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

The morning comes with a surprisingly refreshing start. I haven’t slept so soundly in…well, ever, now that I think about it.

Except for in my very distant, barely memorable childhood, I’ve often had a crippling problem with sleep.

Eventually, it scared me to the point where I always made sure I slept on my own and never with others.

The only person I trusted not to sell out my chaotic mental state and tragic future was Cecily.

When we were at uni, she often checked on me before bed, stood there until she was satisfied I’d taken my medication, and even prepared me a glass of milk or some herbal tea.

Part of the reason why I fell with less grace than broken china in my final years of uni was because I was hit with the reality that she had her own life. Expecting her to stay with me forever when I knew for a fact that she yearned for a family of her own was both selfish and shameful.

My own thoughts—jealousy of Jeremy and the inability to accept my new situation—are what drove me over the edge.

Alcohol, drugs, and any form of escapism. I lost my grip of reality more often than not and stressed so hard about the very possibility that Papa would figure everything out and shove me into a mental institute.

Despite forgetting two years, my current life seems the most stable I’ve had in a long time.

The most confusing, too.

On one hand, I’m extremely grateful and content with my balanced routine, but on the other, I feel dreadful about the fact that my tyrant husband has had something to do with it.

My steps are careful as I cast a glance to the opposite side of the hall, where Eli’s room is.

I hesitate at the top of the stairs and run a hand over my floral muslin dress that hugs my waist and stops right above my knees.

It’s pretty modest compared to the crop top and micro-mini skirt I contemplated wearing.

Might have something to do with my inability to muster the will to antagonize my husband. Not this morning.

It’s embarrassing enough that he witnessed my epic panic attack and even let me sleep against him on the way home. And I know he allowed it, because if there’s one thing I know about Eli King, it’s his lack of capacity to practice any form of sentimentality, so it’s strange that he made such an exception.

I’m well aware that I shouldn’t read too much into it and that he probably did it because he doesn’t appreciate being humiliated in public, but that doesn’t negate my feelings of gratitude.

My gaze drifts to the empty hallway, but I decide against the stupid idea of knocking on his door and head to the kitchen instead.

I’m not grateful enough to make him think I’m desperate.

“Morning, Sam.” I stroll inside with a grin.

The middle-aged woman looks up from towel-drying a pot, her gaze scanning me for a beat too long. “Did you sleep well?”

“Pretty well, thanks.” I stifle a yawn as I climb onto a bar stool and grab my pink-jeweled smoothie cup in one hand and a piece of avocado toast in the other. “Though I did have a bizarre dream.”

Sam glimpses at me over her shoulder. “How bizarre?”

I check our surroundings, then whisper, “Is he here?”

“Who’s he?”

“Who else? Your precious boss.”

“It’s past eleven in the morning, miss. He left for work hours ago.”

“Um, okay.” I ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach and drown it with a long pull of smoothie and a bite of my toasted sourdough.

“What was the bizarre dream?” Sam appears in front of me with the posture of a Roman gladiator, which is comical at best when she’s still towel-drying another pot.

“It’s stupid, really. I dreamt of Eli taking me to bed. I think he dried my hair. Not sure why it was wet, though. And…um…he kissed my forehead and wished me good night.” I let out a soft laugh. “What are the odds, huh?”

“More likely than you think.”

“Yeah, right.” I drop the half-eaten toast on the plate and play with my straw. “I probably had that weird dream because of how he helped me last night.”

Sam’s movements slow down as she stares at me. “What else was in the dream?”

“That’s all I remember.” I squint. “And only in fragments. It’s strange because I don’t have dreams.” Only nightmares that make me wake up in a cold sweat and refuse to ever fall asleep again.

Sam says nothing. Like my cold husband, she’s a woman of a few words.

I swirl my nails on the sparkling jewels. “Were you the one who changed my clothes last night?”

“Who else would it have been?”

Right.

“By the way.” I opt for a different subject. “You didn’t congratulate me for yesterday.”

“Congratulations,” she says with a poker face.

“That sounds performative, as if you were dragged into saying it.”

“If you say so.”

I scowl but choose to let it go as I jump down from my stool. “Hey, Sam?”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“Yes?” She’s turned away to place the pots in the cupboards.

“What are you making for lunch?”

“Basil soup, shepherd’s pie, and broccoli salad.”

“And dessert?”

“Salted caramel flan.”

“Make it strawberry and I’ll help.”

“Why would you?”

“Well…I’m bored.”

“Considering you’re able to watch films and read books for hours on end, I find that hard to believe.”

“Fiiine. I want to learn how to cook.”

“Why?”

“Just stop asking questions and teach me.”

“So you can burn dishes faster than you murder the poor flowers?”

