Page 287 of The Wishing Game

I gulp. Hard.

"Ze," I repeat, reaching forward and snatching the glass out of his hand. And with my lack of coordination, I end up slapping it across the floor, attracting even more attention to ourselves.

He suddenly snaps his gaze to mine, concern flickering in his eyes.

"We need to go. Dangerrrr," I mumble, waving around the room like a crazy person. I know the words to elaborate, yet somehow my mouth does not want to cooperate with me.

My words sink in and he jumps out of his seat, sending the chair flying in the back. Purple mist dances chaotically around him. Tendrils of pure energy reach forward and strike at anyone attempting to come toward us.

"Dangerrrr," I yell, pointing behind him as someone throws a knife.

A dark tendril leaps in the air, catching the knife before sending it flying back to the person who threw it.

Ze's arm shoots out as he pulls me into his arms, his purple energy simmering around us. It engulfs me in a claiming, protective embrace as I nestle against his chest.

Turns out it's not just s’Aperiotes who frequent this establishment but also gods. Ze masterfully evades all the energy blasts before he whispers to me to hold on as he flashes us out of there.

We appear in my room, both stumbling, me because I can't stand straight and him...well, turns out he can't stand straight either. We tumble to the bed, both breathing hard. As we turn to look at one another, we burst out into laughter.

"That was..."

"I suppose I may have had one too many glasses," Ze proclaims, his words slightly slurred.

"So you can get drunk." I laugh.

"I suppose so." He sighs deeply, for the first time faced with his own shortcomings.

His appearance flashes between Ze and Azerius a few more times before he's back to normal, his tattoos marring one side of his face.

I stretch my stiff body as I pull myself higher on the bed so my head rests on the pillow. Ze follows my lead and we both make ourselves more comfortable on the bed as we try to overcome the dire effects of alcohol intoxication.

"If it makes you feel better, this is my first time getting drunk too," I tell him.

His brows shoot up in surprise.

"Your first, my first," he mumbles to himself, his cheeks reddening—though I think it's mostly due to the alcohol. Who would have thought those expensive drinks would be so potent? Certainly going by the taste, they were more like cocktails than hard liquor. I have, at times, drunk hard liquor, but I wouldn't say it's my drink of choice—certainly I've never had more than a few sips here and there. I prefer wine and cider, something I can enjoy without getting intoxicated.

That fancy ale? That's some strong stuff.

As I wiggle around, I find myself constricted by the fabric of my dress. The bodice has a corset built in that's restricting my breathing. The air is too hot, too, a flush enveloping my body. I turn from side to side as I unfasten the buttons on the back of my dress, pulling it down my body and throwing it to the floor with my feet. Since I'm wearing a shift underneath, I don't think this is too inappropriate. I'm still completely covered.

Ze glances at me in surprise.

"It's hot," I complain with a pout. "You can take your shirt off too," I add as I note the sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

He stares at me for a moment before he quickly divests himself of his shirt, throwing it to the floor next to my dress. He's now shirtless, and his half-tattooed torso is equally covered in sweat. And to my chagrin, that only serves to emphasize his muscles more as drops of sweat travel down the pebbled surface of his abdomen.

"It is hot," he agrees, his gaze on me. "Toohot."

I swallow.

Suddenly, it's scorching in here. I fan myself with my hand, pretending to be unbothered while staring at him from the corner of my eye. Somehow, I find it hard to reconcile the Ze I know with the one in front of me—relaxed and laid back like this. He's quite a handsome man, isn't he? He has a boyish smile on his face as he threads his hand through his hair, stray strands landing on his forehead. He inhales and exhales, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His tongue sneaks out to catch an errant drop of sweat. The room just got a hundred degrees hotter.

Goddamn. People should ask the man to model in magazines not kill gods. I'm sure he'd do just as fine in that job—at least he wouldn't be as hated. On the contrary, he'd probably have thousands of fangirls lusting after him...

I frown.

A prick of annoyance spears through me at the thought.

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