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

“To what do I owe this touching heart-to-heart displeasure?”

I narrow my eyes on my cousin through the huge monitor in my home office and stare at his nonexistent soul.

A step below mine, or maybe above.

Proving who’s superior is a competition neither of us would forfeit, but it’s a known fact that Landon breathes chaos and would sacrifice his firstborn to watch the world go up in flames.

Appearance- wise, we’re similar and share the King genes. Especially the straight nose and frosty eyes that unconsciously prompt people to shake in their boots.

The similarities end there.

His brown hair, courtesy of his mother, and blue eyes, the only thing he got from his father, distinguish him from my better genes.

He’s also tragically less refined than me, considering his casual gray T-shirt and finger-raked hair. One more reason why the parasite doesn’t fit King Enterprises’ image if I have any say in it.

Rain patters outside, barely reaching my ears through the double-glazed windows as I stretch my legs beneath my desk and cross them at the ankles. “Your recent plans to start trouble. Maybe I need to sit you down and break the unfortunate news that Hannibal Lecter isn’t real.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence by comparing me to a loser who has no capabilities in controlling his basic impulses. Additionally, I wouldn’t have started any trouble if I hadn’t been presented with tempting receipts.”

“I see your vacationing with vulgar Americans has taught you bad habits.”

“Not vacationing, keeping my beautiful fiancée happy while annoying her brother and looking out for my brother’s interests.”

“Sounds tedious.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” He grins. “You should see Nikolai’s face when I steal Bran’s attention and purposefully cockblock him. That could be the stuff of an interesting psychological thriller. But enough about my stunning adventures, dear cousin. Did you hear the news?”Content © copyrighted by NôvelDrama.Org.

“About your pending assassination by your fiancée’s mafia family? Already booked the coffin. Will put some drops in my eyes and pretend to shed a tear as they lower you into the ground.”

“The Russians love me—like everyone who has to the honor to encounter my godly presence. Don’t you worry about that. What you should be concerned about, however, is the news I learned recently. Something about Ava’s former therapist somehow, by a stroke of luck, disappearing.”

“Oh?” I remain in the same position, my face muscles unmoving.

“What unfortunate news.” Lan shakes his head with a pretense of sympathy. “He was bright, professional, and particularly close with Barbie. I wonder if she learned about the tragic turn of events.”

“Ava. My wife’s name is Ava.”

“Thanks for the info. Anyway, is Barbie still awake for a quick catch-up call from her favorite King?”

“Seeing as she shares a house with her favorite King, the one she married, I don’t see where you come into the equation.”

He barks out mocking laughter and even slaps his knee for good measure. “You’re effortlessly funny, dear cousin. Sometimes, I wonder whether or not you truly believe your words.”

“If you’re done.” I reach for the mouse, but he holds up a hand and leans in.

Behind him, a gust of wind hits a couple of willow trees, their wild leaves, scraping the huge window.

He was apparently gifted the mansion he’s currently residing in by his fiancée’s Russian grandfather after he proved to be undoubtedly worthy of Mia Sokolov.

A fact he never stops shoving down everyone’s throat, especially Grandpa Jonathan’s, so he can score more points as the potential favorite heir.

The joke’s on him. I’m Grandma’s favorite, and since Grandpa worships at her feet, no one else has a chance. Except for maybe my cousin Glyn, who’s always been Grandpa’s spoiled princess.

“I’m not playing, Eli. I can barely contain myself from sharing Barbie’s grief, so unless you’re not bothered by that outcome, I’d suggest you try to placate me. We’ll start with a please.”

“Please drop dead so I can go ahead with my funeral plans.”

“Aw. Didn’t know you were eager to shed tears for me. But let’s postpone that for at least sixty more years.” He tilts his head to the side. “You’re really unperturbed about your wife learning the truth, possibly digging deeper, and shattering the illusion you’ve been miraculously maintaining?”

“No. Because if you tell her that, you’ll have no ammo to piss me off with.”

“Now. Don’t be so pessimistic. There’s that tidbit where her fall down the stairs and subsequent memory loss wasn’t an accident, no matter how much effort you put into making it appear otherwise. I don’t believe Barbie would appreciate the lies and deceit.”

“Stay out of it, Lan.” I lean forward and steeple my fingers at my chin. “You do not want to cross me, not when it comes to this.”

His eyes shine with a challenge. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll make it my mission to interfere in your relationship.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken. I didn’t build mine on incorrigible lies, unlike a certain someone.”

“Lies can always be invented. I am not above shoving you back into the void you floundered in until very recently. You touch what’s mine, whether by actions or words, and Mia will disappear faster than the therapist.”

His lips lift in a snarl. “Is that a threat?”

“Only if you act foolishly. I’m presenting you with a warning because you’re family, Lan. A generosity you’re well aware I don’t offer to anyone who gets in my way.”

I finish the call before he can say anything else. The screen turns black, then flicks back to the dozens of surveillance cameras I have all over my house.

The sound of the rain grows louder in the otherwise peaceful silence.

