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

“If you invited us to watch your dull, brooding face, I suggest we do better things with our time.”

I look up from my glass of water and glare at the headache Lan, who flashes me a wide grin.

“There he is. I thought we’d lost you for a minute there, cousin, which wouldn’t have been tragic since I can simply carry on your legacy.”

“Lan, stop provoking people for fun.” Bran elbows his brother.

They might be identical twins, but Lan could be spotted from outer space as a nuisance in the form of a ticking bomb. Bran’s expression is softer and lacks all the maliciousness his brother managed to absorb in its entirety when they were in the womb.

Since I’m in the States, where most of my family members decided to lounge for a while, I thought I’d meet them.

I’m regretting the decision immensely.

We’re in a recently opened bar with gaudy black-and-red wallpaper that clashes against the dimly lit atmosphere. Vintage posters and old-fashioned beer signs hang all around, giving off a nostalgic yet edgy vibe. Our group huddles in a booth toward the back of the establishment, seeking refuge from the deafening music blaring through the speakers and the never-ending buzz of conversation.

“You should’ve seen him during this entire week,” my brother says from beside me, alerting us to his usually silent presence. “He’s been in a worse mood than a presidential candidate losing the election.”

“And you chose to shove this energy on us, Cray Cray?” Lan feigns a pout. “I’m disappointed.”

“It’s only fair you guys suffer along.”

“Thanks for the support, little bro.” I glare at him. “Greatly appreciated.”

He merely shrugs and focuses back on his phone, probably texting with his fiancée. Bastard is so pussy-whipped, he can’t survive without her for a couple of hours.

The same is true for Lan, who only separated from his girl because she had some sort of spa retreat with her sister.

Bran was talking with his boyfriend on the phone during what was supposed to be a bathroom break while smiling and shaking his head. Sorry, he was talking with his fiancé, as that crazy heathen Nikolai loves to remind everyone. Honest to God, I can’t see why the most well-mannered and possibly the most normal King grandchild is with a man who’s the definition of a disaster.

They suspiciously work together, though, as stamped and approved by Uncle Levi.

The only reason Nikolai isn’t here watching Bran like a creep and smiling to himself right now is because he couldn’t get out of a meeting with Jeremy and their mafia wagon.

“You should’ve brought Ava,” Cecily says from my other side, still cross with me about the fact that I came alone.

“What makes you think she would’ve wanted to come?” I conceal the fact that the whole point behind this trip was to remove myself from her proximity.

“Of course she would’ve,” she argues. “Even if it was just for a get-together.”

“Now, Cecy.” Lan swirls his drink. “Can’t you see that Eli’s brooding episode is entirely because he’s suffering from a distance?”

“You’ll suffer from a distance between your food and toothless jaw,” I say calmly.

“My, a threat. I thought you didn’t deliver those, and if you do, only sparingly?” He smirks.

“Lan, come on,” Bran says. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“Not to mention a twat,” I add.

“I’m just stating the obvious. Not my fault everyone prefers to bury their heads in the sand and carry on with their merry lives.”

“So you’re a wake-up call?” Cecily asks with a roll of her eyes.

“A wake-up call, a hazard alarm, a breath of fresh air in the midst of stifling hypocrisy. Take your pick. At any rate, I’m indispensable.”

“In hell and only possibly,” I mutter.

“Don’t worry, dear cousin. I’ll fight you fair and square for Satan’s throne when we’re there.”

I stand up. “I’m out.”

Creigh follows, but I pat his shoulder. “Seeing as I was bothering Your Highness, you’ll be happy to know that I’m flying back home.”

He nods.

“Pretend to be affected, wanker.”

He clears his throat and adopts a fake-ass sorrowful expression. “I’ll miss you, but I won’t miss your awfully moody presence. Hug Mum and Dad on my behalf.”

My brother envelops me in an embrace and I return it, knowing full well he’s as allergic to mushy shit as I am. Or probably more.

When my parents brought him to our house and introduced him as my ‘new’ brother, I despised the idea of sharing space, personal possessions, or parental dedication with someone else.

But then he followed me around everywhere, albeit silently, and participated in every sort of mayhem I dished his way. Though he did accidentally snitch to our parents about our endeavors.

In a way, Creigh wormed his way into my life slowly but effectively—something he shares with my wife.

The only difference is that he’s always—mostly—on my side and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I was lucky to have gained a brother. We might not share a drop of blood, but he’s one of the few people I’d sacrifice anything for to keep safe.

“You’re leaving?” Bran asks.

I nod. “It was good seeing you. As for your twin brother, it was a taxing hassle.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” Lan clasps my shoulder with a wide grin, then leans closer to whisper, “I’m coming back soon to raze your efforts to the ground, dear cousin. Please prepare the red carpet.”

