He stiffened. “You want your kiss now.”

  “Why not? I’m bored.”

  “It didn’t have to be this way.” He lunged, cupping her nape with bloody hands and melding his lips to hers. She froze, as if stunned. Then she kissed him back. The two feasted on each other as if they’d waited lifetimes for the chance, and they’d never get another.

  Ultimately, he recoiled. But he didn’t move away. He studied his hands. His glittering palms. The same shimmer covered her cheeks.

  Neeka gasped with shock. Stardust! Something an Astra produced for his fated mate, and only his fated mate. But Lore belonged to Rathbone.

  Didn’t she?

  The goddess scowled at the Astra before kicking him in the chest. “Don’t do that again.”

  “You are... mine,” he croaked.

  “Why are you hesitating, Azar?” the Astra Commander shouted. “Kill her!”

  Azar paid his leader no heed. Fisting and unfisting his hands, he kept a hungry gaze on the goddess. “You are mine,” he repeated with authority. And warning.

  “I am my own,” she said, rising and sauntering past him. “You know what? There’s less than a minute left. I think I’ll go ahead and jump to the finale.”

  The Astra watched their comrade do nothing to the goddess, now utterly shellshocked. A panting Rathbone watched her, obviously gutted.

  “I’ve waited so long for this.” Lore stopped several feet from the crowd and smiled again, unabashed by her nudity. “But I don’t think you’re going to enjoy what happens next.”

  They shouted protests. She spread her arms, tilted her head toward the ceiling, and released a blood-curdling scream.

  Shadows exploded from her being. Hundreds of them. They flew across the room, taking shape. Small, disproportionate monsters with spindly arms and legs, scales, and razor-sharp teeth. A glowing gold circle ringed their pupils. They solidified midair and surrounded the audience. Then, they feasted, devouring warriors and harpies alike. Everyone but Erebus.

  The Deathless laughed, clapping as Astra and harpies died in agony. And the shadows weren’t even done. They flew out of the throne room, ravenous for their next meal.

  The vision cut off, and Neeka recoiled with horror.

  As reality replaced the future, she shuddered. No wonder she’d sensed the end of harpykind.

  Pressing a hand to her churning belly, she struggled to catch her breath and meet her companion’s gaze. To tell him what she’d seen or not? Surely he would realize the importance of preventing such a catastrophic outcome.

  He towered in front of her, glaring with the intensity of a thousand suns. “What did you see? Tell me.”

  Instinct shouted, Admit nothing! The man who’d spent many a millennium searching for his dismembered wife wouldn’t trust a warning issued by an oracle linked to his enemy. But he would be incensed enough to fire her, perhaps literally, preventing said oracle from sabotaging his efforts so she could change the future. And she must change the future.

  Not an impossible task. Alter this and that, and you also altered your fate. But what this? What that?

  Neeka raised her chin. At least she knew her endgame: Stop the regeneration of the goddess. To do that, she had two choices. Prevent the acquisition of the four remaining bones, leading Rathbone and the Astra on a wild goose chase. Or disappear the skeleton altogether. Whichever proved easiest.

  If ever the king discovered her true motives...

  No. He wouldn’t. She was smart enough to stay fifty—twenty-five...ten...at least one or two—steps ahead of him at all times. No big deal.

  A humorless laugh escaped.

  “Oracle,” Rathbone grated, gripping her shoulders. “What. Did. You. See?”

  Thinking fast, she muttered, “The coming friction with the Astra Planeta. So many died. Or die.” Oh, how they were going to hate her. Far more than she’d realized. But now she knew why she’d needed to say yes to Rathbone, what danger threatened her beloved people, and what she must do to save the day.

  “If you’re afraid...don’t be afraid,” he commanded. “I won’t allow the warlords to harm you.”

  He assumed she feared? Neeka wrenched from his clasp. “How dare you, you...you...swine!” Why, the nerve of this male! “I have out-partied a wolf, survived a round of hot box with a dragon, and won a staring contest against Medusa. I fear nothing! Visions tire me out, that’s all. I require rest. R.E.S.T.” Not that she would indulge. Harpies didn’t sleep near anyone but a consort. Their fated mate. The only male in existence able to calm their rages. Among other things.