No, not peaceful. Perhaps ominous is the word I’m looking for despite not believing in its effect.

The clock on my desk clicks to five minutes past one in the morning, but the last activity I’d like to engage in is sleep. Not after Ava nearly slipped back into that unrecognizable version of herself.

If anything, I need to keep an eye out the entire night.

She fell asleep against my chest on the ride home from the restaurant, but she wouldn’t stop shivering or murmuring ‘No.’

That soft, haunted word still rings in my ears. The feel of her lifeless body left a massive hole in my thought process.

I’m not one to deviate from my patterns and the way I like things done, but as I carried Ava to her bed, I wanted to stay and ensure her chest kept rising and falling and that she did not, in fact, fall down that slippery slope of complete and utter loss of control.

It seems ironic that I, a man built on the very definition of organized control, have been plagued with a sickening fixation on a myriad of chaos.

I’ve long since given up believing that my wife is merely a phase I’ll eventually bypass and am slowly trying to accept that this black hollowness is, whether I like it or not, a default setting.

My fingers pause on the mouse when I find Ava’s silk bed crumpled and empty.

A strike of lightning flashes against the window as I scroll to her bathroom. Yes, I have a surveillance camera in my wife’s bathroom. Sue me.

When I find it empty as well, my fingers clench around the mouse as I fly through the locations she could’ve gone to.

The kitchen—for her usual late-night popcorn and candy floss bucket. And if she’s in the mood, strawberry ice cream could be added to the mix.

The cinema theater in the basement, where she’d consume all of those while watching romantic comedies from the early 2000s.

A guest room she turned into her music lair, as she calls it, and stuffed with five cellos—one of them pink—a violin, and a piano. All instruments she plays like a pro.

The library, where she fluctuates between reading books about classical music artists and porn-filled romance novels. She has a pink corner with a fluffy reading recliner, where she tabs, highlights, and writes notes in the damn books. A habit that infuriates me immensely and makes me cross-eyed with rage.

The greenhouse, where she can be found attempting amateur flower arranging and cross-breeding—and failing miserably. The poor gardener will have a stroke the next time she kills his precious plants.

She’s in none of those places.

Fuck.

I go room by room, for the first time despising the size of the property. However, she’s nowhere in the house.

Considering her closeness with Sam, she may have gone to the guesthouse to look for her. But I don’t think she’d do that this late at night.

Despite her tantrums, obnoxious spending of my money on charities I didn’t know existed, and her usually entitled behavior, my wife has proved to be much closer to those who aren’t near our social standing.

She’s learned every staff member’s name and often invites them to watch her cringey films with her, even with Sam’s attempts to create distance among Ava and them. She also always scolds me if I attempt to ask people to do their job.

“It’s about the tone. Yes, they work for you, but this is not the age of aristocracy anymore and you’re neither their lord nor their keeper, so stop being a dick and speak to them like they’re human beings.”

She fails to remember that I find ninety percent of the human population is either mentally challenged or has a neurodevelopment that stopped at the age of ten.

Still screening the cameras, I pull out my phone, ready to speed-dial Sam and Henderson. Who cares if it’s past one in the morning when Ava is missing?

My fingers pause when I spot her standing in the middle of the back garden. Still wearing her evening dress.

While the rain pours down on her.

I curse under my breath, then storm out of the office and grab an umbrella on my way outside.

A cold gust of wind tightens my face and the heavy sound of rain, now unconcealed by the house, roars in my ears like crashing waves.

It takes me some time to reach the back after narrowly escaping slipping on the cobbled path zigzagged by patches of grass.

My feet come to a staggering halt when I finally see her standing in the middle of the rain. The wet dress sticks to her body like a second skin, outlining the slope of her breasts and the curve of her arse.

She’s staring up at the sky, and the lamppost behind her casts a soft halo on her face as rivulets of rain stream down her temples, cheeks, and neck before clinging to the dress and dripping to the ground.

My steps are careful as I approach her and hold the umbrella over our heads, battling the stubborn gust of wind that’s scrambling to whisk it away.

“Ava, is everything okay?” I ask the rhetorical question because I can see nothing is okay.

I’m not even speaking to her right now. Instead, I’m talking to a ghost of her. Someone who checked out long ago despite my desperate attempts to revive her.

She steps away from me and out from under the umbrella and continues staring at the cloudy, starless sky. So I slide beside her and hold the umbrella far back so as not to block her view but still protect her from the downpour.

“Let’s get you inside, beautiful.” My arm wraps around her waist as I apply slight pressure to push her forward. For a moment, she follows my lead, but then she comes to an abrupt halt.

Her head tilts back in a mechanical movement and she faces me, but she’s not really seeing me. Her eyes are pale, unfocused.

She’s not herself.

My wife is nothing more than a stranger right now.

Not even a shadow of herself like in some instances.

If her parents, or even Ariella, find out about this, they’ll take her away to where they think she should receive treatment.

I’ve been there, done that, and would not repeat it even if a gun is held to my head.

Besides, I’m her legal guardian, not them, so they can’t do fuck unless they’re ready to sabotage and sully her lucid moments.