“I’ll prepare your funeral.”

With that, I walk out of the bar and head to where Henderson is waiting with the car.

I’m only a few steps out when I hear a female voice call, “Eli.”

I stop near the mahogany double doors and turn around to find Cecily hurrying in my direction, her silver hair flying in the wind.

When she reaches me, I continue staring at her without saying a word. She’s the one who’s stealing my precious time, so she better have a good reason.

She rubs her nose, a habit of discomfort, before she finally blurts, “Is everything okay with Ava?”

“I thought you FaceTime her all day?”

“Not all day.”

“Every couple of hours for a few hours?”

“Why do you have to be so mean?”

“I’m not mean. I’m busy. If that’s all…”

“Wait.” She clears her throat. “Is there anything wrong concerning…you know.”

“You can name it, Cecily. Her condition has a diagnosis and it’s called psychosis. Shying away from putting a name on it or treating it like it’s taboo won’t do anyone any good, least of all her. And she is fine, considering she picked up the cello of her own accord and is enjoying the spotlight again.”

“I know. She sends me updates and footage of her performances.”

“There you have it. I hope you told her you’re proud of her courage.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that. I’ve been there for her our entire lives and that will stay the same, even if we live continents apart.” She pauses and watches me peculiarly. “You’ve changed.”

“All human beings do.”

“I’m still not sure whether it’s for the better or the worse.”

“I’ll leave you to ponder that.”

“Hold on.” She steps in my way before I can move. “I’m thinking about going back to the UK for a couple of months until I’m sure she’s okay.”

“I strongly advise against that, and by strongly advise, I mean don’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you treat her with kid gloves. You baby her and cater to her every demand. You spoil her worse than her parents, and that is the exact opposite of what she needs.”

“Well, I’m sorry I care for her mental well-being.”

“Not with methods that help.”

“And yours do?” she whisper-yells as she searches our empty surroundings. “Like that falling-down-the-stairs accident?”

“It was an accident.”

“Yeah, right. No need to put on an act, Eli. Both of us know she becomes unpredictable during her episodes, which is why you should’ve gone with the more intense therapy option.”

“And kill her spirit? Murder her creativity? Stifle her entire being?”

“Only temporarily. She would get better.”

“The last time we did something temporarily, she almost vanished.”

“We just need to keep an eye on her. Your vain, false hope will make things worse. Her current medication only dulls her symptoms and doesn’t target the root of the problem.”

“You treating her like a delicate flower is what made things worse and caused her to spiral down that addiction path.”

“But—”

“Enough,” I grind out. “I’m her legal guardian and will not tolerate any interference in my decisions. Not even from you.”

I walk away, but I hear her whisper, “She’ll hurt you, you know.”

“Good thing I’m the Tin Man,” I say over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of Cecily’s downward, sad smile.

She probably recalls that time during Remi’s birthday party a couple of years ago when Ava got drunk, which wasn’t novel at that point in her life.

Once she had enough liquid courage, she stumbled toward me and jut a finger in my chest. “I hate you, Tin Man.”

Then she nearly fell and would’ve drowned in the pool if Cecily hadn’t dragged her away.

I wish I was still at that point where I mildly noticed her and only found her slightly annoying.

Right now, however, I have a horrible feeling that if she cries again, I’ll be prepared to do anything to stop the tears.

On my way to the car, Henderson appears by the driver’s seat, his brows pinched together. He has a rather distinct disregard for the US in general, and New York in particular, so he hasn’t been especially thrilled about this business trip.

“There’s no need to sulk like a snobbish Victorian, Henderson. We’re leaving in a couple of hours.”

“It’s not that,” he starts in a strange, careful tone. “Sam and I didn’t wish to bother you until we’d done our due diligence and checked the facts.”

“What facts?”

He hesitates for a beat. Henderson never hesitates. “Mrs. King is missing.”

“She’s what?” While my voice is calm, the roar of emotions rattle around me with the discrepancy of violence.

“After the recital, she sent Sam home and said she was having dinner with your and her parents, then spending the night at her parents’ house. Sam saw them go to the restaurant together. The CCTV footage shows that she left the restaurant with them and got into her father’s car. Sam checked with the butler of Mr. and Mrs. Nash, but he reported that Mrs. King did not, in fact, arrive home with her parents.”

“Then where the fuck is she?”

“We’re not sure. Sam thinks she told her parents to give her a lift somewhere, and since they did, that means they thought she was safe. Sam didn’t want to alert them until we consulted with you.”

My fist clenches and unclenches. She couldn’t have already moved out like she threatened. Not without luggage, and definitely not without any of her precious cellos and her flamboyant pink car.

Or did she?

Cecily’s words from earlier about how unpredictable Ava gets during her episodes strike me in the marrow of my bones.

She couldn’t have gotten worse.