  “Very well. You may rest for one night.” He craned his neck to stare at Skeletoria, his expression glazing with adoration once again. “By the way, you did an adequate job today.”

  “I know.” Wait. Had she read his lips wrong because she watched him in profile, or had he used the description ‘adequate’? Oh, the very suggestion burned. “I did an amazing job. Five-star. Ten even!”

  He hiked his shoulders without looking away from his obsession. “Go. Select a room. We’ll start again in the morning.”

  She narrowed her lids. “Yes. We will.” Just not the way he supposed.

  Tonight, she considered her options. Tomorrow the sabotage began.

  4

  As the sun rose on the Realm of Agonies, Rathbone shut the book he’d been reading. The only bit of history he’d found on the Astra. He turned off the mortal soap opera he’d left playing in the background, stored his secret stash of chocolate chip cookies in a nightstand drawer, and stalked to his dresser to pour himself a glass of ambrosia to hopefully subdue the wild energy crackling inside him.

  He changed his mind while standing there, as he always changed his mind whenever he wished to imbibe. Drink from the “victory decanter” before Lore’s resurrection? No. Not until they could toast their future.

  Soon...

  Anticipation pricked him. Only four bones to go. Three if the oracle had another vision today.

  The oracle. In an instant, other thoughts of Neeka intruded. Unwanted thoughts, and the very reason for his inability to settle.

  Was this how she’d gotten her moniker? By stealing into a man’s imagination and compelling him to picture her doing things. Like talking nonsense while sinking to her knees and slowly opening his fly?

  His anticipation sharpened. Rathbone rubbed a tight spot in the center of his chest. Like a fool, he craved another dose of the oracle and her illogical conversations. There was something a little off about her, and it was a lot addicting.

  What had she done overnight? Because she certainly hadn’t stayed in a bedroom and rested. He’d sensed her presence in every chamber of the palace and even outside in the garden maze. The urge to spy had been strong. Too strong. But anytime he’d caved and flashed to her location, she’d already moved on.

  He stomped to his bathroom, disrobed, and entered the shower stall. As hot water rained over him, he decided he’d gone too long without visiting his stable. A travesty he would rectify today. Yes. Good plan. Once he’d burned off this excess energy, he could focus on what mattered. Lore’s resurrection. Fortifying the mystical defenses surrounding his kingdom. Returning to Harpina to observe the Astra Planeta. If Erebus’s prediction proves correct, Azar the Memory Keeper would visit the Realm of Agonies any day.

  Neeka might be willing to offer insight about him and the others. Perhaps Rathbone should speak with her before he visited the stable.

  His blood heated, and he scowled. With more force than necessary, he grabbed a towel from its hook, ripping the material, and flashed to his dresser. He opened the top drawer, where stacks of leathers were folded, then dried off as he contemplated which pair to wear. Brown-black, jet black, or pitch black? Appearance mattered when you faced a foe. Had nothing to do with looking his best for his new employee.

  “After some top-notch oracling last night, I’ve decided to accept the position as your royal matchmaker,” Neeka announced, barging into his bedroom. She held a notepad and pen, scribbling thoughts. “We can discuss the increase in my pay later.”

  Rathbone stiffened. He had yet to don a stitch of clothing, and she’d dared—dared!—to invade his private space without permission? A rebuke barreled to the tip of his tongue, only to die a swift death.

  Desire stole his breath. She might be chaos walking, but she was also the loveliest creature he’d beheld in centuries.

  Curly dark hair spilled from a messy bun. Long lashes cast shadows over high cheekbones. A straight nose led to lush red lips.

  Not by any stretch of the imagination could this female be referred to as a quote, unquote surrogate mother. If anything, Neeka was the babysitter who planned to throw a party as soon as Mom took off. And Rathbone dug it.

