God of War: An Enemies to Lovers Marriage Romance (Legacy of Gods Book 6)

I’ve come to the depressing realization that my husband possesses not one single atom of fun in his gorgeous body.

He’s moody and broody, and the concept of chilling completely evades him.

Really, it should be no surprise that he’s an uptight arsehole with control-freak tendencies, not when I’ve been in his orbit for…my entire life.

And yet it is. In a sense, at least.

I thought maybe he knew how to laugh, just not with me.

He’s able to have a blast, but only when I’m not close.

But I don’t think he either is possible. At least, not genuinely. He’s only ever been happy when Creigh or his parents are around, and even that isn’t often guaranteed to shake his broody core.

One more reason why my idea for a night out is a fantastic way to defrost the sociopathic layer wrapped around his heart.

Though it’s probably wishful thinking. But, hey, I won’t know until I try.

Besides, he did accept my invitation—only after I threatened his possessive tendencies. Anyway, a win is a win.

Naturally, we went back to the house because he refused to let me walk one more step outside in the clothes I flaunted all over not one, but both of his workplaces.

The dress I opted for couldn’t be accused of being modest, but it does reach my knees. Also, naturally, Eli demanded another change because half of my back was on display.

A demand that was denied.

“You should’ve let me wear my cute skirt and top from this morning.” I feign a pout after we sit down at a tall platform table in a grand Lebanese restaurant in Belgravia.

Eli looks up from the menu, and the dispassion and obnoxious disregard in his gaze could trigger a few wars. “Cute? Is that what we’re calling them?”

“What else?”

“Audition clothes for a stripper is more fitting.”

“Hmm. I’ll consider it. You know any owners of the good clubs?”

He narrows his eyes to slits. “Is that sarcasm?”

“I’m dead serious. Those girlies have the best stories to tell. I’d build the most interesting girl squad ever.”

“You’re not stepping one foot in a strip club, Ava.”

“Not even as a spectator?”

“No.”

“But girls are hot.”

“More the reason you will not go.”

“I could go behind your back.” I wink and play with the straw of my very virgin mojito.

“You’re welcome to try.” He pauses, throws an uninterested glance at the menu, then focuses on my face again. “Do I need to put girls on my shit list as well?”

“And fire everyone in the house this time?”

“It’s doable.”

“Sam would hate you if she had to do all the chores.”

“Not if I triple her salary.”

“Not everything can be bought with money.”

“Yes, it can if it’s paired with both information and power. And you’re not evading my question. What’s with the fascination with girls?”

“What do you mean fascination?”

“During a nonsensical truth-or-dare game at uni, Nikolai Sokolov, aka Bran’s pet, as Lan calls him, said ‘Never have I ever fucked or experimented with someone of the same sex.’ You asked if a kiss counts, and when he agreed, you took a shot. I’m curious about the identity of said girl.”

My lips drop open around the straw.

I’ve always known Eli to be ridiculously good with details, the devil being there and all that, but I didn’t think he’d be able to recite a mundane conversation that happened over three years ago word for word.

“You weren’t there during the game. How come you know so much?”

“I have my methods.”

“Do your methods include quizzing Remi? Or Bran? No, it was definitely Remi. He has no concept of keeping a secret if disclosing it can serve him. What did you threaten him with?”

“Nothing much. Just that I’d decrease Ariella’s access to him.”

“Let me guess. Now you’d be willing to increase it if it fits your agenda?”

“Could be. But that’s for neither here nor now. Who was the girl?”

“It was an accidental kiss with Cecy when we were in secondary school. We were running, I fell on top of her and our lips touched. It was nothing.”

“Cecily didn’t drink.”

“Because, as I said, it was nothing.”

“You obviously didn’t categorize it as nothing or you wouldn’t have taken that shot.”

“You underestimate my ability to get as much alcohol in me as possible any chance I get. In the past, I mean. I’m clean now except for that drink I stole from Gemma and the others.”

He traces the rim of his glass with a nonchalance that doesn’t deceive me. “Do you miss the alcohol?”

“Hmm.” I slurp my mojito and stare at the mint leaves. “I do sometimes, but I guess I rather miss the escapism it gave me more than the taste itself. The hangover usually came with emptiness, and I dreaded it so much that I fell back into the addiction headfirst. In reality, I don’t believe I miss it, no.”