I stayed away so she wouldn’t get worse. It was torture to peel myself from her inviting body and that satisfied look in her eyes after I wrenched that orgasm out of her.

But the momentary blankness proved that I was wrong to touch her. Again.

That my inability to control my impulsive feral needs whenever I see her will prove to be the end of everything I’ve built during these years.

Sometimes, she’ll walk around in barely-there seductive clothes, and I’ll hear the tick of my control slipping away.

She’ll smile in her signature sunny, bubbly way, and I’ll resist the urge to shield my eyes from the brightness.

Truth is, I couldn’t have controlled myself for long, not when I’ve yearned to own her, shove her down and tie her up, eat her pussy, and then pound into her. Not when I’ve fantasized about watching her cunt stretch to accommodate me as she releases those panting moans.

Truth is, I’ve craved her, so much that it hurts to look at her at times.

If someone had told me I’d come to want Ava in this absurdly carnal manner, I would’ve chucked them into the river like stale goods.

But here we are, years after she softly and courageously confessed her feelings to a cruel monster, knowing I’d hurt her, and now I think about nothing but that infuriating woman.

“How about the tracker on her phone?” I ask.

“It’s turned off.”

The need to plow a hole the size of my fist into the car pulses beneath my skin, but I keep a cool head. It’s the only way possible to find her.

“Contact the Nash family driver, wake him up from sleep if need be, and ask where they dropped her off. Get access to all surveillance cameras in the area.” I slide into the car and tell the chauffeur, “Airport. Now. If the jet isn’t ready, we’ll take the first commercial flight.”

Henderson slides into the passenger seat, phone to his ear, and talks to his connections with the Met Police.

This is why I shouldn’t have removed the security detail. Tapping my finger on the back of my phone, I recall what happened the last time I had someone trail her.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

She was triggered and nearly threw herself off a building.

That shit will never happen again.

I’ll personally find my wife.

After a thorough scanning of the area where Ava was dropped off and hours of restless flying on my part, we locate her.

My wife decided to attend a house party with her despicable waste-of-space friends at Bonneville’s flat in Chelsea’s suburbs.

It’s seven in the morning, but I ring the doorbell impatiently, my mood having darkened to its worst after more than twenty-four hours without sleep.

When no answer comes in the first two seconds, I ring again. And again.

On the fourth ring, groans can be heard from inside. Male groans. Pieces of absolute rubbish who’ll be chucked through a window if they happen to be breathing the same air as my wife.

The door finally opens, revealing a sleepy Bonneville, who’s still wearing her shimmering silver party dress, her hair messier than her life.

Her puffy eyes widen upon seeing me. “Eli…? Ava said you were in the States.”

“Keyword being were.” I push past her, forsaking any manners as I march into her upper-floor flat that she only managed to afford due to trust funds.

A plush rug spills beneath my feet as I step into the room. The walls are adorned with wallpaper in dark, classical tones, adding an air of sophistication to the space. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow and highlighting the luxurious furnishings. It’s a grand display of opulence and excess, a testament to wealth and indulgence. But there’s a chaotic mix of modern and vintage decor, as if the owner couldn’t decide on a specific style and simply bought everything she could afford.

Like Ava, Bonneville is a spender, not an earner. However, unlike Ava, who’s a classical music genius with technical prowess that made her teachers weep, she has no talent aside from dressing up as if every day is a party.

My feet come to a halt at the edge of the spacious living room, where at least a dozen people are sleeping in unflattering positions. One guy is hugging a plant. A girl is sleeping in a U shape over the arm of a sofa.

I don’t give any of the hedonistic empty shells a second thought, because the reason I even walked into this mess isn’t here.

“Where is she?” I whip my head toward Bonneville, who’s trying to stroke her hair into submission.

“Uh…she was here. I don’t know where she went. You see, we might have gotten a bit crazy last night⁠—”

“Did you let her drink?”

“No, I didn’t, but…”

“But you threw a party where alcohol was more available than your morals.”

“She crashed the party. She said she wanted to catch up. I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.”

I stride past her and into one of the bedrooms, walking in on unflattering bodies in naked slumber, but since none of them is my target, I walk to the next.

It’s not until I reach Bonneville’s upper-floor pool that overlooks the city that I pause.

And it’s entirely due to a soft string of laughter. Very familiar laughter. And it’s not directed at me.

I shove through the entrance with the devil on my shoulder.

Sure enough, Ava’s sitting on the edge of the pool, her dress hiked up dangerously close to her upper thighs so that she can dip her sparkly-pink toes in the water.

My blood roars in my veins upon seeing a half-naked man floating in the pool and grinning at her with boyish charm.

“So what is it you wanted to ask me? You can do so after you join me. Come on,” he says with a note of flirtation that I’m well aware the likes of him can’t help.