  She stunned in a blue tank top with the words Trust Me, I’m a Professional haphazardly embroidered in the center, as if she’d done the needlework herself. While blindfolded. Tiny yellow shorts displayed her lithe long legs to perfection. Multiple pieces of jewelry adorned her throat and wrists. Necklaces and bracelets she must’ve found in trunks throughout the palace. Not a surprise. Harpies loved thieving trinkets. They were also, supposedly, quite fastidious, yet this one was streaked with dirt from head to toe.

  “Why are you so dirty?” he asked.

  Never glancing up from the notepad, she said, “There’s no need to sing my praises. I know my brilliance is boundless. Also, I’m not using my boon for this. You’re going to accept because it’s the right thing to do.”

  What? That made no—ah. Obviously, she hadn’t heard him and jabbered on, expecting him to listen. He required her attention if they were to have a two-sided conversation. But even as she traipsed deeper into his room, she remained utterly absorbed by that notepad. Did she plan to ignore him the whole time? While he was naked? He snorted. Good luck with that. He was a large male. Huge. And growing. Impossible to miss.

  “Well?” she demanded, finally pausing to glance at him. “Are you going to sing my praises or not?”

  He stood in place, allowing her to drink her fill. Except, she didn’t drink her fill. She didn’t even sip. Her attention remained fixed on his lips as she awaited his reply.

  Irritation budded. “You said there’s no need for praise.”

  “And there isn’t,” she replied, a schoolteacher admonishing a naughty student. “But you should still do it when it’s warranted. That’s only polite.”

  Did she seriously not notice his massive erection? Not care enough to discover whether he was pierced? “You’re right,” he grated. “It’s only polite to praise something when warranted.” Like the metal-laden battering ram between his legs!

  Mumbling about errant employees, he yanked on a pair of black leathers, struggled with the straining zipper, and stomped his feet into his best combat boots. The mátia on his chest watched the oracle without blinking. Not. A. Single. Reaction. From. Her.

  Irritation sharpening, he flashed to his closet, tugged a T-shirt from a hanger, and returned to his spot near the dresser.

  “Why are you so dirty?” he repeated as he jerked the material over his shirt.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

  Did she truly not recall or was she faking to hide her activities? He might desire her, but his trust in her remained shaky at best.

  She moved her gaze over his room, her mouth forming a small O. Awe radiated from her. “Oh, Rathboner. Your chamber is incredible.”

  Pleasure puffed his chest. Until he clocked what she’d done to his name. He scowled. Then he shrugged. As far as nicknames went, it wasn’t bad.

  “After seeing the rest of the house, I expected plain ole ordinary luxury, not pure class and sophistication,” she said.

  While he’d left the rest of the palace mostly untouched, saving the bulk of rooms for Lore, he’d designed this spacious suite with his wife in mind. Each piece of furniture was molded from solid gold. On the walls, gemstones created a dizzying mosaic, mimicking the secret throne room. Sheer, wispy curtains welcomed a cool, salty breeze from an open balcony, inviting the sounds of a rushing river.

  “Your room is only missing a Rath Boned original by Anya,” Neeka added. “You should stage your favorite over the mantel.”

  Noticed his gallery, had she? “I hung them to remind myself to kill Anya as soon as my schedule clears.”

  Neeka snorted. “Lie! You love them.”

  Fine. She wasn’t wrong. He’d felt indignant at first, but whenever he’d looked deeper, he’d encountered amusement. Maybe even satisfaction. He was a wee bit vain—a trait he took great pride in—but beautiful artwork was beautiful artwork. Ultimately, he’d decided to save the collection for Lore’s enjoyment, too.

  “Do you have a favorite?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes. The one of you riding a circus bear with curling pink ribbons streaming from your hair. As well as all the others. Plus the one Anya hasn’t painted yet. Oh, Rathbone. Wait till you see it!”

  The way she seemed to melt over the idea...

  He growled.

  “Hold up. Stop everything.” Neeka rubbed her temple. “My instinct is flaring.”

  Was she having a vision? He went still.

