Marked by the Demigod

by Alessa Winters

  TALL GUY (4:25 PM): You know. We went for Pierogies.

  Aimes stares at it for a few seconds, light for a few seconds, before feeling incredibly silly. He had given her his number, but all without telling her and is now using it only to tell her not to do things.

  But.

  A way to contact, without having to wait for him first, and she refuses to feel grateful cause it really fucking should not be necessary.

  AIMES (4:26 PM): And the guy staring at me? I shouldn't talk to him.

  TALL GUY (4:27 PM): If you step out, I'll get you someplace safe.

  Trixie is now deeply engrossed in a conversation in French, of all things.

  AIMES (4:28 PM): I'm with a friend.

  TALL GUY (4:29 PM): She'll be fine. Say you have a business call and have to go to the room.

  He's ordering her again, but a glance to the staring man shows his smirk has dropped off, replaced with a reptilian stare.

  Aimes nudges Trixie. "Got to make a call, software in Michigan didn't go through."

  "Sure it's not the FBI?" Trixie narrows her eyes, as if she can see right through the lie and into Aimes's soul.

  "Yeah, I'll meet you back in the room in a bit?"

  The international students next to Trixie nod at the idea, and if it wasn't for the fact that Trixie can fend for herself, Aimes would feel a bit guilty.

  Trixie nods, apparently deciding that it isn't worth the argument, and goes back to her French.

  She grabs her purse and stands, and the man in the corner's eyebrows shoot up, as if she had done something far more shocking, like she flashed the room. But, knowing Vegas, the flashing part would've only vaguely drawn attention.

  Trixie nods at her, the corner of her eyes crinkling in a smidgen of worry, and she also pulls out her phone, to signal that she'll make sure to keep in contact.

  The man signals for his check, so Aimes bustles out, holding her purse close to her like a shield.

  TALL MAN (4:32 PM): Go to the bathroom, go into a stall.

  It's Vegas, and they put bathrooms every few steps, so she ducks into the nearest.

  A girl sits on one of the sinks, perched over it, applying individual lashes to her lash line, wearing garishly orange lipstick. She doesn't even blink when Aimes comes rushing in and into one of the stalls.

  There's a beat, a moment for her to look at her shoes and wonder if she's going crazy in the cool artificial air and --

  A grip on her arm, not even time to twist and look at him, before she's immediately in the hotel room.

  She stumbles, because she was just transported somewhere, but Iakov steps away from her instead of steadying her.

  He looks at her, eyes cool, for a few too many seconds.

  "Who was he?" Aimes blurts out, rubbing her arms.

  Iakov doesn't answer, instead striding across the room, tracing his finger along the doorframe.

  It's not quite an idle action, too purposeful for that, but his eyes seem unfocused from the task.

  "Is everything okay?" Aimes asks, picking up her librarian cardigan from her bed and shrugging it on.

  He raises an eyebrow, the stoops and traces his hand across the bottom of her door. "I'm glad you enjoy the necklace, but maybe don't wear it in fucking Vegas?"

  She touches the necklace, unconscious, then snatches her hand away. "How was I supposed to know it did anything?"

  He looks at her, sharp and uncomprehending, before his shoulders loosen with a snap. "Right. You don't know things." He cracks his neck, and it's such a quick movement it’s intentional. "I've just warded your door, so no one who bears you or your friend ill will can get in." He glances at the windows, then shrugs.

  She sits on the bed, as if she’s a small child who just failed another class. "So the necklace was from you?" She asks, her voice much quieter than she would want it to be.

  He gives her such an uncomprehending look she wants to shrink away. "Who else would it be from?"

  “I found it on luggage I haven't used in a while, so I didn't know." She bites back, the hairs on the back of her neck rising.

  His eyebrow furrows, then clears. "I thought that leaving jewelry on the dresser would be bad form?" He's still standing far away and it feels like a huge gaping chasm between them.

  She sighs, looking anywhere but at him. "I'm just confused, I thought you didn't want me to have your phone number."

