Filthy Gods (American Gods, #0.5)

by R. Scarlett

I would be better than him. I would be stronger than him. But I felt naked, exposed to him.

I was a mess—he was perfect. Like always.

There was something untouchable, something holy and unholy about the boys. Sacred and sinful all at once. Bastards of Grace. Fame, wealth and power poured out of them. They were the things of legends and myths.

“I requested Juliette Monroe,” he said, his forefinger moving with the shift of his lips. “And whiskey.”

Him speaking of success and conquering and achieving my dreams sent a shiver down my spine. He was speaking a language I knew all too well.

Naked. Vulnerable. To my enemy.

Gods fell in love with mortals and demolished them piece-by-piece.

I had fallen for a god and I had to give him up to keep his immortality.