Caldwell at all. "How about you go home early. The general put you on active duty for the foreseeable future—you might as well rest up."

  "Fuck you, Highwater," the guard mutters, his voice loud enough to carry but filled with absolutely no confidence. "Why do you think you should get to boss the rest of us around just because of your connections? We're the same goddamned rank. I started here before you. If anything you should defer to me."

  "Should I?" There's venom in Damien's voice. I sit up as he stalks towards Caldwell, reaching towards his right hand and, of all things, pulling off his glove. The crescent-shaped godmark on his forehead glows with eerie light and energy. "How about you get the fuck out of here before I give you a reason to stay."

  Sneering, Caldwell brushes past him, eyes darting briefly at his bare hand. I don't know why, but Damien pulling off the glove seems to have made him nervous. Interesting.

  As the door closes behind the guard, Damien slowly pulls his glove back on, yanking each finger up as if he's putting the lid back on Pandora's Box. Then he strides over to my bedside and stares down at me, mouth a thin line. His eyes search my face.

  "I'm fine." Beneath the bedsheet, I put the cuff of Ares gold back on, and the hollow hunger inside me subsides. I feel as if I lost five pounds in the moment when it was off. Every moment of hunger felt takes a little something from me. If I'm not careful, I might start looking my age. "I could've handled that, you know. He wasn't going to get away with anything."

  "You're in a hospital bed with bruises all over you and broken ribs."

  "I've healed up.
And technically it's just an infirmary with one doctor and one nurse—the latter of which you might want to look into."

  "Nurse Pratchett? She's fine."

  "You sure? That guard came in here at a pretty convenient time." Throwing the sheet off, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch as I stand up. "Seemed like he knew the room would be empty."

  Damien swallows at suddenly being face-to-face with me. He's tall for a mortal, but we're basically eye-to-eye. Brushing my long hair over my shoulders, I watch his frown deepen as he considers what I'm suggesting.

  "I don't think she had anything to do with Caldwell's actions," he says, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. "She came to fetch me, after all. I was only held up because of a personnel issue—one that I'm realizing now must've been a ruse. I don't think the nurse knew what he was up to."

  He sounds a little doubtful, though. "Well, I guess just keep a close eye on her... since you seem to be the only god hunter around here who cares about the inmates you've put away. Why is that? Why not be corrupt like all the others?"

  "It's not in my nature," he says, voice low. I lean in towards him, and he looks away. "We should get you back to your cell."

  "You care about me," I observe, taking a step towards him, until the space between us is more of a breath or a whisper. "I actually think you would've hurt that man."

  "You need protection." Damien reaches up to rub his jaw with a gloved hand, his green eyes staring down at me. "Which arena team have you joined?"

  "Neither."

  He frowns. "What do you mean? I was certain they'd both make overtures towards you as soon as you showed up. You're Death's daughter, after all. That has to count for something."

  Irritation flares inside me. He keeps talking, when all I want to do is anything but talk. "I don't want to join up with any one team."

  "That'll make you a target around here."

  "I don't care. I can look out for myself." Reaching out, I brush my hand against the back of Damien's gloved fingers, leaning forward and arching my back so my breasts brush up against his chest. "I'd like to thank you for what you did for me. Maybe if you take those gloves off..."

  He jerks away, taking a step back and putting space between us even as his pupils visibly blow wide with desire. "You should join up with Jasper. He's clever. He'll know how to protect you."

  "Why would I need that, when I have you?" This time, I put my hands on his shoulders as I press up against him, and he doesn't jerk away. "Let me thank you for what you've done for me, Damien."

  The god mark on his forehead glows. His eyes dart down to my lips, up to my eyes, and he swallows again. I press myself against him and breathe deep, my breasts pushing up against the V-shaped confines of my shirt.

  He licks his lips and doesn't move away.

  It's all the invitation I need. Tilting my head, I close the distance between us—and his lips part as he makes the kiss happen. He tastes like peppermint and black coffee, smells like aftershave and rain. His mouth opens up to mine, and our tongues dance, the kiss sensual and passionate right away.

  I knew he wanted me.

  Twining my hands behind his neck, I stroke my thumb across his skin and push up against him. He steps back until he hits the wall behind us, his hands still firmly at his side. But his kiss makes up for what he doesn't do with his fingers; he sucks my lower lip into his mouth and greedily, hungrily devours me. When I push my hips forward and rub my thigh between his legs, his moan and the pressure of a bulge against me is enough to make it clear what he's feeling.

  I'm still so very, very hungry. And I want more. Something about Damien, the mystery of him, his brooding protection and angry green eyes, makes me want to strip him bare and discover all his secrets. But he still refuses to touch me even as his tongue does dirty things inside my mouth and his dick grows hard inside his black uniform.

  Frustrated, I grab his hand and draw it between us, shoving it towards my bottoms. The leather is an unhappy barrier. So I grab at the wrist of his glove, tugging insistently–

  And he startles away from me so fast that I blink only to find him standing several feet away, panting and wiping his gloved hand against his mouth, the air in front of me empty. There's still a bulge in his black pants, but he shifts until it's less visible, grabbing his gloves and tugging them towards his wrists. He looks at me with wild eyes, and I frown at him, hands clutching the fat nothing in front of me.

