Bonds of Hercules (Villains of Lore, #2)

by Jasmine Mas

Apparently, I wasn’t asexual; I was just into tattooed, violent, Machiavellian men. A fate worse than death.

I pulled out the Taser Persephone had gifted me and slammed down on the black button. It was an emergency; my husband was an ass.

Poco stuck his head up over Augustus’s shoulder, tipped his furry head back, and screamed at me accusingly. Yes, I am a pervert. Next question.

How did I explain Karen was secondhand Tasering me . . . and I liked it?

Nothing in life was more powerful than two women affirming each other’s horrible life choices.

He was such a walking red flag it wasn’t even funny.

“Both of us . . . wanted to tell you this for a while now—but we’ve had to wait to get you alone so . . .” He trailed off, glancing at Achilles. We’re going to harvest your spleen and trade it on the black market, I mentally finished. The first thing they taught us in high school was to always be wary of people who tried to befriend you.

“Your marriage is making you miserable.” No, my entire life is making me miserable.

“Yesss,” Nyx hissed encouragingly. “Ruin him. Men don’t deserve to feel good about themselves. Make him cry.”

Either we were the loneliest beings on earth, or we loved obsessively, with our entire soul. Complete devotion or nothing. There was no in-between.

Mentally, I designed my grave—nothing tacky, just a mausoleum with a small crypt and a ten-foot bust of my face. Here lies the introverted pervert who had two husbands.

Maybe it was the blood loss. Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the fact that Augustus was disturbingly capable of eliminating evil. But suddenly, I couldn’t understand how I’d ever thought I was asexual.

“I’m yours,” I said as the rain roared around us. “You can break my legs, but I’ll still crawl after you. If you’re injured, I will carve myself to pieces to make you whole . . . every . . . single . . . time. This is not a temporary arrangement. We will be together. Forever. Or I’ll be dead.”

“I’m fucking sorry,” Kharon said belligerently. “I demand you forgive me, Alexis.” He paused. “Right now!” I choked. Does he really think that’s going to work? How I’d managed to find a man more socially inept than myself should be studied.

Kharon swore viciously in the hall, like he’d just realized verbally attacking his wife was not yielding a positive result.

“Alexis—are you coming or not?” He sounded haughty and arrogant. I miss when he was unconscious with a snapped neck.

“I like the muzzled one best,” Nyx said. “And the raccoon mother second best. I prefer men who don’t speak. Men should be seen—slaughtering and protecting—not heard. I’ve always said this.”

The Montana education system had failed me. Did we really need that sex education course on the mating rituals of nuclear-radiated Canada geese? My gut reaction—yes. I couldn’t help but feel like I’d learned something invaluable from that course. Do not try to pet geese, especially if they have more than three eyes (they will destroy you).

Worst-case scenario, meemaw killed me; best-case scenario, meemaw killed me. It was a win-win.

Apparently grown men and teenage girls had one thing in common: they took seating arrangements very seriously.

I sighed; men could never understand what it was like to have a venomous snake bestie. They just didn’t get the lifestyle.

The greatest trick Spartans ever played was convincing humanity they were civilized. I missed the nuclear wastelands of Montana.

The real headline of The Falcon Chronicles should have read: “Two Deviant Chthonic Royals Seduce Unsuspecting Prudish Woman.”