Page 25 of The Rebel Seer

“Your house is full of witches,” he says, not looking down at me, though I note there’s only a light drizzle now. “Everyone who might be at mine is currently in Hell. I really should have gone with them.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I glance around, and there are a whole bunch of townsfolk out trying to figure out why it’s raining.

The minute they see Rhys, the pointing begins. Then it looks like they have some questions about the hounds trotting behind us.

Rhys really is getting a bad reputation, and while it wouldn’t bother Lee at all, it will upset him. Rhys has played the peacemaker over and over again. Rhys loves these people and enjoys when they come to him with their problems. The benevolent god.

“It means if I’d gone to the Hell plane with Fen and my siblings, I wouldn’t be in this position,” he mutters. “I wouldn’t be fighting with you. I hate fighting with you.”

We never fight, but now I wonder if that’s healthy. Rhys and I formed a friendship at a tender age that quickly became a romantic attachment. But the years have rolled by, the war keeping us apart at times, my own unique circumstances at others. We’ve never been a normal couple. We’ve leaned on each other, supported each other, been awkward around each other. We’ve never simply been.

“Well, get used to it if you intend to be this overly possessive asshole you seem determined on becoming.” Despite my harsh words, I don’t move my arm from its position around his broad shoulders. I don’t struggle to be released.

“I am trying to protect you as I always have,” he insists as his long legs take us to the edge of town and his small cabin.

He takes the steps quickly and closes and locks the door behind us.

“No, you are trying to control me.” My feet find the floor as he sets me down and stares at me, his eyes bleeding out to full emeralds.

In his father, this would symbolize Bris taking over the body. But Rhys is his god and his god is him. Those eyes are spring and fertility and rebirth.

How can he want a woman so mired in death?

Death is not the end. Death is change. There can be no rebirth without death.

The words have taken root inside me. I wasn’t told lies, as the crone said. But what if I misunderstood what I was told? What if I am not using this power I have in the best way possible? What if my power fits with Rhys’s in a way I never imagined?

Still, I don’t think giving him my arguments will sway him when the thunder cracks all around us. “Could I control you?”

His eyes flash. “Do not push me, goddess. I want to do this with gentleness. With the love I feel for you. You’re angry with me. It matters not. In a few days, you’ll see I was right.”

“I am going to Faery.” I won’t allow him to cage me. I spent much of my childhood in a version of hell, and I won’t go back into the cage. Not even when its gilded and comfortable.

“You are not. I will not allow Arawn to get his hands on you,” he says, his arms crossed over his chest. “Tell the hounds to sit or something. I don’t want to have to hold them myself, but they should understand if they come between me and my goddess, I will show them what I can do.”

That’s the moment I realize the hounds are scratching at the door he locked. One of them howls. I’m glad one had the sense to stay out of the rain with the queen. At least I know where Fenrir keeps the treats. I cross to the pantry and pull out the jerky Evan makes. I do not ever ask what it is made of.

“They’re hellhounds,” I say as I move to the door. “I think they’re tougher than you make them out to be.”

He waves me off. “They’re Welsh. I bet I can handle them with a nice spot of tea and an afternoon game show on the telly.”

I seriously doubt that, but I also don’t want to start a war. “Could you at least stop the rain? Otherwise start a fire and I’ll bring them in to get warm.”

The rain stops immediately. It’s good to know he’s got some control when he really wants it. I give each hound a handful of jerky. “I’m fine. Stay here. He’s touchy, but he would never hurt me.”

Both hounds settle on the porch, curling their bodies around each other as they dig into their treats.

If only all males were so easy to deal with.

Rhys is staring at me when I close the door again. “My parents will not take you. I know my mother sounds like she’s pissed at me, and she likely is, but she will not go against me if I put my foot down.”

I’m not so sure about that. I think Rhys has an idealized vision of his mom, but he’s missing the point. “I was sixteen when I left everything I knew and made it here. I might have had Harry as a guide, but I assure you I handled most of it myself. I had to lie and fake my way across several countries to get here. I had to pitch a damn tent in the middle of Iceland and wait for your people to decide I wasn’t a threat. Do not think for one second that I can’t do it again. I will meet with the death god. I can do it with you or I can take those hellhounds and find my own way. Or I can simply explain to your parents that I am the cost of a ticket past Myrddin’s guards. They need to find Sarah Day. It sounds like Arawn might be able to help them. But they go nowhere without the Cwn Annwn, and for now they are mine.”

His eyes narrow, and I can practically feel his anger vibrating off him. “You would not dare.”

I know I’m supposed to be all intimidated since I can see a tree popping up in the front yard. A big one. It shakes the ground. Oak, naturally. The masculine in its essence. But I can’t live in fear. Not of him. I would rather live utterly alone than fear him. “I dare. If you think I will make some kind of submissive, quiet and meek goddess, you have underestimated me, Rhys Donovan-Quinn. I will not be ruled by you.”

He moves toward me. Moves is the wrong word. Stalks is better. “But you would rule me with sex.”

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