  "I don't," he says, sitting down heavy next to her. "I don't want anyone to use you to contact me, and that," he pauses, heavy, "and that was what was gonna happen at the bar." He leans in close, then wrinkles his nose. "You smell like pineapples?"

  The switch makes her head hurt. "It was a hookah bar and I didn't know I had your number then!"

  "He wouldn't have had you call me, he would've tortured you until I showed," he says, flat. "I figured you wouldn't like that."

  It's silent, for a few moments, with the soft hush of circulated air.

  Despite the skirting around, despite Dave's worry and Katya's stress, his words are thunderous.

  "Torture, really?" She asks, not looking at him but at his knees, folded up in a pristine suit. "Isn't that a bit medieval?"

  He shifts, and his hand touches her back, gentle. "We're Russian, we're not able to get past that stage." His voice dips low, the accent strong. "I've done...preliminary things to hide you, I've made Los Angeles more difficult to track people in, your apartment is a no go for anyone stronger than a wisp. I'm not just...leaving you out to dry."

  She scowls up at him, but he flinches away from her scowl so fast she softens it. "Katya says you have no one to fear."

  He rubs the hand up and down her back. "She's a know-it-all government official who wants to know everything about everyone." He grumbles, but it's in good cheer. "Your friend's coming back, try not to wear the necklace out of Los Angeles." He leans in close, as if to kiss her.

  She quickly leans back, reaching out and grabbing him by his lapels, the fabric silky soft in her hands. "Wait," she blurts out. "Can I text you? Now that I have the number?"

  His face spasms, as if he's desperate to frown but doesn't want to. "Don't put my name in the phone, or any identifying information?" He whines.

  She pulls him a smidgen closer by his collar, and his eyes widen at the movement, just a touch, and she can't tell if it's annoyance or excitement. In some foreign corner of her brain she makes a note to tie him up next time she has him in her bed. "Deal." And she presses her lips against his, for just a second, before the sound of the key card click against the lock.

  He jerks back, nods once, and disappears.

  Aimes breathes, her heart pounding, as Trixie futzes with the lock twice, before the door clicks open.

  Trixie stops immediately inside the door, raising a single well manicured eyebrow. "Phone call go okay?" She asks, dumping her purse on the bed.

  Right.

  "I'll have to remote access their computers, they're not happy about that," Aimes bullshits. "French guys annoy you?"

  Trixie huffs. "They were Indonesian. And after you left this Russian guy came up and started asking questions about you."

  Her heart turns over.

  She's going to get him to talk about his brothers, and soon.

  "Me?" She asks, glancing in the mirror, checking her makeup.

  "He seemed nice, but weird? Asked if you had a boyfriend, if you were from around here, that sorta thing." She lays out a glittering silver dress and stares at it, pursing her lips.

  "Did you say anything?"

  "Oh fuck no, I told him you were from the ass end of Minnesota. Too slutty?" She gestures to the dress, holding up a pair of shimmering holographic heels.

  Aimes see-saws with her hand. "Not too slutty, but you're heading there. And thanks."

  Trixie's face softens into a smile. "Come on. I know better than that. Even if there's weird stuff going on. That you won't tell me." She pulls out a pair of scarlet heels. "Better?"

  "Better." Aimes confirms. "And just...
" she trails off, unaware of how to continue.

  "Just something’s going on, it's secret, and I get it." Trixie interrupts. "That's cool, that's fine." She starts to change, shimmying into the dress. "Just next time say its something secret instead of programming shit, that's boring. I wanna pretend that you're some government agent bent on hacking."

  The corners of her mouth twist up without her control. "Deal."

  Trixie shoots her a grateful smile, then tsks at her. "Please tell me you got a slutty dress."

  Aimes scrambles to her luggage. "It's more leggy than booby, but it'll work." It's forest green and a turtleneck, but barely hugs to the tops of her thighs. "Shouldn't we get actual dinner before strippers?" She unclips the necklace, but still, it twinges around her heart the moment the clasp falls off.

  Trixie nods, almost thoughtful. "Strippers are tomorrow night. Buffet than gambling irresponsibly?"

  In the buffet, with plates upon plates in front of them, Aimes looks up to see Iakov sitting across the hall, his eyebrows raised, as if alarmed.