Ava is nothing less than a goddess whose altar every man with a functioning dick yearns to burn incense at.

She’s a beautiful rose with mesmerizing energy that intoxicates the flies circling her, but like all roses, her stem is crowded with thorns.

It’s me. I’m the thorns.

“I don’t have my bathing suit.” She’s still smiling at the motherfucker.

If I hold his head underwater, how long would it take for the waste of space to spit his last breaths? Or perhaps I can smash his skull on the edge of the pool?

Choices. Choices.

He opens his mouth that will be ripped at the corners Joker style. “You can improvise.”

“I’ll improvise your early death if you’re not careful, Mr. Elliot.” I stride into the scene and stand by my wife.

Ava looks up at me and a sudden tension overtakes her. Her once-relaxed expression is now frozen in shock and her mouth hangs open, devoid of even a hint of a smile or playful energy.

I hate that she regards me with obscene hatred. That my mere presence is enough to sour her mood. I thought she was getting comfortable around me lately, but perhaps I was sorely mistaken.

“What are you doing here?” she whispers.

“Weren’t you the one who begged me to come home, darling?”

I expect the usual retort of ‘I did not beg you’ or ‘you wish’ or, better yet, for her to play along with the married-couple antics we engage in when in public. However, she lowers her head and chooses to stare at the water.

“We’re leaving.” I grab her arm and yank her to her feet in the midst of her splashing. She follows the motion and the dress finally drops down.

“Do you want to go, Ava?” the idiot who’s begging to be waterboarded asks.

I step forward. “Do you want to breathe for one more minute?”

My wife places a firm hand on my chest. “Thanks, V, but I’m fine. Have a nice day.”

“You, too,” he says with a note of disappointment.

Before I can contemplate his fate once and for all, Ava slides her arm in mine and basically drags me out of the area.

“V was only keeping me company because I couldn’t sleep. No need to be a dick.”

I narrow my eyes on the top of her head. She couldn’t sleep because she didn’t take her meds and the one person she chose to entertain her was Vance Elliot.

Not me. Vance.

“You know,” I say in an eerily calm tone. “The more you take a liking to him, the faster he’ll disappear.”

She swallows and stares up at me with fear mixed with mysterious apprehension.

This is new.

Ava has never been scared of me. Not really. She wouldn’t have battled me every step of the way if she were.

She resents me, yes, but she doesn’t fear me.

Her emotions for me went through a long phase of idolization that morphed into chronic hatred and remained there. In the hatred part.

“And me?” she asks in a low whisper.

“You?”

“What will happen to me? Will you make me disappear as well if you catch me with another man?”

I stop at the bottom of the stairs and lift her chin with two fingers as I speak with chilling calm. “Will I catch you with another man, Mrs. King?”

She shakes her head twice.

“Then the question is redundant.”

“And what if it happens…hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically, I’ll claim you on his corpse so you recall who the fuck you belong to.”

Her lips part, but before she can say anything, Bonneville reappears, all freshened up and with a fake smile plastered on her face.

“You found her. Great! Do you want to join me for breakfast?”

“No.” I grab my wife’s hand and drag her out of the house.

She follows, but it’s abnormal. My wife feels too pliant, a bit lethargic, and lacks the usual spark that shines brighter than the northern lights.

The deterioration of her state that I was afraid of didn’t happen, but something else did.

What, I don’t know.

Henderson releases a small breath upon seeing us.

Ava shields her eyes from the rare English sun before she gets in.

As soon as we’re in the back seat, I turn toward her as she stares at the streets, too absentminded. “Was the party worth missing your medication and worrying Sam shitless?”

“I took my meds and Sam is allergic to concern.”

“When you speak to me, you look at me.”

She reluctantly turns around and crosses her arms, her defiant streak barely visible beneath the sheen of mysterious meekness.

Something’s off. Logically, she’d be giving me attitude for disappearing on her for a week by now.

But she’s not.

In fact, she looks a bit guilty.

“What happened?” I ask with practiced calm.

A delicate swallow works her soft throat. “Nothing. I just wanted to catch up with friends.”

“Those people are not your friends. I know it, your brain knows it, and even your heart would know it too if you opened it wide enough.”

“Last time I opened it, you cracked it to pieces.”

I grind my molars. “If this is your attempt at changing the subject, I’d like to inform you that it’s an epic failure.”

“It’s my attempt to remind myself that I shouldn’t be feeling this way. You have no morals, why should I?”

“Feeling this way about what?”

“Forget it.” She throws a hand in the air. “I’m surprised you showed up, after all. Were you scared I would’ve moved out?”

There she is.

I raise a brow. “Would you have?”

“No.” She stares out the window again. “But I would’ve moved all of your stuff to the garden and left it to soak in the rain.”