Page 4 of Astaroth
“What, exactly, did you think I was going to do? Strap you to my bed like a wild hog? Spare me.”
“Excuse my surprise, but your assistant chose lingerie for my showing and you retained me for an absurd amount of money. How,exactly, would you like me to respond? Thankfulness? Glee? Relief?” Truthfully, Briar was rather relieved. Cautiously optimistic, at the very least. “You don’t need my permission, so why convince me?”
“I don’t need you, period.”
“Then why bid on me?”
“Because you’ve never broken a rule in your entire godforsaken life, and because my assistant has insisted, relentlessly, that I’m lonesome in this great, big house, and most importantly, because Michael noted that you’re ‘stubbornly righteous’in your file.‘Rebellious and softhearted’, it said. ‘Unfit for battle.’” Aster’s clear, gray eyes narrowed. He set his chin on his knuckles. The pointed toe of his shiny black boot tapped Briar’s shin. “I’m curious, though. Was the bit about your virtue true?”
Usually, Briar’s wings would flutter and puff, responding to the influx of adrenaline stampeding through his veins, but now, the stubs on his back twitched helplessly. Blood rushed to the surface of his skin, blotching his chest and face. His teeth set hard. For the first time that night, he looked away from Aster, toward the fireplace and the painting above it—Dante and Virgil in Hellby Bouguereau—and ignored the heat prickling in his nose.
Opportunities had come and gone, to kiss and be kissed, to share his body with another, but he simply. . . hadn’t. Somehow, remaining untouched had been accidental. Being kissed would’ve led to being touched, and being touched would’ve led to sharing a bed, and sharing a bed would’ve led to sex and intimacy, and Briar had no interest in navigating the inevitable heartache afterward. He inhaled shakily.
“Really?” Aster purred, arching a thick, perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Plenty of people aren’t interested in sex,” Briar said, matter-of-factly.
“True. There was a box for that. Yet it remained unchecked in your auction file.”
Briar’s lips peeled apart. He shifted in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his ankles. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“I’m not opposed to the idea, but I’ve never partaken.”
“Youareinterested, then?”
“That depends on who’s asking.”
Aster’s smile ticked upward, just barely. Candlelight pushed shadows into the dips and curves on his face—hollowed cheeks, savagely beautiful bones. “I’m asking.”
Briar made the mistake of meeting his eyes. Everything inside him tightened, his lungs, his stomach, his heart, and hedesperately tried to ignore the knot clenching beneath his navel. “I’ll need convincing,” he said, and sipped his wine.
“Good.” Aster glanced over his shoulder toward the door that led to the kitchen. Seconds later, Luca walked into the dining room.
They slapped a scroll with thick, yellowed edges on the table and met Briar’s eyes, tipping their chin politely. “Dinner will be served momentarily,” Luca said, before they walked back into the kitchen.
Briar’s breath caught. He blinked, staring at the black ink and the red splatter that had determined the next decade of his existence. At the top of the scroll, the words:Briar Wright—Angel of War—10 Year Retainmentscrawled across the page in perfect cursive. At the bottom, where he’d signed in blood, was Astaroth’s name, thinly written. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the sound of a loosed pocketknife.
“I, Astaroth, Twenty-Ninth to Fall, Great Duke of Hell and Commander of Legions, free you, Briar Wright, Fallen Angel of War, from this binding contract.” Aster sounded bored, almost. As if he’d recited those same words many times before. He dug the blade into the heel of his palm and pressed his bloody hand to the scroll. “Consider yourself off retainer. Let it be known.”
Panic unspooled in his chest. Briar blinked, once, twice, a third time. His lips wobbled, trying and failing to form a coherent response. He blurted, “What?” Because nothing else seemed valuable enough to say. After a beat, he added, “Why?”
“You’re free to stay, if you’d like. You’ll have access to the manor, food, a warm bed, clothes—niceclothes, knowing Luca—and I’ll expect nothing from you besides general courtesy to my staff and the others who live here. Wash your dishes, obviously.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The atrium remains open, even during winter, and the pool is heated. In spring, we’ll cook fresh vegetables from the garden.Berries arrive in summer. If you’d like to take one of the horses out—”
“You’ve returned my free will after purchasing it. I’d appreciate an explanation.”
“No one here isowned, Briar Wright. I bought them, declared them free, and most have stayed to keep me company. Thankfully, I have a loyal staff who cleans this. . .” He circled his hand in the air. “Ridiculous house. And cooks who enjoy being in the kitchen, because frankly, I don’t. Like I said, you’re free to go. But I’ll take care of you if you decide to stay.”
“And if I decide to run a blade through your heart. Then what?” Briar challenged.
Laughter bubbled in Aster’s throat. His brows knitted, surprise jumping to his handsome face. "Then I’ll crucify you in my front yard,” he deadpanned, and rolled his eyes. “Look, I don’t like ownership. I’m not patient enough for it and I’m not responsible enough for it. I have one pet—Chastity—and she’s enough.” Briar opened his mouth. Aster cut him off. “Addressing your specific concern, if I wanted to fuck someone, I’d call one of my brothers and ask them for a favor. Paimon has exquisite taste in men—rockstars, exclusively.” He shrugged, sipping his wine. “Or I’d run off to Vegas.”
The heat in Briar’s cheeks refused to quit. He searched Aster’s expression, hunting for a wedge he could crack open, a place lies might linger. “You bought me to keep your bed warm, and now. . . ?”