I pause. It’s true. I don’t miss it. Not the alcohol, the mundane shallow clubbing circles, or the dancing and fooling around and attempting to attract attention. Everyone noticed me except for the one I craved.

My gaze flits to his and something mysterious shines bright behind those dark-grays.

He feels different today and I can’t put my finger on why. Is it because we finally fucked? Is it the possibility of more?

Or is it something entirely different?

The waiter comes to take our order. After we place it, I lean my cheek on my hand and watch him. Like, really watch him. The light flecks of gray and blue in his otherwise stormy eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the dispassionate look on his face. He appears a bit tired, though nothing is particularly out of place. Everything about him is controlled to the most minuscule detail.

Now that I think about it, the only time he loses control, momentarily, is when his body touches mine.

I wish I knew what he thinks about. I’d be a fly on the wall of his brain if he’d just permit me a front-row seat. Or maybe not a fly since that could be bad. A neuron. A memory, perhaps.

Except for the one when I made a fool out of myself.

“So who knows about your unorthodox method to get me off alcohol?” I ask with no actual bitterness. Probably because I feel none. At least, not anymore.

“No one does for sure. They think I helped like a very devout husband.”

I snort. “If there was an award for the least devout husband, you’d win it with flying colors.”

“Hardly.”

“I really want to remember so I can know what on earth I was thinking when I agreed to marry you.”

“It was the best decision you’ve ever made.”

“Hardly,” I shoot back with a smile. “You’re, like, at the very end of my possible prospects.”

“Possible prospects being who, exactly?”

“Nice try. If I give you names, you’ll sabotage them for laughs, and I can’t turn a blind eye to your toxic habits anymore.” After all, I already have his attention now. I’m just not sure if it’s the right type of attention.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

Or if this sort of fickle attention will ever develop into something more.

His fingers tighten around his glass the slightest bit, a change of body language I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t observing him with hawk-like attention. “Did you wake up today and decide to transform my life into hell?”

“Don’t be silly.” I play with my straw. “I wake up every day with those thoughts.”

He shakes his head with bitter concession, and I smile as the waiter brings me my falafel salad and hummus dip.

I spy Eli’s dish—some kebab. As I eat, I watch him cutting it into minuscule pieces, but he never brings anything to his mouth. And when he does as if it’s for show, he puts it back down and takes a sip of his drink.

Sam’s words about asking him directly pushes me to blurt out, “Why do you never eat?”

“I always eat. Otherwise, I would’ve expired.”

“You’re human, not a product. What do you mean by expired? Gross.” I scrunch my nose. “Also, I know you eat Sam’s food, but I never see you eating outside.”

“That’s because I don’t.”

“Why do you order, then?”

“To keep up the image.”

“Is there a reason why you can’t have food in restaurants?”

His lips purse before they set in their usual disapproving form. “I don’t trust them.”

“Is this about your OCD? I mean, I think that’s what it is? I don’t want to throw the term around, but you clearly have very distinct symptoms.”

“It’s mild. Self-diagnosed. And yes, it plays a part.”

“And the other part?”

He raises a brow. “What’s with the sudden curiosity?”

“We’re married, Eli. I think we should know some things about each other. Don’t you think?”

“Being married doesn’t come with a free card to demolish each other’s privacy, so no, I don’t think we should know personal things about each other.”

“Well, I do. I refuse to live with a stranger and, therefore, I will keep trying to figure you out. You can tell me yourself or I’ll find out on my own. So can you tell me and save us both some trouble?”

He continues cutting his food, the movements mechanical at best, and I think he’s shut me outside his high walls, but then his deep voice carries in the air. “I was poisoned when I was maybe six. It was some maid who was sent by one of Dad’s rivals to eliminate his only heir. Mum figured out something was wrong in time and drove me to the hospital. I had a gastric lavage that cleared me out of harm’s way, but after that, I couldn’t eat. My parents tried everything to coax me with my favorite dishes and even junk food, but it didn’t work. After I refused to put anything in my mouth for a few days, the doctors had to pump me with fluids and my parents consulted a child therapist. It didn’t help much and any external force only made me withdraw further into my shell.”

My lips part.

So that’s the reason I’ve never seen him eat. He was traumatized by an event in the past. My heart clenches at the thought of the child version of him being so suspicious of food, he went on self-starvation.

“I’m sorry you went through that.”

“Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not. I’m sympathizing. A concept that’s foreign to you but common to most humans.” I pause. “How did you come out of it?”