  A cunning gleam glistened in her gorgeous amber eyes. “I’m supposed to move in here, and you’re supposed to move out. Yep. That’s what my instinct is demanding, I’m sure of it.” She winced at him. “Sorry, Majesty, but you’ll have to bunk somewhere else for a while.”

  Hardly. “Stay in here if you wish, but I won’t be budging.”

  “Excellent idea. We’ll stick together like glue and talk more about my unparalleled matchmaking. Are you game to hear about your brand-new love interest?”

  His irritation returned with thorns. “I have a queen.” And multiple side pieces. “I have no need for another.” Except, maybe, one. He was still debating the wisdom of the idea.

  “Wrong.” Neeka jumped on his bed, uncaring about the filth she deposited on his sheets. “You lost your queen. Until you revive her, you’re single and ready to tingle.”

  He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

  “Why do you think she’s yours, anyway?” the oracle asked, curious.

  His hackles flared. “Because she is,” he snapped. How he detested this topic. A sore spot for centuries. “I know because I know, and that’s good enough.” Unlike the Astra Planeta, who called their fated ones ‘gravitas,’ he didn’t produce stardust. A phenomenon he envied. He didn’t inject a claiming venom with his bite, like vampires, either, or imprint in the manner of shifters.

  “News flash. Truth is truth, regardless of your opinion.”

  He worked his jaw, unable to refute her words.

  “I’ll be brutally honestish with you, Red Herring. I’ve got to connect with your love story to score another vision. To get the ball rolling, let me see you in action with someone else. Nope, don’t say no. Check it. I’m setting you up with a nice living lady. A nymph who’s a real showstopper with a never-ending party in her pants and a ninety-seven percent chance of restarting your dead libido.”

  Dead libi—”Get naked, and I’ll show you how alive my libido is,” he roared. “I keep the concubines in my stable well satisfied.”

  Her brows furrowed. “What, are you a big, bad slab of man meat who’s gotta be dipped in special sauce on the regular or you shrivel up?”

  Rather than stomp over and yank her into his arms, he flashed to the chamber used to store garments for every occasion, collected a long-sleeve shirt and a pair of sweatpants, then returned to the oracle.

  “Shower and wear these,” he said as soon as her gaze landed on him. “Consider them your official uniform.”

  When she continued to stare at him with expectation, disregarding his commands, he dropped the clothes at the foot of the bed, clasped her hips, and lifted her from the mattress. The second the softness of her skin registered, an image played inside his head. Neeka, naked. Rathbone, kissing his way up her spread legs.

  A harsher growl brewed in his chest.

  As he set her on her feet, she dropped the notepad and pen, and cupped his shoulders for balance. “Neeka,” he snapped. “Speak.”

  “I think I misread your lips.” Glittering amber eyes framed by spiky black lashes watched him with earnest entreaty. “I’m certain you didn’t tell me you maintain a stable full of concubines.”

  “Would you prefer I call them lovers?” he asked, and yes, there might’ve been a tinge of defensiveness in his tone. He released her and stepped back. “Or paramours, perhaps?”

  Disappointment spread over her expression. “Wow. Just when you think you know a guy, boom, you discover he’s a low-down cheater.”

  He popped his jaw. “Mere minutes ago, you tried to set me up with a nymph,” he reminded her with gritted teeth.

  “Yes, but that was before I knew you lacked any sense of loyalty.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. It was going to be a common occurrence in her presence, he was certain of it. “I’m not cheating. Lore helped me pick half the stable’s members.”

  Neeka pretended to have a heart attack. “You opened the stable of unfaithfulness while she lived? Oh, your poor concubines. Do they know they’re placeholder bangs?” She fluffed her hair. “My male will want me and only me, and that’s a fact. Not that I’m ever gonna couple up. Nope. Not me. Not ever. I’ve got better things to do.”

  Why so determined to remain alone? And why did he desire other women despite being wed to a fated wife? Why had Lore encouraged it rather than keeping him all to herself, as Neeka intended to do with her consort?

  Rathbone ground his teeth. The last two questions had the same obvious answer. Because they were gods, their thoughts on a higher level than those of a common immortal. So why did his nerves remain pricked?