“You think I’m beautiful?” Her voice is low, a bit haunted, lethargic, and nothing like Ava’s snarky, energetic one.

But I nod anyway.

“Say it again.” She sucks in a sharp breath and slides a cold hand on my chest, her movements awkward and stiff. “Tell me you find me beautiful.”

“I find you so extremely beautiful, it hurts to look at you sometimes.”

“More beautiful than your ex-girlfriends?”

“I’ve never had a girlfriend and even if I had, they wouldn’t hold a candle to you.”

The wind howls, nearly blowing the umbrella away as the rain falls harder, soaking my arm that remains unsheltered to offer Ava the entirety of the space.

She slides a wet hand to my face, caressing and poking my cheek as if I’m a doll. “Are you real?”

“One hundred percent.”

“What if you stop being real?”

“I won’t.”

She strokes my lips. “I think you’re beautiful, too.”

And then, in a massive upturn, she grabs both my cheeks, stands on her tiptoes, and seals her lips to mine.

I’m momentarily taken aback, considering she’s never touched me intimately when in this state. She barely tolerates my touch and would honestly prefer Sam or even Henderson over me.

Sam is usually the one who bathes her, provides her with her comfort candy floss bucket, and stays by her side until she finally tires out.

In fact, my presence seems to upset her and trigger these episodes, which is why I limit my time in her presence and don’t touch her unless absolutely necessary.

But then she’s been fine for weeks, despite that miscalculation when I couldn’t resist finger-fucking her. She’s been talking, walking, reading, practicing cello, and annoying the hell out of me with every word out of her mouth.

So I made the mistake of thinking this was a fresh start. Which is why I made the further fucking error of continuing to touch her, dating her, and presenting her with a chance to pick up her passion again.

Ava’s teeth sink into my lower lip and a metallic taste explodes on my tongue as she whispers against my mouth, “Do you want to know a secret?”

“What secret?”

“I’m going to hurt you.” She speaks even lower before she goes down from her toes, eyes lost, posture hunched, and lacking the elegance of her usual self.

“Why are you going to hurt me?” I ask.

“Shh.” She places a finger on my lips. “It’s a secret. Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

I nod and she drops her hand, looking as stiff as a board as she trembles in her soaked dress.

“Do you still think I’m beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“Even though I’ll ruin you?”

“Possibly.”

“Liar.” She laughs, then wraps her arms around me. “Hey, Mr. King?”

“Yes?”

“Fuck me.”

“Not now.”

“When, then? I want to get laid.”

She rubs her stomach against my cock and I hate how my dick jerks to attention at her merest touch.

“You know you want me.” She peppers kisses on my jaw, my throat, my lips and even licks the blood she drew, then whispers in my ear, “You can tie me up and do whatever you please.”

It takes an obscene amount of control not to succumb to her provocations and take her on the grass like a caveman. But that would be no different than taking advantage of her, when it’s obvious that sober Ava isn’t at all open to that option.

My bruised lip throbs beneath her pillow-soft mouth, her gentle kisses, her innocent humping of my thickening cock that’s about to burst.

I wrap a tense hand around her shoulder and shove her away. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I do. I’m not a kid anymore.”

With a curse, I grab her by the wrist and drag her behind me to the house, not caring about the water trail we leave behind.

Logically, I should call Sam, then disappear and hope she’ll wake up better tomorrow without my triggering presence.

However, logic seems to have fled me tonight, because I take her to her bathroom and stop to watch her as she stands in the middle of the white and pink-themed space with a huge Jacuzzi tub and golden taps.

I throw a towel on her head and rub it a few times. “Stay here.”

I walk back to her bedroom and grab the first thing I put my hands on—a white silk nightgown. When I return, I find her in the same position, staring at the floor with the towel still on her head.

With a sigh, I stand behind her and pull down the zipper of her dress, revealing porcelain white skin covered with a sheen of water.

I help her shimmy out of the dress, trying my hardest not to stroke her hard nipples, touch her pussy, or slap her arse for good measure.

Jesus Christ.

Wanting to do the right thing with this woman is harder in practice.

I try to push her toward the shower, but she refuses to budge. She also seems to have checked out. Which isn’t always a bad sign, because at least this way, she’s less destructive.

My hands are steady as I dry her to the best of my ability without lingering too much on her breasts or pussy, then to eliminate the temptation, I slip on her white gown.

No. It’s not better.

Her wet blonde locks frame her face angelically, and the silk material clings to her skin with soft elegance.

I pick her up and carry her in my arms, then place her in the bed and pull the duvet over her body.

She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling as if I’m invisible.

My lips brush over her forehead. “Good night, beautiful.”

I’m about to pull away, but she clutches my cheeks and shoves my mouth against hers. The cut stings, but I couldn’t care less, because when she releases me, a soft smile brightens her face.

“Good night.”

And then her eyes flutter closed.

As I watch her peaceful expression, I almost forget that I’m married to what’s societally known as a madwoman.

Worse, she doesn’t even know it.

And I’ll make sure it remains this way.