  She raises an eyebrow back at him, he shakes his head, signaling her to stay.

  She's hyper aware of his gaze through the entire dinner, as if his direct attention was burning through her and pressing against the back of her neck, and she just wants to slide next to him and press into his body and...

  ...And she doesn't know. She's here with Trixie, and it'd be unfair for her to ignore her for a hookup. Even if it is a hookup with the person she's technically married to and...

  She scowls into her plate of crab meat, before reaching for her beer. It's like she has actual feelings for him, not just the artificial feelings that come from the magical...thing...he did.

  The surreptitious glances over to Iakov shows that he is very concerned with how she looks, and does nothing for her peace of mind.

  The next morning, after a heady mimosa breakfast buffet, Trixie leaves for the convention, leaving Aimes with an empty hotel room, a mild buzz, and Iakov's phone number.

  AIMES (10:11 AM): You still in town?

  She flops over on the bed, the room spinning, but that's not unusual. Room spinning is usually the first thing to start for her with a buzz.

  TALL GUY (10:15 AM): I could be.

  She lays her head down, her cheeks hurting from her smile. In the mirror above, she's a mess, her curly hair a ball of frizz, but she can't quite get herself to care.

  She reaches for her phone again, and Iakov's hand closes over hers, sudden.

  She jumps, and he grins at her, suddenly there. "Where's your friend?"

  Aimes sits up, slow, and he sits on the bed next to her. "Work. She's here for work. All day today."

  He looks at her, really looks at her, his eyes lingering all over her body, slow. "If this is what you wanted my phone number for, that's all you needed to say," he says, his voice dipping.

  She shifts closer to him and he to her, as if he can read her mind and her intention, and wouldn't that be amazing.

  He rests his lips against her shoulder, against her neck. Not really a kiss, but also not not a kiss. "I shouldn't be seen in Vegas," he mumbles, his voice barely understandable. "You don't understand why I shouldn't be in Vegas, but I shouldn't be in Vegas."

  She reaches up and tangles her hand in his smooth hair, and he leans into her grip as she lightly tugs.

  He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. "Are you drunk?" he whispers, the rumble of laughter close.

  She shrugs, relishing how warm he felt next to her. "Mimosa breakfast. It is Vegas." She pulls back, looks at him.

  He's watching her, avid, yet there's a fission of tension in his eyes, as if he's anticipating a fight or for her to be a trap or or or...or something. Like he has to, no matter what, grasp onto his control with both his hands and never let it go.

  Her heart breaks, just a little, for this strange man in front of her.

  She shifts, sliding onto his lap so she straddles him, and his eyes immediately flash down to her chest, then back up.

  "When I..." he starts, his voice falling from his mouth like honey. "When I started this, I didn't think. I didn't think you'd be like this."

  She flicks the top button of his shirt undone, and he twitches. "I really don't know what you mean." The next button gives her trouble, but she tugs his shirt open anyway. "You pick up a girl in a bar and didn't think that she might like sex?"

  His lips smile, but his eyes don't, not really. "Didn't think that you'd want to again." And it feels dark, like a confession. "Most people don't, not when they learn. Learn me."

  She finishes with his shirt, and slides her hand down the smooth pane of his back. His muscles tense as she does it, as if he's waiting for a strike and...her hand comes across a small bump, and he doesn't hide his wince well enough.

  "What happened?"

  He doesn't answer. She climbs off his lap, twisting him around.

  A large, angry red welt mars his smooth skin, the skin almost broken. "Jesus." She breathes out. "What the hell?" It's recent, no more than a few hours old.

  "Someone saw me and tracked me to a safehouse, it's not...it's not that big of a deal." His lips purse.

  She runs her fingers over it, light, and he winces again. "I thought you could, I dunno, self heal?"

  He all but rolls his eyes. "Yes, but it's not that quick." His voice gains back the self-confidence, and with it, the annoyance. "I wouldn't have come if it was a big deal." Now, his fingers twist at the hem of her shirt. "I would've just not responded."

  And that sounded like him. "Who did this?"