“Oh, please. I’m trying to make something fun from those flowers.”

“Afraid Mr. Pratt does not agree with that view.”

“He’s just being dramatic. He’ll survive.” I interlink my arm with hers. “So will you? Please?”

“As long as you promise not to poison Mr. King.”

My lips part.

“You will poison him?”

“Nooo, what are you talking about?” I laugh. “You’re so funny.”

“I’m anything but funny.”

“True.” I sigh with a mock pout.

She flips a sliding drawer open, places the pot inside amongst an incredibly organized set of similar pots, then pushes it closed.

OCD runs in this household, I swear. They should be thankful I’m adding more liveliness to their existence for free.

“So? So?” I place my hands together in a prayer. “Pretty please?”

“Fine. But only if you promise not to mess with his food. He’s iffy about it as it is and would possibly fast for eternity if something were to happen.”

“Aye, captain.” I salute, and I swear she suppresses a smile.

I wonder if I can convert Sam to the bright side and steal her away from her tyrant boss. Being exposed to that gloomy energy, stone-faced orders, and dark soul on a daily basis will suck the life out of her.

We just need a little bit of fun in this house. Though, apparently, my random watch parties with the staff and dancing sprees with Ari are already too much fun for my grump of a husband.

He’ll come around. The entire house will.

Sam says we’ll change the menu to cook something I love, so if I screw it up, I’ll be the only one who has to eat it.

Rude.

We opt for lentil soup. Simple enough, I guess.

I lay out the ingredients as she instructs and start by adding more water than required to a pot.

“You said he’s iffy about food,” I start in a nonchalant voice. “Why is that?”

“He eats just fine.”

“But not at restaurants, and now that I think about it, I’ve never seen him consume anything but drinks at parties, public gatherings, weddings, funerals, et cetera.”

“He rarely attends weddings. Just funerals.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. He’s a great enemy of fun. We are all well aware.”

“Maybe not entirely.” She glares at my hand. “Stir faster, or you’ll burn the pot.”

I up my pace. “What’s the reason behind his food snobbishness?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“As if he’d tell me.”

“You’d be surprised. He’s drastically different from the Eli you knew six years ago.”

I swallow. Of course Sam knows about my embarrassing confession and the heartbreaking rejection.

Bet he laughed about my misery when he told her the story.

“I very much doubt that,” I mutter.

“Then you’d be very much wrong.” She sorts through the tower-high spice shelf and retrieves a few jars. “And, deep down, you know that.”

“Well, I admit he’s a bit different.” Old Eli would never offer me encouragement, bring me flowers, take me on a date, or, God forbid, carry me, but I can’t help thinking this change is due to an ulterior motive.

“A bit?” Sam flashes me an incredulous look.

“Yeah, a bit. He still ignores my existence most of the time.”

“If you want his company, ask for it.”

“I did, and he laughed at me.”

“Did you ask nicely?”

“If by nicely, you mean I offered an ultimatum, then sure, I said it with a blindingly nice smile.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“He’s the one who keeps insisting that we’re a married couple, but, apparently, he only extracted controlling behavior from the institution. No idea who he takes after, considering his dad treats his mum like a queen. You sure he wasn’t switched at birth?”

“What I am sure about is that this push-and-pull game needs less pulling before it turns tiresome.”

“What…do you mean?”

She fixates me with a look, but she offers no other words except for instructions to cook.

I end up burning the soup, only slightly, and am put on Sam’s shit list for endangering her special pot.

What I enjoy the most, however, is making a chocolate strawberry cake and it turns out pretty decent, though not as spongy as it should be.

Half a day and a gigantic mess in the kitchen later, and Sam is so done with my antics. She chases me out after I break a crystal glass. In my defense, it looked ugly.

Anyway, after I take a shower, I change into a similar dress with a more daring neckline, then slip on my soft-pink slippers with fluffy pom-poms.

By the time I’m downstairs again, it’s around six.

I spy outside from the reception area, but no car comes.

So I go up to the music room, practice my Bach for over two hours, then go down again.

This time, I’m more annoyed than disappointed.

“You should have some dinner,” Sam says, pointing at the dishes on the table, among which lie my soup and two slices of my cake.

“I have no appetite.”

I fling the cupboard open, snatch my bucket of candy floss, and slip to the library to read about fictional romance and distant worlds.

Thinking better of it, I grab Eli’s stupid political, historical, and finance books and stack them on the plush Persian carpet in a few chaotic rows. I can imagine the twitch in his eyes if he sees them in such a disorganized manner.

Perfect.

I lie on my stomach and proceed to eat my candy floss as I flip the pages of a giant book about the Hundred Years’ War.

I’m not even reading. Or interested.

The entire point is to mess up the books.