“Mum and Sam agreed to make all my meals. Mum tried, but she has zero cooking skills.”

“Aw, bless her.”

He smiles at my smile and it takes all my self-control not to snap a picture and keep it for future reference.

“We should’ve eaten at home,” I say with a note of guilt.

“Why? You wanted to try out this restaurant since you’re a huge fan of Middle Eastern food.”

“Yeah, but not if I’m the only one eating.”

“My situation has nothing to do with your preferences.”

“We’re married, Eli. Your situation affects me whether I like it or not.”

A muscle moves in his jaw as he takes a sip of his drink and then sets it down. For some reason, what I said seems to dampen the mood of this dinner. A dinner I wasn’t vibing with in the first place due to his lack of participation.

So we go to the theater and watch Moulin Rouge!. As I clap and dance and sing at the end, Eli is entirely unimpressed by the whole debacle.

“That was so much fun!” I shout and wave at the girl who was vibing with me during the show as Eli and I exit in the red glow of Piccadilly Theatre. The music continues blaring and I sway, even when his grip stops me.

“Only if a hindrance is called fun.” He places a large palm at the small of my back and expertly leads me through the crowd in a way that no one touches me.

“You’re such a grinch.” I place my index and middle fingers at the corners of his mouth and pull up. “Smile a little. You’d look so much hotter.”

As I drop my hand, he raises a brow. “You find me hot?”

“Everyone does. At least seven girls were flirting with you earlier at the bar.”

“You were counting?”

“Unintentionally.”

His lips twitch in a small smile as he strokes my hip. A shiver rushes through me and I grow pliant in his hold. It isn’t fair that he’s the best embrace I’ve ever had.

How come a monster feels so safe?

“Will you ever tell me why you married me?” I whisper.

“I told you. I need the camouflage of a stable family.”

“You could’ve gotten that with any other girl. Why me?”

“Because it’s you,” he says in a cryptic tone that leaves a knot at the bottom of my stomach.

I try to ask for more clarification, but we’ve already reached the car.

Eli spends the whole trip looking through his phone and talking about finances with Henderson. I swear the man breathes for money and he’s ridiculously talented at making it.

Though it’s probably not money he’s after. It’s power.

By the time we reach the house, I feel a crushing sense of depression. Maybe because a nice night out with no quarrels is over and we’ll probably not have anything similar again.

I stop at the top of the stairs, where we’ll part ways to go to our respective rooms, and glance at him. He’s standing there, jacket in hand, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing chiseled muscles.

Clearing my throat, I attempt a small smile. “Thanks for tonight, I had a lovely time.”

He nods once, his fingers tightened around the banister as if he’s stopping himself from doing something.

“I…um, night,” I mumble like an idiot, then try to walk with dignity and not run to my room. Or, worse, steal a glimpse at my husband, whose emotional temperament rivals the Alps.

Once I’m inside, I throw my bag on the chair and stop by the bed, feeling a chill covering my skin all of a sudden.

Why does it feel big and empty in here?

Maybe I should make sure Sam left some food for Eli? It’s late, so I can heat it up. She won’t come at me for that, and I doubt I’ll burn a microwave.

At least, I hope I don’t.

It’s just charity. Mum taught me to be a giver for those less fortunate than me. Eli’s been fasting the whole day, so I’m doing him a favor.

I’ve just taken a step when the door bangs open and Eli is standing there, sans jacket, nostrils flaring, and eyes a vortex of desire.

The temperature shoots up instantly and I swallow. “I…I was going to heat you some dinner.”

He walks toward me, eating up the distance in two strides, and wraps his hand around my throat. “Be my dinner.”

And then his sinful mouth captures mine.

I’m lightheaded, absolutely ensnared, and completely taken with my monster of a husband.

His tongue thrusts between my lips, claiming mine, and my heart feels so light, my body floats on the clouds as I wrap my arms around his neck.

My curves mold to his hard muscles and I hang on to him for dear life.

When he pulls away, I breathe. “Whew. What a good night kiss.”

“If you believe I’ll stop after a kiss, you’re in for a massive surprise, Mrs. King.”

“Yeah? What do you intend to do?”

“Kiss every inch of your body, then fuck you for all the times I couldn’t.”

I want to ask why he couldn’t before if we were married for over two years, but he pushes me against the bed and claims my mouth again and I’m a goner.

Tomorrow is for questions.

Today, I want to feel the best day of my life.