Page 113 of His Eternal Claim

I watch him walk toward the door before I slowly push myself off the bed, holding the tattered sheets around me. As I walk into the adjacent bathroom, a small, helpless giggle escapes my lips. Despite the madness, the terror, and the absolute chaos of our lives, our love hasn’t died. It’s still there, burning just as bright, even if it’s wrapped in thorns and lies.

I sink into the steaming, bubbly water of the bathtub, letting the heat soothe the ache between my thighs.

There are things I can’t forget. Things I can’t entirely forgive.

He killed my Father.

I close my eyes, leaning my head against the marble edge. If anyone else had done it, I would want them dead. But with Zagreus… it was a mistake. A brutal, horrific misunderstanding born from the twisted, violent politics of our world. My Father was a nice man; he did not deserve the pain. He was just trying to save me, and so was Zagreus.

In the mafia, blood demands blood. Looking at it rationally doesn’t erase the grief, but it validates the cold, hard logic of why it happened. It was a casualty of war, not an act of malice against me.

But what do I do with this future now?

Vane is out there somewhere. He’s probably gone into hiding, and I don’t even fully understand the depths of the blood feud Zagreus has with him, but I know one thing—it won’t be easy. This world is a shark tank. Zagreus killed Ronan Novak, and then killed his daughter too. In the eyes of the underworld, that is blasphemy. It’s an act of supreme defiance that should have brought an entire army to our doorstep. Threats are near; I know. Zagreus might not tell me directly, but his late-night phone calls, unexpected meetings, and tight security say otherwise.

Yet, I remember who my husband is. Zagreus has the throne.

He sits on a seat made of bones and iron, and no one is blind enough or foolish enough to poke the beast while he’s awake. To challenge him right now is a death wish. He is untouchable, and by extension, so am I.

I let out a long, shaky breath, letting my body sink deeper into the water.

My mama was right. In this life, you don’t get a fairy tale. You get what you’re given. I should find happiness in whatever is offered to me, even if it’s found in the arms of a beautiful and dangerous monster who broke my world just to build me a new one.

Sighing, I realize something.

It isn’t the time for this. It isn’t the time to sit here and drown myself in a sea of useless guilt. Mama had told me it was okay. She had looked into my eyes and told me that forgiveness wasn’t a sign of weakness but a choice to survive. Mama wouldn’t lie to me. She would never make me walk a wrong or wicked path. If she could find it in her heart to absolve the sins of this world, then I have to trust that finding peace in Zagreus’s arms isn’t a betrayal of my blood. It is just my reality.

Pushing the heavy thoughts away, I drain the tub and step out, wrapping a plush towel around myself. It’s only when I finish drying off that the stark reality of my situation hits me.

I look at the bathroom counter, then back at the floor. I don’t have a single thing to wear.

“That absolute savage,” I mutter under my breath, my cheeks warming as I remember him ripping my lace dress on the roof, followed by the complete destruction of my underwear in the elevator. He tore every single stitch of clothing off my body.

Cursing his name in three different languages, I pad back into the bedroom. My eyes land on the white button-down shirt Zagreus had discarded on the floor last night. Shaking my head, I pick it up, smoothing out the wrinkles, and slip my arms into the sleeves. It is massive on me, the hem pooling mid-thigh, and the scent of his expensive cologne mixed with cedarwood and raw masculinity instantly envelops me. I button just enough of the middle fasteners to keep myself decent.

Barefoot and entirely defenseless against the chill of the hardwood floors, I make my way toward the kitchen.

The apartment is quiet, save for the sizzle of a pan. I stop at the archway. Zagreus is standing at the kitchen counter, completely focused on the stove. He’s thrown on a pair of dark grey slacks he wore last night, low on his hips, his broad back entirely bare and mapped with the faint, silver scars given by his Father. He is flipping eggs.

I blink.

Where did he even get groceries?

He owns the entire building; he could have pressed a single button on his phone and had a Michelin breakfast delivered by white-glove service in five minutes. But no. The head of the terrifying Vitale family is standing over a hot stove, personally making me breakfast.

I suppress the smile threatening to break across my face, determined not to let him see how much this silly view affects me.

Adopting a neutral expression, I walk right past him, keeping my eyes forward as I reach for the large refrigerator.

“Smells good,” I murmur, opening the door to grab a cold bottle of water.

Before my fingers can even twist the cap, a yelp escapes my throat.

A pair of large hands wrap around my waist. Zagreus hoists me up into the air as if I weigh nothing at all. My feet dangle uselessly above the floor for a second before he spins me around and deposits me directly onto the edge of the counter. The stone is freezing against my bare thighs, and I gasp, but the chill is instantly obliterated as Zagreus steps into the space between my knees, crowding his massive, heated body against mine.

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply. His stubble scrapes against my sensitive skin, and my eyelids grow heavy. He stays like that for a long time, just breathing me in, his large hands resting flat on the counter on either side of my hips, effectively locking me to him.

“You smell like me,” he murmurs, vibrating right against my throat.