I take a picture of my sticky fingers, the bucket of candy floss, and the mountain of his books, then send it to him.

ME

Interesting stuff.

I can’t hide my smile when his reply comes immediately.

TIN MAN

Did you mark the pages with candy floss, Ava?

And here I thought your deduction talents were getting rusty.

Move away from the library and take that terrorist bucket with you.

But I don’t want to. Btw, can you explain this?

I circle a line in the book in red without even reading it, underline andor highlight a few others, then dog-ear the page for good measure. Satisfied with my handiwork, I snap a picture and then send it over.

He doesn’t reply for one long minute. I believe I gave him a heart attack.

Fun.

I should’ve played on his organized-freak tendencies before. No wonder he placed a whole room separator between my side of the library and his. In hindsight, he should’ve built a wall.

Hellooo. You still there?

Perfectly am, but you won’t be once I’m finished with you.

Oh, please. I’m just asking for help innocently.

There’s nothing innocent about you. What’s the reason behind this tantrum?

I’m just reading ever so quietly.

Chaotically is more like it.

You’re right, there’s no quietness involved. I have screaming metal on. Our neighbors would’ve reported me to the police if not for the soundproofing system. Sam has evacuated most of the staff from the premises, so it’s only me and your books. No one will save them from my rigorous highlighting system. What a shame.

I send more marked pictures, but this time, he doesn’t reply.

He’s no fun.

Just when I think I’ve figured out a way to mess with him, he effortlessly shuts me down.

My level of frustration mounts to dangerous heights, so I grab a bodice ripper novel from my prized collection, then lie back down on my stomach in the middle of his pretentious books.

They could use an introduction to better and less snobbish literature, if you ask me.

Lifting my legs in the air, I cross them at the ankles and get lost in the world of a rake duke with questionable morals as I consume more candy floss than should be allowed.

This is unfair. Why are men better in fiction?

Petition to transform the entire male population into men written by women. Please and thank you.

“What in the ever-loving fuck are you doing?”

I hate the tinge of excitement that rushes through me at his deep, refined, and suspiciously calm voice.

This shit is really good if it managed to keep me from noticing his arrival.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m reading,” I say without acknowledging his presence.

“And you couldn’t do that in more decent clothes?”

I glance at him over my shoulder and kind of regret it because, apparently, I’ve forgotten just how illegally dazzling my husband is.

Clad in a navy-blue suit with a hand in his pocket, he looks straight off of a fashion runway despite being at the office all day.

I let my gaze roam over him shamelessly. Slick jet-black hair, frosty eyes, stone-cold face, and pursed lips…

I pause. There’s a cut on his lower lip that’s big enough to stand out.

“What are you wearing?” he asks.

I sigh. “Max Mara. Seriously, since when are you so interested in my dresses’ designers?”

“Since they’re not decent.”

“They’re decent enough.”

“Enough to show the crack of your arse.”

I glance over my shoulder, and, yup, the edge of my lace underwear is visible all right.

My cheeks heat but I shrug. “Didn’t realize we’re entertaining the king. I’m on my own, relax.”

“And if a staff member walked in?”

“Then they’d have something fun to remember me by.”

I twirl the fluffy strands of candy floss around my fingers, bringing them to my mouth and sensually sucking on them. The sugar explodes on my tongue, but it’s not just the sweetness that sends a rush of endorphins through me.

His eyes darken to a molten gray as they zero in on my hand.

I’m aware this is a dangerous strategy when I also want him, but I have to disarm him somehow. And if seduction is the only way, then I’ll gladly play the game.

When I trace my tongue around my middle and index fingers suggestively, his nostrils flare and his jaw tenses. I take it further, deep-throating my fingers and sucking and licking them with fervor, mimicking what I did to him just the other day.

Although he remains still, I can feel his desire simmering beneath the smooth façcade like a fire waiting to ignite. As he casually touches his watch, I think I sense his restraint slipping away, but then he remains still.

It’s frustrating how he doesn’t show anything on the surface.

Like a damn psycho.

Feeling like I won’t get what I want, I slide my fingers out with a pop. “If you’re done brooding, I have a very important scene to get back to⁠—”

One moment I’m lying there, and the next, strong hands are wrapped around my ankles. I yelp as I’m flipped over, my legs parted, and Eli slams both his hands on either side of my head.

He looms over me, his body dangerously close to mine, and I struggle to catch my breath. The air around us crackles with a charged intensity, every nerve in my body on edge. His scent fills my senses, overwhelming me with its intoxicating familiarity and drawing me in further. It’s as if we’re two magnets, irresistibly pulled together by an invisible force.

“In that case, dear wife, it’s better we give them something fun to remember us by.”

And then his lips crash to mine.