River of Shadows (Underworld Gods #1)(80)

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, practically barking. “I told you that you’re mine—I don’t want to send everyone that tries something with you to Oblivion, even if they deserve it.”

“Stop saying that I’m yours, I’m not!” I yell, the adrenaline turning my fear into anger, tired of feeling like a possession, like I don’t have a soul and feelings, like I’m not a person with my own agenda.

“You are mine!” he roars, his grip growing tighter. “That was what you agreed to! That was part of the deal. You’re mine, Hanna, and you will stay mine for the rest of eternity, whether you like it or not!”

“Then I don’t like it and I never will,” I sneer at him, trying to get free of his hold. It’s fruitless.

“You lie,” he growls, yanking me even closer to him until I’m flattened against his chest, his other hand going to my back and holding me there. “You like it when I’m deep inside you, you love it when I’m making you come. You can’t get enough of me, and you know it, and that’s what makes you so angry, because you want me just as much as I want you.”

“You barely want me,” I tell him, feeling far more vulnerable than I should be. “You won’t even show me your face. You fuck me in the dark, from behind, you have a mask on the rest of the time. You keep as much distance between us as possible. I think…” I breathe in deeply through my nose, “I think I deserve a little better than that now.”

He stares at me through his skull mask, this one red with devil horns, made of some kind of stone I’m sure can only be found here.

“Is that what you want?” he says, his rough voice lowering to a hush. “To see me? Will that make you happy?”

My brow goes up. “Do you even want to make me happy?”

I hear him swallow, lick his lips. “Yes,” he eventually says. Even though there was one hell of a pause there, I believe him when he says it.

“I think I’m owed that much,” I add quietly.

“Fine.” To my surprise he lets go of me and steps back, putting his hands on either side of the skull. “You’re right. I don’t like to compromise, but you’re right. You give yourself to me, I give nothing back to you. I wear the mask to intimidate, to create mystery, but with you…well, I’ll have to take my chances that you’ll still show me some respect.”

I want to tell him that I never showed respect in the first place but I keep my mouth shut.

He lifts the skull off of his head.

I gasp.

“Hideous, aren’t I?” he asks with a smirk.

That smirk is there because he knows what I’m looking at, he knows who he is.

He’s the opposite of hideous.

He’s fucking gorgeous.

And, of course, Death would be. How could anyone think otherwise? How could Death be anything else but utterly seductive?

Death’s skin is tawny and smooth, with full lips that I’ve felt on every inch of my body, a strong jaw with a rugged beard, which I’ve felt too. His cheekbones are high and his eyes are mesmerizing, even more so when I can see them without the darkness of the mask. They’re hypnotic-looking, deep set, with thick dark lashes rimming his eyes so it looks like he’s wearing ebony eyeliner. His brows are arched and black, framing the dark gray of his eyes which seem to go from charcoal to silver to pewter all while I’m staring at him, his pupils contracting and dilating.

Then there is his hair. It’s long, black, tied back in a man bun.

Death has a man bun.

Words I never thought I’d think.

He’s hot as fuck.

“Yes,” I whisper. “You’re very hideous.”

And then suddenly he’s on me, covering my lips with his, and my world is blown apart because he’s kissing me for the first time, a deep, searing kiss that makes my toes curl, his tongue moving into me like second skin.

Holy shit.

This is it.

The kiss of Death.

And, fuck, I want more.

Apparently he does too.

We attack each other. He’s ripping off my clothes and I’m trying to rip off his. It’s an unbalanced battle because I’m just wearing a flimsy nightgown and he has layers upon layers and I can barely get through them before I’m dropping the candle. It falls to the ground, the flames lighting the rug on fire, and then he’s ripping off his shirt and throwing it on the rug to put it out.

Then he’s grabbing me and practically throwing me down so that I’m on the floor too, on my back, and he’s looming over me.

Like a God. Like a fucking God.

He grins at me, a cocky twist of his lips, a quirk of his brow, and I should have known he would have such a beautifully arrogant face under his masks.

He rips off his shirt.

Then his pants.

Until he’s only wearing the gauntlets.

For the first time I see him completely naked and…

And I am speechless.

His body is magnificent, seven feet of pure muscle mass on perfectly smooth skin. I already knew that his shoulders were broad, that his waist tapered, but seeing it in the flesh is something else. His chest is sculpted and wide, his abs a washboard eight-pack, with those perfect V muscles carving a path south over his hips. His arms and forearms are massive, rippling with untold strength. Then there are his muscled thighs, full of definition. Do thick thighs save lives when you’re talking about Death?