  "We should go back to your cell," he says, voice distant, rushing towards the door like opening it will save him. "That... that never should've happened. It never will again."

  "I think it will. And again after that."

  "It's a bad idea."

  I make a wordless noise of disagreement. He may be a mortal god hunter, one of my greatest enemies, but I will figure Damien Highwater out. And I'll have him, one way or another. No matter how much he refuses to admit it, he clearly desires me, and I want to know what it'll look like when he gives in to that desire.

  He can say whatever he wants with that mouth of his. His cock tells a different story. Soon enough, it'll tell that story to me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It's hard to walk around the prison with my head held high and confidence in my steps, but I make myself do it anyway.

  "I can't believe you're already out." Portia studies me as we follow our new cellblock guard down the hallway to dinner. "You looked like someone ran you over with a golf cart, backed up, and did it again."

  I felt that way too. Now it's just a low-grade ache and the occasional sharp pain if I breathe too fast or too deep. That's all thanks to the time I spent without my cuffs on—though it drained me physically in other ways, the hunger of it hollowing me out, and all of Jasper's bit of life force leaving me until I had nothing again.

  "Guess I healed fast."

  "We're mortal with this Ares gold on." She holds up her cuffs demonstrably, the pale bell-like sleeves of the blue dress she's wearing falling back from her wrists. "Last I checked mortals don't exactly heal fast."

  Deciding she doesn't need to know that I can take my cuffs off at will, I tell her, "It must have looked worse than it really was. You know how it is with bruises."

  "Mmm. Speaking of, you should get some concealer for that shiner around your jaw and the swelling in your lips. It looks like someone has been fucking your mouth."

  I snort a little. "I didn't know you could talk about sex."

  She rolls her eyes and sniffs dismissively. "I may not join in the filthy back room orgies, but that doesn't mean I'm a virgin. I just have standards."

  "Whatever you say."

  "I do," she insists. "The ruffians locked up in here don't meet them. They're all brutes and dumbasses not worth wasting time on. You have to agree with me at least on that."

  As we walk into the communal area, though, I'm not sure that I can. Especially because a group of Ares and Kratos sons are wrestling naked from the waist up. Their strong muscles and warlike roars fill the dining hall with the sound of battle—a sound that brings me back to the old days, centuries ago.

  "Hey!" Our guard, a tall woman named Dara, runs forward with her baton out. "Separate, now! No fighting!"

  She throws a whack at one of the strong Kratos sons in the back of the pack, then presses a button on her walkie and calls for help. The other female prisoners and I hang back; our second new guard, a tall thin woman with an axe-like face and hawk eyes, paces forward and warns us not to "get any bright ideas."

  I only get dark ideas, personally. And sexual ones. Like right now I'm wondering if this pack of godblood hooligans might be persuaded to form their own pass-the-Mora-around group. I bet even their relatively young, stupid life forces are strong enough to help me power up and get out of here.

  "See?" Portia raises a blonde brown in my direction. "Ruffians and dumbasses, the lot of them."

  "Yeah, but they've got so many abs."

  Snorting, she shakes her head. "You've got th
e same horny attitude as Garnet."

  "What of it?"

  "Just be careful," she warns. "Getting involved with the gangs around here usually means joining them. Which means fighting in the arena. And that means dying in the arena."

  "Can't a girl get a little action around here without getting action?"

  "Probably. But only if you're willing to dredge the bottom of the barrel."

  "What does that mean?"

  "The warriors who fight without armor. Ones who haven't won a single match. They're the ones you're looking for—if you're that desperate. Hooking up with one of them doesn't mean you're making a claim to either team. Especially if you meet up with them outside of training time." When I eye her, she shrugs. "You're not my first horny roommate."

  "Thanks for the advice," I tell her, "I'll keep it in mind."

  Before I can ask her any other question—like if she'd mind pointing out some of these warriors to me—a familiar figure strides into the fight. Just as the guards were about to end it for good with their batons and Ares gifts, Aleksander shows up. He holds his chin high and chest out, the bruises along his forearms and cut across his cheek somehow make him look ruggedly handsome instead of wounded—and I hate him for it even as my eyes are drawn to him.

  He's like the sun in the center of the room, shining bright with light, full of confidence and charm. Even the guards seem to still in his presence. There's a reason why, of all the sons Ares has made through the millennia, he's the only one the god named himself and rode beside into battle.

  "What's this, Julius?"

  Aleksander glowers at one of the fighters, whose dark red hair, golden-brown skin, and distinctive sword-shaped birthmark on one shoulder mark him as a son of Ares, just like the hammer on the necks of the Kratos sons mark them as descendants of Strength.

  "He made moves on my woman," Julius, Alek's brother, says defensively. "And now she won't even look at me because she switched arena teams. It's not fair! I had a claim first."