  "An over enthusiastic shapeshifter who thought he could get an easy one out on me," he leans in close, as if to kiss her again. "It's really not a big deal."

  She lets him kiss her, her head pounding. "Just how dangerous is your life?" she asks, her voice higher pitched.

  The look he gives her is filled with amusement, amusement that's so out of place it's almost insulting. "Aimes, I did an obscure magical ritual binding myself to another living being on an impulse. I thought I was going to die that day." He kisses her, as if that was somehow okay. "And if not that day, I thought the next."

  Her stomach sinks, and any trace of the mimosa breakfast vanishes. "Can I help?" She blurts. "Is there anything I can do so you're...not?"

  His eyes flicker with surprise. "Just by existing you're helping." He offers. "Don't die."

  He kisses her again, this time with the final press of the conversation being over, and works her mouth open with his. A small pillar of heat worms her way into her stomach, outside her control, as he winds his hands through her curls and presses her back onto the bed.

  "I'm fine." He all but growls into her neck, as if she is more important to convince than, you know, actually being fine.

  With more heat than necessary, she pushes him back, skin prickling, and straddles him once more. "I better not find any more marks on you," she says.

  His hands grip her hips, sending a jolt all the way up her spine, sparking out at her brain, heating her cheeks and flushing her neck.

  His eyes light up, as if he can read her thoughts, see how much he's affecting her. And he looks younger, more eager than before. "You won't," he says, his lips moving slow, deliberate, and her eyes are drawn to them.

  They're perfectly shaped, the sort of lips that girls get jealous when boys have, lips made for pouting and lips made for kissing.

  He presses back against her, and she pulls away, breaking the kiss, sudden, and he whines in the back of his throat. It's a soft sound, one he probably doesn't even realize, as if he isn't in the most meticulous control each time she sees him.

  And she wants to break that down, break down the control, take it away until he has to relent, has to relax, and has to just be. Without this worry and without this anxiety and without this poise.

  He's staring at her, and she stands, stripping off her shirt in what is probably her most graceful undressing in front of a man ever, and he is rapt. His eyes jump, as i
f they can't figure to focus on her chest, her ass, her skin, her neck, or the small mound of brown curly hair between her legs.

  She trails her hands down his arms, fitting her fingers around his wrists. "How about you do what I tell you to this time?"

  His eyebrows shoot up, his face briefly shuttering. "Have I ever not?"

  It's such a ridiculous statement that they both grin at each other, before she presses his wrists back into the bed, over his head, and the grin is gone, his eyes wide. "Just go with this," she pitches her voice down, and he shivers in response, exactly like she wants him to.

  She waits, a brief second as the hushed whir of the air conditioning flows over her and prickles at her overwarm skin, before he nods.

  If he wanted to, he could easily break her grip, and the flexed muscles and tendons right beneath his skin shift, as if showing her that she isn't holding him down. Or showing himself, reassuring himself that this isn't something dire, isn't something he needs to escape to disappear from.

  She presses against his shoulders, presses him against the bed, releasing his wrists. "Relax," she purrs, and climbs so she's right over his face.

  His eyebrows jump, and he grins, cranking his neck forward and kissing her right on her clit. "I assume this?" His voice cracks, right in the middle of the sentence.

  She nods, and his hands come up to grip her hips, hard, bringing her down onto his mouth with a force that she shudders, rippling up inside her, tightening her belly and her throat, and...and...

  And words leave her and she closes her eyes, throwing back her head. "Oh," she manages, his hands holding her down, stabilizing her, keeping her tethered to the world.

  He makes a soft sound deep inside his chest, gripping her ass and squeezing, then licks at her clit for a brief, brief second, before switching back to her pussy.

  She overbalances, and catches herself on the bed frame, and he chuckles and she can feel it. Almost as if she is an outside observer, she feels the orgasm off in the distance, before it happens, until it crashes over her and she shudders.

  For a small moment she trembles, legs weak, and she pants, before slowly climbing down off of his face. Her hands somehow slick with sweat, she rests her head against his chest. His heartbeat is solid, thumping, and his dick presses through his slacks, but for a moment it's like she can't move.